In Deeds We Trust

By Ian James

Nicole Karam goes to war with the FBI to protect and exonerate her husband from false and trumped-up accusations; Hartmann has lost his business, money, and sanity.

An ex-father-in-law, the FBI Director Manchester Buchanan, blames Hartmann for the death of his daughter and granddaughter and is blind to reason. Manchesters' lover and fellow agent hides the truth from him for no other reason than spite and jealousy.

Hartmann is covertly and cleverly manipulated and spirited away to the killing fields of South Texas to be used as sport/prey on a hunting ranch. The government wants its pound of flesh anyway they can get it. So why not add some entertainment and sport to the proceedings.

Nicole enlists help from Harry Ironside, an NSA maverick agent, and secret lover, to save Hartmann. Hartmann's sidekick and aide Jesse Montoya, a reformed south side San Antonio gangster, forms a posse of old friends and sets off to rescue Hartmann after hacking into the FBI mainframe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669850359

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Hartmann Slate’s career and exalted position at the Central Investment Acquisitions bank, A Swiss subsidiary, in Washington, DC, ended quietly today without pomp and circumstance. The exception being Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance playing delicately from the stereo perched on the bookshelves in his office. He nervously muttered a few bars, leaving the rest of the London Symphony Orchestra under the talented baton of conductor Michael Tilson Thomas to perfect the performance unfettered in comparative harmony.

His fingers brushed lazily across the spines of his favorite authors: Pat Buchanan, William Manchester, Donald Trump, who he admired greatly, Tony Robbins, Charles Dickens, and Christopher Hitchens. The Princess Bride! Who left that there? He took penny-pinching to a new level; all the books were second-hand from Goodwill. Some still sported the ninety-nine-cent price sticker.

Hartmann’s career and dynamic knowledge facilitated the instant success of his new venture. Somewhat bewildered and concerned about the risks, he boldly went and branched out into the private sector by starting a venture capital bank that instantly had branches in five major markets. Even with close inspection, nobody knew who financed the new business. This investigation focused on Washington’s ‘All-Seeing Eye’ with the jealous and resentful inner-party agencies. How can a thirty-five-year-old have the way-with-all to flourish, was the widely circulated gossip? We need to observe and obstruct blinked the all-seeing eye.

His father’s improprieties in Washington years ago created a shadow of doubt and suspicion for Hartmann, the son. The sins of the father should have blighted his progress in life. But it did not. Which, in turn, made him paranoid. Both his parents lived in a bottle. In every family photograph, they had a glass or bottle in their hands. Hartman was t-total and was never in any of the photographs. No hugs or kisses for this poor boy. Unloved and unwanted would sum it up. So our dear Hartmann developed his own world as a boy, which existed in his head alone. Both parents, now dead, still haunted him with the sparse memories of any family get-together. His mother’s ghost was a constant bother to his mental well-being. In return, he isolated himself from most people who considered him a snob and a most elite bastard.

All that was water off a ducks back to him. He did not dwell or agonize over people’s opinions and dismissed the thoughts within seconds. His mind was blank except for money and business. He cultivated self-centrism to a new level. Only two people put up with his attitudes-Nicole and Leona. The first being his secretary and the latter his wife. Nicole preferred to be addressed as his secretary, keeper of the secrets, instead of the politically correct personal assistant. Leona was a bitch. This was not his opinion, as he had no derogatory thoughts or words for anyone. He overheard Nicole on the phone one day having an argument with Leona. His home life was a frigid and colorless life. He endured it because this was all he had ever known emotionally. He had a daughter, Toni. We will get to her later.

His parents sent him off to boarding school in England at a very early age. Harrow was where he endured institutional buggery and survived. What he learned made him the solitary creature he is today. From there, he studied at Oxford, where his name was on the list before he was born; academically, he was above average. His grasp of mathematics and political science served him well. Getting a first in both subjects satisfied his parents that the money was well spent on educating their offspring.

His first job gave him the skills to see how the banking system worked or didn’t work. After that, international trading was his forte. With electronic trading, he discovered how easy it was to help himself to the open, unguarded cookie jar and not get noticed. So, as a challenge to himself, he moved a small amount into an offshore account in his name. But, being the prudent person he was and with great restraint, he did not succumb to greed. Instead, he thought about the future and his next career move. It came in the guise of a Swiss Bank in Washington, DC.

