A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 7
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.
Saturday, February 20, 2012 – 2:35 p.m. – In a small bar in the Mission District
"Well, well, well. It appears that hell has, indeed, frozen over."
Sam Carlos runs one of the largest gangs in San Francisco. A Hispanic-Asian with a Stanford degree, he is known as 'the Professor' in the local circles. Born to a Hispanic father and Filipino mother, Sam earned a degree in sociology, and while he could have taken his talents virtually anywhere, his passion for using technology to further society took a detour with the murder of his mother during his senior year. Cast aside by the SFPD as another 'senseless gang killing', her murder went unsolved until Sam, using an unusual intellect and even more impressive martial art skills, found the murderer himself some fifteen months later, dispensing his own brand of justice.
Since that time, Sam has used the last eleven plus years after getting out of college to build his own empire of young, up and coming youth, with a very different message: Get an education, make a difference, and remember your roots.
Oh, and anything goes. There are no rules. Police are not to be trusted. This last point is personal for Sam Carlos.
Because of this philosophy, very few members stay in the organization as 'active members' beyond the age of nineteen or twenty. By then, they are either at City College, or the State University on Holloway. Still others have found their way into the medical program at USF on the Hilltop, while others have made it into state schools down south.
Regardless, no one is ever truly 'out'. Once graduated, members come back in some form or fashion to support the cause. And – unlike most other gangs – female membership in the organization usually runs between thirty to thirty-five percent. Members are doctors, nurses, attorneys . . . and yes, police officers in a covert fashion.
Detective Jennifer Blackard sits across the table from – admittedly – the most dangerous man she has ever met face-to-face. Sam is a walking contraction. Unnaturally handsome, brilliant, well-dressed and well-articulated, he does not fit the typical stereotype for gangland members. Jennifer has learned, however, through the grapevine and from direct witnesses, that Sam Carlos is not a man to be trifled with. Now thirty-four years of age, he is reaping the benefits of a well-orchestrated life of crime. And because of the circumstances surrounding his mother's death and lack of progress with finding her killer – until he found the man himself – well, to say that Carlos is not fond of the San Francisco Police Department is a monumental understatement.
Detective Blackard is one of the very few exceptions to this rule that he has made in the last few years.
"You're not going to let me forget that, are you Sam?" she asks.
"Well, it's not often anyone tells me they will see me again when hell freezes over," he replies amiably, a smile on his face. She is not fooled. She knows the danger that lurks behind that unassuming smile. But somewhere in the back of her mind, she asks herself if this man would ever really hurt her.
"If memory serves, I waited at that restaurant for half an hour," Jennifer smiles in return. "And that was after convincing myself that giving you a chance wasn't just some young girl's pipe-dream."
"Ah . . . so nice to know that I am a part of your nighttime meanderings," Sam smiles again. He has missed the banter back and forth with this woman. "But much as I wish this were truly a social call, I know that it is not," he continues. "What can I do for you, Detective Blackard?"
Using her professional title is a signal to Jennifer Blackard that a not so subtle shift has occurred, and seconds later, they are down to business. Detective Blackard doesn't condone Sam's life, his actions or choices. But she is a realist, and she realizes that sometimes, a form of truce is necessary for the greater good.
This is one of those times.
"Astute as always, Mr. Carlos," she replies formally, and notices the very brief look of disappointment that crosses the gang leader's face – it's only an instant and then it is gone.
"I have a problem," she continues. "Actually, the city has a problem, and I am hoping that you might be able to help."
His laughter is low in volume, but raucous with emotion. It's no act, he is genuinely tickled by this turn of events. She needs his help. Her city needs his help. No, that's not exactly right. This isn't her city. This is his city. She would do well to remember this
"It's not funny, Sam," she says, lapsing back into the personal side with him.
"Oh, but it is, Detective," he counters, not taking the unintended bait. "I can't imagine what ills my city has that would cause you to reach out for help."
She does not miss the implied ownership in his statement.
"Sam, you are well aware of what is happening," she responds, a bit of fire entering her voice now. "That is, unless your vaunted hold on the city is slipping."
That does it, of course. The fire returns to his eyes, and a bit of a verbal standoff begins.
"Nothing escapes my view, Jennifer," he replies, the smile returning as a veil to the simmering emotion just under the surface. "You know this."
"Then I wonder why you have not done anything, Sam. I know you have heard what's going on with the young women here in the city. The disappearances. I know you have heard something. Anything. Nothing escapes your view, right?"
He sits back, glancing out the window at the traffic passing by, taking a deep breath. He always enjoys watching the pedestrians and cars whisking by from his normal table here in this eclectic restaurant in the Mission District. For a moment, his mind takes him back to simpler times – perhaps happier times? His mother is alive, cooking lumpia and fried rice in the kitchen while his dad and aunt slave over homemade tamales. Growing up in a culturally diverse family meant a very unique palette for all in the family. He smiles, almost smelling the aroma from the kitchen. A honking car passing by brings him back to the present.
"It's not my problem, Detective," he finally replies, no emotion in his voice. His eyes appear to darken. It's not possible, eyes don't darken, she tells herself, but the effect is unmistakable.
"Not your problem?" she challenges, her voice slightly rising. Recognizing the error in protocol, she quickly lowers her voice, but repeats her challenge.
"Not your problem? Sam, please, no games. You know how serious this is."
"Jennifer, it is not my problem. This doesn't touch my family, my people," he tells her. "It is obvious that whoever is taking your girls likes blondes. Even the black girl was a blonde, for crying out loud."
This is true, Jennifer thinks. Except for one girl who is a dirty blonde, all are clear blondes.
