The Sea of Cortez

By David Arnett

What if armed, hooded men tried in broad daylight to pull you from a sidewalk in Tucson into a black van and failed? What if a second attempt designed to load you into an ambulance after being shot with a tranquilizer dart intended for large animals also failed? What if you learned that both attempts had been ordered by the most vicious drug lord in Colombia, although you had never heard of him before? Young Mike Morales subsequently learns from an antinarcotics task force in Tucson that drug lord Hector Cortez is a distant relative who apparently wants to groom him as his successor. The task force asks Morales to allow himself to be kidnapped so that an electronic device implanted under his skin can pinpoint Cortez's location in thick jungle. Nothing goes right, and Morales must not only fight for his own life in Colombia but must also save the beautiful nurse Maria Sanchez, who grows to love him and despise the elderly Cortez, whom she once adored. Filled with suspense, plot twists, witches, and a lasting curse connecting both Cortez and Morales to the conquistador Hernan Cortes and his rape of Mexico, The Sea of Cortez is a thriller with supernatural overtones wrapped within a love story and the tension between North and South America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781643503424

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The Sea of Cortez

David Arnett

Copyright © 2018 David Arnett

All rights reserved

First Edition

Page Publishing, Inc

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc 2018

ISBN 978-1-64350-341-7 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64350-342-4 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

The Devil to Pay

The witch again appeared. She was lovely one moment and ghastly the next. Yet there was a longing in her, a longing both for death and renewal, and yet a fear of death as well. She would fight him, and yet … she would also welcome him when the time came. And the other woman aroused him strongly. He knew her somehow but could not see her clearly. His arousal grew as she removed her clothes and rubbed up against him, and he could not contain …

The alarm rang insistently. He picked up the clock from the nightstand in his modest apartment and threw it satisfyingly against the wall. It bounced in its rubberized casing as designed, careened off the opposite wall, and rolled on the floor for a few seconds before stopping at the side of his narrow bed. He kicked it gingerly with the ball of his right foot as he followed it on to the floor and showered quickly and precisely in a practiced routine that normally would have him dressed, partly fed, and deposited in exactly forty-five minutes at his teller station at a nondescript national bank branch only four blocks away on East Broadway in Tucson, Arizona. At the same time, four hard-edged, hooded men in black were waiting in an equally black van with darkened windows on the street below, with every intention of throwing him swiftly and brutally inside it.

Mike Morales was neither stupid nor lazy. He was, however, unlucky, and he encountered suffering early in life. Shortly after his high school graduation, he had lost his parents in a head-on collision with a speeding car driven by an unlicensed and undocumented Hispanic driver. His strong father had lingered for three days in a coma, and young Morales had even prepared himself as a potential organ donor. But even the strong die. His inheritance saw him through college at the University of Arizona and then waved goodbye to him as he entered the job market with a degree in economics in the midst of the Great Recession of 2009. He was relieved to find the job at the bank while visions of rapid advancement and sugarplums danced in his head. Two years later, he was still a teller, and the only dancing he did was to relieve the aching in his feet.

Still, his parents had not left him completely unarmed in a hostile world. He was six feet two and well muscled, almost exactly the same size as his imposing and good-looking father. He had wrestled with uncommon success in high school and learned how to stay in shape afterward. He had no time for wrestling at the university, despite the hungry look of the coaching staff when he lifted weights on his own. His mother had trained him in other areas, most notably in religion and common decency. He had learned many of the Bible stories by heart and could recite them practically word for word, particularly such favorites as Samson and the Philistines and the young David’s battle against Goliath. He was certainly no virgin, but neither was he on the prowl. In short, he still believed in love, both the romantic and the universal versions. He attended Mass regularly on Sunday, helped stock provisions for Native Americans on reservations at the local food bank every Saturday, and given the unexpected death of his parents, carried an organ donation card firmly in his wallet. He tended to their graves faithfully and lamented the absence of brothers and sisters. He was casually dating a fellow teller, a pretty but venal young woman named Ellen. They liked each other. She did not like his apartment or his dated beige Camry, though.