THE BIG CHEESE

Once, falsely and publically gushing to all and sundry, his personal honesty, the illegal accounts he discovered at the Swiss bank astonished him into a stark truth but also an opportunistic new prospectus. His amateur foray into mischievousness looked like kindergarten compared to what the secret government agencies and their operatives were doing. Yin and Yang were splitting him apart like a chicken wishbone pulling contest. If he could discover these illicit government accounts, could someone find his? His lucrative paranoiac journey had now begun.

Gawking through the once hallowed window with its omnipotent view of Washington D.C. and the lesser universe, he imagined this was the best it would ever get. However, his world was melting away, and all that could be done was to peer mournfully at cherry blossoms pirouetting like drunken snowflakes in the spring breeze in an alternate dread-filled world. His world, as they say, without a doubt, used to be his oyster. He hated the slimy little buggers. He adored power and wealth. These had been his oysters.

But now, the future might be fish sticks and ketchup. The thought of which made him chuckle briefly. Was it all slipping away into a ghastly pallor of self-loathing, self-pity, self-doubt, or low self-esteem? This he disguised as stoicism, and maybe someday I will regret it. That is not helpful. Terror bubbled under the surface for good measure. Losing control of his little emotions was a likelihood. He was rapidly turning moroseness into a fresh new form of art. Why is the thought of so much independence so terrifying? The grave risk of protracted uncertainty terrified him.

In a flash, chastising his somber expression in the window - how could I be so naïve? Maybe they will blame my immaturity if I have done nothing wrong! I certainly have enough to spare! So why am I always the victim? Then ran through a list of his favorite victimitus symptoms; Parents, politicians, Leona, her father, and me. Kissing his cold reflection in the glass and needing more assurance, he returned for seconds.

Turning his attention to the hundredth final draft of his resignation letter, he slipped his finger lazily through the crossed-out expletives and bullshit reasons for his not-so-sudden departure. Another version, maybe the final draft, read ‘I quit, you Sons-of-bitches! Another take your job and shove it. Somewhere between the last version lay between the many traitorous diatribes and self-flagellation: dear sir, Madam, Trani, and goodbye. You may now kiss my ass.’

Reflecting on his choice of thoughts, ‘take your job’ and not ‘my job.’ Then on the choice of views, why not my mind? Semantics muttered a lazily muted response. But no, his dilemma worsened further the disconnect from his ego and a perceived lack of commitment. Shit! I do not need a distraction this late in the game. Taking his expensive Parker pen, he idly dotted a few T’s and crossed a few other I’s. He held up his pen and admired his exquisite taste in good things. Which above all was himself?

The spectacle of the cherry blossoms drew him back to the window as a sudden flurry of snowflakes bombarded the glass and sent shivers down his spine. I am doomed. That wasn’t very smart.

Federal inquisitors with a plethora of torture instruments, pointing fingers, bad breath, sharp pencils, and pre-ordained questions from their boss on yellow legal pads were on their way to his office. A funeral procession drove by. The lead motorcycle cop stared back at him; not helpful!

Ten o’clock! shouted Nicole Karam, his secretary from the outer office.

Crap! A late migrating pigeon flew into the window and broke its neck, making him jump back. Late and migrating is defined as escaping the capital, and its bullshit for the south and sunnier parts.

Transfixed and fascinated for an instant, he rubbed his neck, picturing a guillotine hurtling towards his throat as pigeon blood slowly ran down the glass and then froze into red ice. His wife and a faceless throng cheered on at the release of the blade with relish. Vive la France, they screamed to stop his reign of terror. His imagination and delusional bent were his worst enemy. No matter how hard the effort, his juvenile humor prevailed. Boom went the cannons, timpani, and fireworks of Tchaikovsky as the music track changed. His imagined immaturity was his safety valve. From what? I have no idea.

Snapping back as his wife’s voice reverberated in his head and screamed above the 1812, ‘you worry more about others than me.’ The audacity of the woman! Leonor, his sweet wife, collided, with the window, with a wave of his hand. Nice bounce! Her corpse ricocheted off the parapet in a double death flip, shot an egg out, and spiraled down to the sidewalk, stirring up cherry blossoms in a red splotch. Strolling pedestrians looked up in disgust but sympathized with his dilemma and applauded his triumphant and dramatic illusion. He lamented if only this lonely twist of fate could be more amicable. I cannot live without you. A herd of pigs suddenly appeared on the sidewalk. He blinked; they were politicians.

Crap to you too, my Lord, under her breath, Nicole nervously shuffled a pile of folders and files. She glanced in his direction to see if his over-inflated ego and massive self-delusion were visible. They were. She wondered about his recent operation - a vasectomy.

Nicole stared at one document his lordship wrote and muttered, Too many Oxford commas.

He ignored her mutterings and turned back to his cluttered desk, which held only bored interest. A glance at Nicole’s derrière for comfort and passing inspiration, then back to the window with its suicidal pigeons and psychosis-driven trepidation, reminding him of his tiny dick. Stepping out of sight, he opened his zipper and examined his scar. His small penis was something he had lived with all his life. But he did have significant ambitions and fantasies for it. A flock of pigeons hovered at the window in hysterics.

A flight of three MH-47s transport choppers did a level circuit across Washington and then disappeared into the clouds. Or was that his imagination also?

Hartmann tried to patch-quilt his anxiety with scraps of rational thought. I am the innocent; I am not a guilty whistle-blower. But, realizing full well, these were pathetic defense statements in his empirical town. Innocence is no virtue, and exposing the government, especially the CIA, is a death knell for any career, reputation, soul, and probably the body as well.

All at once, he felt naked in front of his vast window and the skyline of Washington, DC. Another violent, cerebral shudder. I have not told anybody anything! Small comfort intoned the 1812 Overture. Boom went the cannonades, narrowly missing their intended target, his head! He answered his phone. No-one there.

I must change my ringtone to something else.

He was toying with his tie and morphing it into a Gucci silk blindfold for his impending execution, contemplating the worst they could do to him. Another cold shudder, which did not help his torment. Perhaps if I ceased trying to grant life to my supposed problems, all would be good! Why must I always sound like an English don with make-believe airs and graces when pressured? Buggered, if I know, responded a cockney Cary Grant. His constant struggle with his ego and the actual realities beckons self-doubt and borderline panic attacks.

Nicole poked her head around the doorway as the blindfold slowly revealed his eyes. She said nothing and backed away to the outer office, not knowing what to think of her secret love’s comical silliness. Her reflection calmed his tormented soul. How in the world does she do that? How do I know when she’s watching me? Jesus! Now I have a religious paranoia. It could gently control or observe the others in their mystified state. I think I love her.

Another finger swiped across his desk, and a letter opener jumped out and stabbed him. Examining the prick to his finger, he was aroused as blood trickled out. Turning quickly away from the open door and Nicole’s gaze and adjusted his unruly member. The pain, although brief, became a therapeutic influence.

Leona, pregnant and resurrected from the sidewalk below, smashed spread-eagled against the window. She glared at him as she slowly slid down the window, mouthing obscenities as she went. He blinked as another pigeon bludgeoned its bloody head into the glass, thankfully replacing Leona’s theatrical scene.

Nicole cleared her throat. He snapped back from his tunnel vision trance. Rushing around, he staggered and held his head to ease a sudden headache. The fleeting moment both scared and intrigued him in a whirlwind of confusing thoughts and euphoric emotions.

Turning to Nicole, Can I have a Band-Aid and an Aspirin, please?

The offending letter opener offered itself self-up for scrutiny. Not a letter opener, but a commando-style dagger with a sharp point. Raising it with a thrusting gesture to the ceiling, a voice with a profound Australian accent whispered, ‘no mate, this is a knife.’ How can thoughts have an accent, he pondered?

Fatigue quickly threatened to envelop him, and the leather couch beckoned invitingly. He surrendered himself to its foofoo cushions and was asleep in minutes. Nicole silently and covertly draped a blanket over him and crept out of the office. Gently closing the door behind her.

THE MONEY OR YOUR WIFE

Three career-thirsty FBI characters bullied their way through traffic with lights and egos blazing towards a Gucci blindfolded prey. They were under no illusion as to the day’s victim and related tasks.

‘Do not spook this man. Be confident, patient, and gentle. He might be naïve and narcissistic but could hold the keys to too many secret doors. So go through the motions; do not scare him! Besides, he’s my son-in-law, threatened Manchester Buchanan, the FBI Director. Some thought Manchester, a descendant and a student of the late Joseph Stalin, married to the Gestapo! Those who hated him prayed he would never spawn any more offspring one was enough!

The three men never spoke, but each relished the thought that Hartmann was a soft nut to crack, and they would be the one to break it.