It was a hot June morning in Tucson, already heading toward a hundred degrees, without a hint of moisture in the air that might signal an early monsoon, or the rains that would relieve the heat and the dryness in July and August. Morales carried a light summer jacket over his left arm as he left the apartment complex through the front door, turned left, and began to saunter in the direction of the bank. The oversize van with darkened windows was parked legally at the curb near the first corner. It did not screech forward and stop abruptly next to him; the men inside simply waited as he approached them. His eyes barely registered the van. He was thinking about Ellen and the fact that he didn’t love her, and never could, but she was good-looking and often exciting and—

They came at him silently, one from the passenger seat and two from the side as the doors whipped open with astonishing speed. He could see a fourth man at the wheel in the instant when time stopped before they were on him.

What the hell! he blurted as the first man grabbed at his left arm. He pulled the arm back toward himself forcefully, and the assailant stumbled backward, holding his jacket. That gave him the instant it took to kick the onrushing man on his right in the groin just before he was tackled squarely by the stocky man in the middle and thrown onto his back on the sidewalk. He took the fall on the muscles of his upper back, shifted his weight, and pushed his tackler off him to the left as he rose to his knees. The man continued to claw at his face and neck.

Stop it now, or I’ll kill you!

The cold and heavily accented voice belonged to the man who had grabbed his jacket. He was pointing a black automatic of some kind directly at his chest from about four feet away, looking down at him with contempt in his eyes.

Now, stand up and get in the van, he ordered, or you die now. He looked quickly in all directions. People had stopped on the other side of the street.

Morales could see the third hooded man bending over in pain and heading toward the side entrance to the van. He looked at the stocky tackler, who was climbing to his feet, and then again at the man holding the gun. He rose to his feet. He didn’t like the implication of dying now.

My father told me never to get into a car with strangers, he said evenly and with more bravado than he actually felt inside. He had never had a gun aimed at him before.

More people were stopping at a safe distance, on both sides of the street. Some had taken out cell phones. The gun wielder glanced around and began to look nervous.

No more games, he snarled.

At that moment, the tackler swung a roundhouse right at his head. Morales jerked his head sharply backward and quickly leaned in hard with a straight left over the shoulder of the shorter man, hitting him squarely on the right temple and sending him staggering toward the van.

You son of a bitch! the gunman yelled. He looked over quickly at the man holding his crotch and praying for his posterity, who was by then sitting doubled over in the front seat of the van.

Let me kill him! he shouted. Let me kill him now anyway!

The doubled-over man shook his head from side to side and said Vamanos weakly as he closed the door. A siren sounded in the distance. The driver signaled urgently for the other two to climb inside.

The hooded gunman looked at Morales with hatred glaring in his eyes. Vaya con Diablo, he said. Then he ducked into the side door of the van with the tackler, who was holding his head and moaning. This time, the van screeched as it turned around sharply and shot down the side street.

* * * * *

And you have no idea why anyone would try to assault or kidnap you, Miguel? the uniformed policeman said. Three squad cars held back the growing crowd.

No, sir. By the way, I prefer Mike. I’ve got no enemies that I know about, and there isn’t anybody left who would pay a ransom for me even if they could.

So you’re twenty-four years old, a graduate of the U, you’ve got no family, and you work as a teller at the bank down the street, the officer recited quickly as he handed the driver’s license back to Morales. You also look like a strong son of a gun. They tell me you took out two of the three and forced them to beat it.

I think they heard the sirens, he said, rubbing the knuckles of his left hand.

Yeah, probably. But you still stood up to them. You’re a brave kid. Maybe not too smart, but brave.

My dad always said it’s better to take your stand at the point of attack rather than let them get you in a vehicle.

So you were expecting to be attacked?

No, no. He was FBI, nearly twenty years. He told me a lot of things. But I lost him and my mother when I was eighteen.

Frank, he said to one of the uniforms at the edge of the crowd. Let me see the photos.

The officer approached them, along with a pretty brunette in her early twenties holding a cell phone and wearing a short patterned skirt.

Show him what you showed me, Carly, he said.

She glanced briefly at Morales and smiled and then held the phone in front of them.

Go slowly, he said.

She began to click off a series of four photos beginning with Morales on his knees, facing the gun pointed at his chest, and ending with the rear of the van and its license plate clearly visible with the zoom as it sped away.

You gotta love technology, the officer in charge said. Any word yet on the van? he shouted into the squad car next to him.

No, came the answer. The plate was stolen. The APB is out, but no contact yet. A van that big nearby, we should get it.

We don’t get it, the whole force gets new eye exams. And you, Mike, are a lucky young man. Guys like this don’t take kindly to getting beat up. He shoulda shot you. Why didn’t he?

I don’t know, said Morales. He wanted to, but he got a signal from one of the others and jumped into the van.