Fuck him, blurted out the redheaded Jaime Sevilla sitting in the back seat. The two in front smirked and shot each other a look. What a dickhead!

His secretary works for me, okay? So, no over-the-top questions. I already know this man Hartmann is clean, spoke Harry Ironside to nobody in particular as he stared straight ahead at the traffic. His words were of a bragging nature more than sounding relevant and being in charge.

Are you sleeping with her Ironside? the red-headed Jaime Sevilla insinuated with a smirk.

Harry wanted to turn and punch the little shit, but the driver stopped him with a hand gesture.

One word out of you at the interview, and I will kick the crap out of you and make it look like self-inflicted wounds, snarled the driver.

On his last day at the Swiss bank, these very sinister men, apparently threatening only to Hartmann, hid behind the pretense of a bank inspection, arriving late and in some confusion. They were to conduct a debriefing. They smelt blood, but their master yanked the chain in hard via a text message. ‘Down boys, and be good puppies.’

The security services wanted to know what he knew and whether he could be entrusted with sensitive data if he knew anything at all. Which, by all contradictory accounts, should have still been a secret? Hartmann acted surprised at the in-depth and revealing revelations. They volunteered more information than they should have and let the cat out of the bag. He decided that he would have some fun to reduce his anxiety but, in return, increase theirs.

Up until this very moment, I had no idea who has accounts at this bank. Secret or otherwise, oops! Once again, vying for the center of attention and getting it. It’s all just numbered accounts. No names.

The three men embarrassed, squirmed in disbelief. Did they have the incorrect set of protocols for the wrong person and the wrong bank? A deafening silence ensued as Hartmann rejoiced in their dilemma. Recovering under the guidance of Harry Ironside, they soldiered on regardless of consequence after referring rapidly to each other’s frantic expressions. Hartmann’s brain almost exploded with laughter. He turned briefly to the window for composure and watched another suicide pigeon attack. He ventured closer to the glass and peered out to see Leona spread-eagled on the sidewalk.

His twenty-five-year-old secretary, Nicole Karam, was in the meeting at the inquisitor’s insistence. She watched Hartmann’s antics with more than professional curiosity. Inside, she was also laughing. But he was concerned his narcissistic tendencies would overwhelm common sense and trap him in a place he could not recover from. She cleared her throat, raised her eyebrows, and gave a discreet nod. Thankfully, he got the message and gave a smile of approval as another small erection threatened to expose him.

Harry Ironside stared at Nicole. She noticed and smiled back at him. She was oddly comfortable with the men, Hartmann suddenly thought, especially the senior agents Harry Ironside and Mike Harrison, as they probed with questions and salty innuendo that was a vague attempt at humor. Nobody smiled except for Jaime, who could not keep his eyes off Hartmann’s pen.

His curiosity got the better, and he grabbed it up from the desk to the surprise and dismay of all present. After thoroughly examining it, including inspecting the ink bladder and cover, he placed the pen back on the desk without much of a by-your-leave or eye contact. That was close.

Don’t let me stop the conversation. Carry on. Please. And gave an elitist royal wave of his hand.

Mike Harrison made a sharp move at Jaime, but Harry Ironside stopped him.

Jaime, please remember our little chat in the car coming over here. Okay! Sneered a threatening Harry. Jaime ignored Ironside and watched Harrison’s right fist thump his left palm a few times.

Nicole’s secret love of Hartmann made her protective and vulnerable on this day of hypocritical inquisition. Harry was a distinct distraction, and she tried all avoidance of eye contact with him. The other lesser agent, redheaded Jaime Sevilla, made her skin crawl when licking his lips every time she spoke. Nicole nicknamed him Jaime the molester and tried not to laugh out loud.

Are you sure we can continue, Mister Sevilla? My desk drawer has a collection of Bic pens that demands a closer look! Nicole purred sarcastically.

Then, not skipping a beat and unaware of his spaced-out bad manners, chirped Jaime.

It’s okay; I’m sure they are fully functional.

Harry and Mike tried not to laugh. They knew Jaime Sevilla was a moron, and now Hartmann and Associates knew it as well. Harry clenched his fist, which Mike acknowledged. Maybe they both will beat the shit out of him later.

Hartmann, jealous of their center staging, upstaged the proceedings himself again. With all the clumsiness and stuttering of an idiot savant that ironically appeased their fears. He imagined an Oscar for his performance as the best actor goes to, then the guillotine dropped.