Okay, here’s what I think. Sorry, but only two things come to mind. One, you’re dealing drugs. But if you’re a dealer and skimmed money that wasn’t yours, they woulda killed you when they couldn’t get you in the van. Two, the only other thing that jumps out at me is your job at the bank. In that case, they woulda been watching you for a while with a plan on how to use you to crack the bank once they had you. Have you noticed anything or anybody in the neighborhood the last few days that seemed different or odd to you?

Not that I can think of, no.

Mike, you’ll have to come with us and make a statement. We’ll have to check you out a lot more closely. If there’s something important you haven’t told us, you’ll regret it. Call your employer and tell them what’s happened. We’ll send a unit over there for a few days. And, Carly, we’ll need you to come, too, as a material witness—and so we can transfer the photos into our system. You may need to call too. Any questions?

Yes, said Morales. What’s your last name, Carly?

Thomas, she said and beamed.

* * * * *

And you enjoy teaching? he asked, looking frankly and deeply into her dark eyes.

I enjoy the children, she replied, smiling and returning his gaze easily. They remind me of the way that things ought to be.

They had kept him at the station for two hours. She was ready in thirty minutes, but he had asked her to wait shortly after they had introduced themselves in the back seat of the squad car. The request seemed natural enough to both of them.

And how should they be? he probed gently while raising his cup of coffee.

Two people who truly love each other to the point that they cannot be happy unless their partner is also happy. Two or three children who have been taught to respect themselves and others. Probably a big shaggy dog that only slobbers slightly. Work that both enjoy. Shared responsibility. A sense that both are better people because of the partnership. That’s what comes to mind.

She rested her chin lightly on her interlaced fingers and smiled happily up at him.

Is all that too much to ask for? she added.

He kept gazing at her with unconcealed pleasure. She was twenty-three years old, the youngest of three children in an obviously happy family. Her father was an obstetrician, and her mother an RN. She was a third-grade teacher at a new elementary school not far from his bank. She was also unusually pretty, with wavy brown hair cut to her shoulders and a trim but rounded figure that he was trying without complete success to put out of his mind while he listened to her lovely voice and words that resonated deeply inside him. He judged her to be about five foot seven but gradually realized to his surprise that he didn’t care how tall or short she was or what her religion might be or whether she believed in global climate change. She was Carly.

No, that’s not too much to ask for, he said. If you should settle for anything less, you would not be the woman I believe you to be.

An hour later, they shared a cab back to their workplaces. She got off first at the school, but not before they had keyed their respective numbers into their cell phones and agreed to meet for dinner the following Saturday. They hugged quickly, with cheeks touching, and then she was gone. So was Morales, but in an entirely different way.

When he arrived at the bank shortly before noon, he immediately noticed the cruiser parked conspicuously on the corner. The manager and assistant manager practically ran to greet him as he walked through the door. Ellen waved at him from behind the teller’s counter but quickly turned her attention to her client.

My god, Mike, are you all right? asked the manager breathlessly, a small, nervous man in his forties named Sam Davis, who normally paid little attention to him.

Sure, I’m fine, he said. A little sore here and there. I’m sorry I threw off the work schedule.

Good man, he said, clapping him on the arm. Look, take the rest of the day off. Things are covered here, in more ways than one. He jerked his head toward the door and the rear of the cruiser clearly visible through the glass.

I called the police afterward to get more details, chimed in the assistant manager, an attractive, well-dressed blond with high heels and too much makeup who was staring at him intently. They said you fought off three hooded men dressed in black from head to toe. I thought ninjas only existed in bad movies.

It was all very fast, he said with a faint smile. I have no idea who they were or why they came after me. And they still hadn’t found them when I left the station. I just hope they’re not targeting the bank.

Anyway, do as Sam says, she suggested softly, squeezing his right bicep and holding her hand there longer than necessary. We have already reinforced all security procedures. Get some rest and come back tomorrow.

Thank you, both of you. Just let me speak with Ellen. You’re both very kind. They exchanged smiles, each of a different type.

He walked quickly over to the side of the broad teller counter, unlatched the half-door leading behind the counter, and stood a couple of feet behind Ellen.

One second, please, she said politely to the customer in front of her. She turned and placed her right hand on his cheek lightly for no more than a second. Are you really all right? she asked warmly.

Yes. I’m fine.

They turned their backs on the customer. I’ll come to your place tonight, she whispered.

No, not tonight, he said. She looked hurt. I really need to shake this off tonight, think about it in depth. I wouldn’t be good company. I do want to talk with you, though. Drinks after work tomorrow?

Sure, she said. And watch out for Dixie, she added. She keeps staring at you like a cat lining up a canary.

I can handle pussycats, he said. It’s Spanish-speaking ninjas carrying guns that worry me.

A quick, collegial hug later, and he was walking past the assistant manager’s desk on his way to the door. Dixie smiled at him. She seemed to be purring.

* * * * *

It had been a long day. A Detective Hansen had called him at his apartment around 3:00 p.m. They had found the van in a parking garage and traced it to Phoenix and a false address. Wiped clean. A dog had alerted to traces of cocaine in a hidden compartment. They wanted to speak to him again, preferably that afternoon. They would send a car.

Hansen worked in Narcotics. He was a tough-looking man not quite as tall as Morales but with a muscular neck and shoulders to match. They sat in a mirrored conference room. He had seen enough crime movies to know that the mirrors were not there to satisfy his vanity. Hansen took out a cigarette and lit it. He offered one to Morales, who declined.

You never smoked? he asked.

No. I wrestled in high school, and Dad was an FBI agent. There were a lot of things I never did.

Clean-cut, huh? How do you fit cocaine into that image?

I don’t. I’ve never touched drugs.

You have touched money, though. It’s just as addictive, maybe more so.

After the government and the lawyers took their share, I used what I had from my folks to get through college, and now I’m working as a bank teller. Trust me, I haven’t come close enough to it to become addicted.

Maybe you’d like to have more. Maybe you’d rather not be a bank teller. We’re checking your accounts now, by the way.

Then you’ll soon know the bitter truth. Detective Hansen, why am I here? I thought I was the victim.

Son, he said, look at this from my point of view. Three professional thugs tried to drag you into a van, three sloppy professional thugs who expected a defenseless kid and a clean grab. They clearly had orders not to kill you, which means that they had to get something from you first before they killed you, either information or money or drugs or all of the above. Too many people began to gather, and they split when they heard a siren. The van had been used to run cocaine. I put it together, and I see you in the middle of drug running one way or another. You, on the other hand, are asking me to believe that you are as innocent as Christ himself, that you know nothing about drugs or gangs, that maybe this is all a case of mistaken identity, or just a bad dream. So you tell me, Which of us has the better story?

I’ll go with the truth, said Morales after a short pause. Maybe it will set us both free. I have no connection with drugs whatsoever, and I don’t know any crooks or gangs or whoever these people are. I like the mistaken identity possibility, though. It makes more sense to me than anything else. Hey, I’ve been attacked. Instead of treating me like a suspect, can you provide me with some protection against whoever these people are?

Son, now you trust me. If you don’t cooperate, you are going to die, and probably slowly. Moreover, before that happens, you are going to have more law enforcement looking in on you than you can imagine, including us, DEA, ATF, Border Patrol, and some others you’ve never heard of. Here’s the deal: Work with us. We don’t really care what you might be doing on a lower level. We want to get higher up and break the drug gangs whenever and wherever we can, at least make life more difficult for them. Look, the whole country is focused on the Arizona border right now and whether we’ve got the balls to seal it and keep the bad guys and their poison out. Mexico is becoming a slaughter house. Don’t let that happen here, Mike. Make your dad proud. Work with us.

Detective Hansen, I’ll do anything I can to help you, including a polygraph, if you have a top operator, but I can’t be anything more or less than what I am, a twenty-four-year-old bank teller with dreams of moving up the ladder legally and cleanly. I know nothing about narcotics.

Two hours later, with a frustrated police detective and a clean polygraph test behind him, Morales sat in his apartment drinking a beer and trying to make sense of the day. He had been attacked by masked men with guns for no reason. He also seemed to be falling in love, also for no reason that he could verbalize. It just was. Carly just was. Ellen just wasn’t. Is that really how life works? he wondered. Had God really just spoken at last? Here is the woman of your dreams, my boy. Now try to stay alive—and good luck!

He picked up the remote and tuned in to the local evening news on his modest flat-screen TV. He was the fourth item on the broadcast. A stunning anchorwoman was describing the assault, and a photograph of him in a suit appeared on the screen. Where did they get it? As she continued to speak, the screen shifted to a shot of him facing the gunman while standing. Another cell phone camera? She ended the segment with a call for the public to provide any pertinent information to the Tucson police by using the phone number at the bottom of the screen. His own phone began to ring. He let it ring, hoping that his flirtation with fame would indeed end after fifteen minutes. After twenty minutes with only short breaks between rings, he turned it off.