Thank you, gentlemen, for your time, announced Nicole loudly, standing up in a rush. Sorry to say, Hartmann was not finished with them and became resentful. This is my show bitch!

No, don’t go, almost whining with a what are you playing at expression.

We’re finished, Mister Slate. No more questions here, smiled a bored Harry. Harrison was already standing, lightly slapping Jaime Sevilla across the shoulder, who leaped up dramatically while still studying the pen. Hartmann jumped back half a step in fear.

She was making herself the most important person at that moment, which annoyed Hartmann. He has not finished with them and wants to torment them further. Damnit, Nicole. She ignored his scowl, deliberately turning towards the door and ushering the FBI agents out. Jaime turned and bid the coveted pen adieu.

Harry was semi-assured of Hartmanns’ dedication and trustworthiness; the mismatched agents wished him bon voyage, bon chance with his new bank and career move to San Antonio. Nicole picked up a large manila empty envelope and raced out after them as they left the office. Hartmann was happy, then unhappy to see their backs, but more so Nicole.

The pleasant view of her rear end as it bounced with every rushed step took him back to when he first met her. Erotic jiggling tunnel vision enveloped him. He sweetly reminisced; he collected files and computer discs from the desk drawers, stuffing them quickly and efficiently into two briefcases. Stopping for a moment, he picked his pen up with a Kleenex and wiped it clean. Then ceremoniously slid it into his inside jacket pocket.

Out of view from anybody, Harry grabbed Nicole and pinned her to the wall in the hallway. His hand ran up her skirt, and he kissed her on the lips. She was more concerned about being discovered than Harry’s hand finding all the right spots. She enjoyed the moment but, then enough, and violently pushed him away.

If discovered, Hartmann would have disintegrated emotionally, and Nicole would have been no more. At least, that is what she whispered desperately to Harry.

Out of sight and out of mind, Hartmann carried on with some reminiscing. The memory took him back to the San Antonio Museum of Art, which hosted a poetry reading by three local poets. The theme was the Roman stone statues displayed in the great hall. Caesar and a host of other marble people, long dead, drew a deaf ear to the ramblings of the three poeteers who droned on with no discernible rhyme or reason. Hartmann stood apart from the seated crowd and stared hypnotically at a reincarnation of Cleopatra, whose resemblance to Elizabeth Taylor was uncanny. Her Nancy Pelosi hairstyle and old-maid dress seemed oddly mismatched to her young twenty-something body.

Motionless, expressionless, they both listened intently to the Byron wannabes. How could I catch her eye? That happened as he left the parking lot in his Chevy Suburban. Cleopatra glided across the road to her parked chariot. Panicking for the right words, he rolled down the window and blurted out.

"Are you Cleopatra?’

Nicole stopped and smiled. She lowered her head, sighed deeply, and continued walking to her car. The following day Hartmann reservedly married Leona Buchanan. An arranged wedding was forced upon him by their respective parents. The melding of two great and famous families was more than just a political necessity.

Hartmann dumped the two overstuffed briefcases down on Nicole’s desk, snapping back from his reminiscences. The loud thump as the load hit the desk startled him. He needed a distraction as his curiosity overtook him, and ambled over to the office window. His gaze descended to his new Bentley, making him throb with excitement. He resented the blossoms very much and the snow beating up his car.

He watched naively through the windowpane as Cleopatra thrust the manila envelope at Harry Ironside, who refused to take it. Then, he shook his head as if to say, it’s not mine.

Hartmann’s chauffeur Ken Braden leaned against the Bentley and enjoyed a friendly conversation with Jaime ignoring Nicole’s presence. He took exception to her sudden, dramatic, and superior arrival. Here was a men-only club. Ken punctuated his words with either a light punch to Jaime’s chest or a light slap on his arm. His darting eyes betrayed his continuing annoyance with Nicole.

Mike Harrison saw Hartmann at the window and angrily snatched the envelope from Nicole. Then pulled Jaime away from Ken and their budding romance.

He pushed Jaime into the driver’s seat. Ken closed the door slowly while Mike, still angry, walked rapidly to the passenger side and got in. Ken stepped back so Jaime could see him, put his finger to his lips, and pointed at Jaime, who gave him a devilish grin. Ken turned around to Nicole directing her attention calmly; I’m better than you gesture to the window that framed a voyeuristic Hartmann.

Seeing his strange expression, she felt naked, exposed, and then suddenly abandoned as Uncle Sam’s government car retreated down the road. The government car seemed to add breathing space and relief to Hartmann’s discomforted soul the farther it drove away. Harry Ironside waved frantically at the car. Had they forgotten him?

Harry Ironside strolled down the sidewalk and took a moment to look back at Nicole. His actions intrigued Hartmann’s irritated imagination, which caused a minor resentful tremor deep inside. I do not share!

Hartmann’s fermented contempt of all things governmental has spilled over this day. Lip service and lies would and should remain in Washington, DC. Their womb and diabolical birthplace. His choice of thoughts surprised him; he never had, until that very moment, manifested any disparaging feelings or opinions about his environment. And or the people that inhabited it. But now, an overripe sense of dread threatened to overwhelm him. Then, again, a glance at his magic window and as was well. Shut up, he said to himself. Then triumphantly to an imaginary audience, repulsing any further angst.

Amen.

TRAVEL PLANS

Brushing aside suspicions as to what he had or had not just seen. The excitement for the future out trumped all other paranoid emotions. Crunch as another pigeon smashed into the window. Is it me? Are they trying to get in at me? Paranoia and crippling doubt crashed back at him. Out of breath, he felt sick. Then a sound, or was it a sigh? He turned as Nicole’s bouncing boobs returned to the office with the rest of her. She glanced back to look at the spot Ironside tried to molest her as if some incriminating evidence awaited discovery. Her mind in a fuddle, she ran her hand down her dress, feeling for the line of her panties still wearing them! Phew!

She brushed her skirt down to remove a wrinkle. Her hand hovered briefly over her treasure. Why did I marry Leona? Screw you, Leona! Lamented Hartmann.

Are you coming there?

Yes, I’m coming. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Nicole, a damn Yankee at heart, shivered at the thought of moving to Texas, let alone San Antonio, Texas. Although in Texas, a sudden idea exposed itself; she could corral him and have her way with him. Yee-hah! The notion was so loud in her head that Hartmann might have heard it. His raised eyebrows shouted that he had. They stood motionless and silent and waited for the other to speak or move. Awkward!

She would have followed him to Iraq and back if he asked to be near Hartmann. Or was it Afghanistan? She could never remember which phony war was in vogue at that time. She often wondered if he ever saw her as more than a personal assistant. Her reckless hope and professionalism kept her passionate. She looked back to the day they met at the museum and was glad of that assignment to Texas. Working undercover in a museum did reveal some deep, dark ancient secrets. What she discovered scared her deeply, so she quit the CIA. Spying and committing dirty deeds to her fellow citizens was not part of her morality.

She had no idea that others had skilfully maneuvered her affection towards Hartmann Slate. Her first assignment was to be his new secretary. After that, everything else was just perks with the job.

Nicole left him to his thoughts and drifted out of the office, closing the door as she went. She meandered oh so briefly to the spot where Harry Ironside had perpetrated his lust.

Hartmann, overall, was euphoric at the prospect of having possession of his bank and moving into a new home. He had inherited the estate and a fortune bequeathed by default from his dead father. The family home held warm and happy memories for Hartmann. Which was contrary to all other memories.

Manchester’s comments to his inquisitional agents were he’s a kid that expected Christmas morning every day. Later, Harry Ironside reflected that Hartmann was no kid and decided to keep closer tabs on him. He actually liked San Antonio and orchestrated a transfer to the Alamo City.

Hartmann was done with Washington DC and the evil creatures it bred. But truth, honesty, margaritas, and fajitas were waiting in his beloved hometown, San Antonio. Hartmann could not wait to get back. But, at this moment of silence, he suddenly felt doomed. He wanted a friend, but none could be found. These yet-to-be-confirmed anxiety attacks were becoming a pest with their frequent and alarming assaults. Today was a roll a coaster of a ride.

He could count on one hand all his friends. He held his hand high and counted five digits. Then sadly pushed each finger down like soldiers falling in battle. Fist clenched, thumb held high, rocked his hand, and watched his reflection in the window. He was his only friend and the only one that could be reckoned with. What sort of reception will I receive in San Antonio with its faked and thinly veneered royalty? A native son who was away too long. Disgraced parents. Well, a disgraced father’s legacy awaited his return. Apparently, his father and business dealings made Bernie Madoff look like a saint. Hartmann felt a desire for revenge after reviewing the euphemistic language of the security service that chose to end his father’s relationship with life. They killed my dad! But why not that bitch of a mother?