At 11:00 p.m., he picked up his novelty alarm clock from the floor, set it for 7:15 a.m., as always, turned off the light, and climbed into bed. Five minutes later, he got up and checked the lock on his door and then attached the chain lock. He walked over to the bedroom window and looked out on the well-lit street below. Two men sat in a dark-blue Buick Lucerne across the street. He could only see the driver, a pale man whose head was shaven. He did not look Hispanic.

* * * * *

He drove the short distance to the bank in the morning. Although he knew not to underestimate the power of television, the incident had been magnified even more by the early edition of the Arizona Daily Star and continuing radio broadcasts focusing on crime on the streets, and he was surprised by the reaction from his colleagues, who surrounded him and pelted him with questions. Dixie invited him to an extended lunch, but he declined, citing the extra work on the other tellers. But she did not give up easily. Ellen smiled widely. The others kept returning to the same questions: Why you? What’s the connection? They seemed to accept mistaken identity on the surface, but the questions kept returning. The clients who knew him, and many of those who didn’t, kept congratulating him on his bravery, and he was glad when the bank finally locked its doors.

They drove their separate cars to the cocktail lounge at the Arizona Inn, a plush but staid Tucson landmark where they were unlikely to meet their colleagues. They sat at a small, elegant table. Ellen looked unusually pretty in an understated sleeveless black dress. She wore a strand of small white pearls. He ordered a vodka martini with a twist; she opted for a good California Chardonnay. They clinked their glasses together gently and said, Cheers. Then they looked at each other for about thirty seconds and said nothing.

We both meant what we said in the beginning, he began finally. Even so, we both have feelings, and this is hard for me.

I felt there was something different about you today, she said slowly, never taking her eyes away from his. Apart from the assault.

I feel very close to someone, he said.

If you tell me it’s Dixie, I’ll probably throw up right here.

No, it’s not Dixie. It’s someone I’ve just met, someone I hardly know, and yet someone I feel like I’ve known for a very long time. Have you ever experienced that?

No.

I hadn’t either. But now that I have, I want to believe in it. I don’t think I even have a choice.

Is she better in bed?

Ellen, I haven’t even held her hand.

She stared at him intently and then looked at the table and shook her head from side to side. Finally, she looked up again.

What you and I have is good, Mike. You’re dumping me for an adolescent dream?

Ellen, I like you very much. You know that. I care about you. But I can’t explore what I expect to be a very serious relationship if I’m sleeping with you. I just can’t do that and still feel good about myself.

No more ‘friends with benefits’?

I hope we can share the benefits of friendship. I hope that very much.

Mike, you are trustworthy, courteous, brave, and clean. You know what that makes you?

Yes, but I’m a man now, not a boy. I’ve put away my childish toys, and I will not play with people instead. They don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve it.

She lifted her wineglass to her lips and drained it and then set it down sharply on the table. She bit her lip slowly, reached for her purse, and stood up, her chair grating on the floor behind her. He stood up as well. She put her hand on his cheek and held it there briefly before turning and heading for the entrance. He was about to sit down and finish his own drink when she stopped and turned her head and looked at him.

Would you help me across the street, young man? she said.

You don’t look nearly old enough, ma’am, he replied, but I do like your legs.

He peeled off enough bills to cover the drinks and a generous tip and joined her. She took his arm, and they walked together out the entrance and to the parking lot across the street. She hugged him tightly and placed her head on his chest when they reached her car, an Infiniti sport model. I do respect you, Mike, she said. Be safe. She wiped away a tear and climbed into the driver’s seat of her car. He continued to watch the well-used but still flashy Infiniti as it receded down the street.

* * * * *

It was Thursday evening. He turned his phone back on and called Carly, who answered on the second ring. She seemed to sparkle with positive energy. They confirmed the time of the dinner date on Saturday. He would pick her up at six thirty at her apartment. He wrote down the address, and then they chatted. She was concerned about him. Enough time had passed for the seriousness of his situation really to sink in. She had talked about him with her father. He was also concerned, but more for her than him. They talked about their childhoods and their ambitions. They talked, and they were happy. When they finished, he was stunned to note that forty-five minutes had passed.