Socially challenged would be a colossal understatement! His aloofness, often interpreted by others as arrogance, separated him from an ambitious and scheming herd. However, even if his life depended on it, he could never remember anyone’s name. That was Leona’s job, his loving wife. She was the social skills, memory, and elegant grace that were enough for both of them.

When not at his office, Hartmann was at his Georgetown home. Here he was, safe behind the walls of his little castle. He enjoyed and sighed relief every time he closed and locked the front door. But always a stare through the window in case he was being followed.

His passions were his daughter Antonia (Toni) and wife Leona, which he could not enjoy. These were delusional, but they were his delusions and his alone. Cold comfort, no doubt! He swapped the outside world of monsters and misdeeds too well and could never quantify inner home life precisely. All he felt was it was better here than out there.

Although Leanor always seemed tired of him before anything ever began. She complained that he was always remote and vague.

‘You are in the room, but your spirit is elsewhere’ was her venomous excuse for avoiding physical or loving and emotional contact. And always accompanied by a most patronizing evil smile.

His Olympic record for distance traveled after squeezing quietly through the home’s front door was only ten feet. His five-year-old angel princess would wait in an ambush and pull him to his knees. A showering of love and sugar kisses always followed. Antonia wished to tie her daddy up with lots of red ribbons, so he would stay home all day and play with her. Leona shuddered at the very thought.

On one occasion, Antonia surprised him by jumping out of the broom closet in the kitchen. She held a dead Beagle puppy by its throat for his blessing. Antonia’s cruel streak was attributed to her childish curiosity. Asking Leona why? And then regretting the answer.

Her genes are my genes. Am I that cruel? Hartmann asked innocently. The answer was an indifferent shrug and an exaggerated scoff from Leona.

Conspirators everywhere surrounded his increasingly paranoid world. Ken Braden, his driver, would secretly phone home so Leona would have time to alert the little puppy-murdering angel.

Daddies coming! she would yell.

Now go hide, you little shit, hissing snakelike. Mother of the year award would never crown her head.

The same old thoughts fatigued Hartmann, so a change of venue was in order. But first, the welcoming sofa, the fu fu cushions, and a welcoming fade to black.

BORDERLINE NATIONAL SECURITY

On a hilltop, in South Texas, just shortly after daybreak, two equally short-tempered border patrol agents stood vigilant over the once sacred land. They sipped warm coffee. They needed a cold beer and a shot of Daniel Daniels from the ice chest on the pickup truck’s back seat. But that is for lunch.

Agents Gilberto Ramirez and Jim McCormack, both twenty-year veterans of the service, patrolled this stretch of Texas for the last five years. They only got to like the God damned place yesterday! Gilberto sipped his coffee and expertly bounced a soccer ball off his right foot simultaneously.

Soccer is for fags; play American football a man’s game, snarled Jim.

Gilberto’s concentration didn’t waver. Grabbing the ball, he strolled to the pickup truck and found a Sharpie. Then, leaning across the hood, he wrote, my fucking ball pendejos. He kicked the ball high into the sky, disappearing deep into the mist-shrouded valley. A few muffled thumps, then silence. Goal thought, Gilbert. Then collected his coffee cup from the hood of the truck.

On this exceptionally bright frozen hangover morning, everything looked a little different and surreal to Jim as he stared blearily through binoculars into the mist-covered valley. The Mexican border’s distant horizon, a concrete fence, and the Rio Grande River. Most would say the Rio Grande and those nearby would understand. Jim, however, added river for exaggeration. He was often picturing it filled with piranhas and alligators. Gilberto knew he was sick in the head. Jim had his secrets from Gilberto and maliciously and quietly stocked the Rio Grande, hoping to slow the entry of undocumented immigrants into the United States.

Something stirred to Jim’s right hand side. In slow motion, he adjusted his blurry gaze. It couldn’t be people because the American version of the Berlin wall kept them out. He was chuckling sarcastically. And my alligators in Hudspeth County.

Out of the mist, at about two hundred yards, a herd of constantly neurotic deer dipped and bobbed down a well-worn animal freeway on the side of a hill. Families of equally jittery Javelina scurried noisily across in front of the deer. But unfortunately, they were not as cautious and clumsily tripped over small rocks and shrubs.