"Not many Hispanic or Asian blondes in my old neighborhood," he smiles again. "I'll take my chances."
"Of course you would," Jennifer replies angrily, emotion finally brimming to the surface.
"I'm sorry, Jennifer," he counters, and his eyes tell her he is being genuine. "I am very successful with what I do, with how I take care of my very, very large family because – in large part – I pick my battles. This is not a battle that can be won."
"What?" she replies. "Surely my ears are –"
"Don't be so dramatic," he interrupts. "Whoever is doing this knows what they are doing, and they have some heavy backing."
"What do you mean?" she asks. "You really do know what's going on, don't you?"
"Here is what I will tell you, Detective" he remarks, again shifting his gaze out through the window next to them. He's purposefully keeping her off-guard.
"The streets say that there is a new organization, a new buyer that is driving the taking of women from your city –"
"Oh it's my city now?" she reacts with disgust. He doesn't bite.
"No one from my side of the street has been taken," he smiles, and this time the smile is without mirth, without humor. It's a dark smile. "Whoever it is knows better," he continues. "But this is what I will tell you, if you allow me. The streets say there is a new buyer that is driving this. The streets say that this new buy is down in Mexico. Playas de Rosarito to be precise. That's what the streets say."
He lets this sit for a few seconds, watching her mull this new information over. He sees the conflict raging inside her, and forces to keep the smile off his face. It's not difficult, because he truly does like this woman – in his way. He sees the instant when she makes her decision.
She has been here less than ten minutes with the man, and Jennifer Blackard has already had enough. He's playing games. He knows more than this.
"Okay, tell me what the deal has to be, Sam," she offers somewhat bitterly. This is what she did not want – the scenario that Kate warned her would fall on the table. It's why Kate wasn't comfortable with Jennifer meeting Sam, and Kate even attending this meeting. Not that Kate being here was even going to be an option in Sam's mind. Still, this is the risk in meeting with the Sam Carlos' of the world. Nothing is free. There is compromise. Jennifer Blackard isn't comfortable with compromise.
Truce? Okay.
Compromise. Never.
That is – never, until this very moment when she realizes that she has no other options available.
"You keep telling me what the streets are saying," she begins. "What you aren't telling me is what you are saying. I know you, Mr. Carlos – I know when you are holding back. Well, I am not going to hold back with you. Maybe you won't do this because it is the right thing to do for women – any and all women, not just those in your . . . your family you call it? Right. Let me warn you –"
The use of the word 'warn' catches him off guard. Not many people use that terminology with him. His eyes narrow instinctively as she continues.
"You're right – no one is taking your women. You're right, there aren't many that fit this wacko's particular tastes. But that won't last, Mr. Carlos, trust me. There was another abduction last night. That makes two in just a couple of days. Whoever is behind this has just changed the game."
It's only because she knows him well, knows his mannerisms that she sees the recognition flare for just an instant before he hides it. She pushes on.
"Your women won't stay off the table, off the radar for much longer, I promise you. You know how beautiful your women are – with their dark hair, their naturally tanned skin, their exotic looks and nature. No, it won't be long before they, too, are targets. If this doesn't stop, this will hit your neighborhoods. What will you do then?" she wonders aloud.
"So tell me, what is this going to cost me, Mr. Carlos," she continues on, courage rising as she eyes him directly. Neither breaks their gaze. "I will owe you one," she says finally. "This will get you one look the other way, no questions asked. Murder is off the table, no deal there. Nothing brutal. But –"
"But nothing, Detective," he counters, not breaking eye contact with her. He is disappointed. He has pushed her too far. He knows that everyone has that point, that line that they will finally cross. For over six years Detective Jennifer Blackard has danced nicely on the opposite side of this line, never even threatening or teasing to cross.
Until now.
"You have always been fair with me, Jennifer," he remarks. "Even when others weren't. And you have always stayed on your side of the ledger. It is why I have always liked you so much . . . okay, it is one of the reasons I have always liked you so much."
A little levity is good, as both offer a small smile, just easing the tension at the table enough. He will leave their college history off the table for now.
"I will do this much for you, Detective – no strings attached. I like you the way you have always been Jennifer – unattached, no debts. This must be very important to you for you to even consider crossing your invisible line."
He reaches across the table, and instinctively her hand moves toward his. Old times die hard, even though it has been quite some time since they have seen each other.
"I will do this for you on one condition," Carlos continues. "Never do this again. If you can look the other way for me, then you can do it for someone else. Then you are no different, Jennifer, than all of the other blues that I despise," he spits. There is clear malice and venom in his voice. His hatred for the police is something still raw, and he wears it on his sleeve.
"Mr. Carlos," she begins, and then softens as she gives his hand a squeeze before removing it. "I could have taken this request to someone else. You know how easy it would have been for me to go elsewhere. Much easier than coming to you."
He nods in agreement, knowing her words to be true.
"There is no one . . . on your side of the ledger, as you put it, that I would trust."
"You still trust me, Jennifer?"
She pauses just for a second, now her turn to stare out the window at the world passing by.
"Yes," she states flatly.
He nods again, and quickly stands. She pulls her chair back to join him, but he holds his hand out, keeping her in her chair.
"No, you stay," he tells her. "Our business is done here. I am doing this for you, Jennifer. Not for your precinct, not for this city. I will do this for you."
He takes a couple of steps away from the table toward the door, then turns with a smile.
"Order your lunch. It is on me," he smiles, then adds. "Oh, and tell Kate hello, and let her know she can come in now," he chuckles, noticing her raised eye brow.
"Nothing escapes my attention, remember?" he states, then turns and walks toward the door and leaves.
Detective Blackard can only smile. Of course he would know that Kate was outside across the street. Kate probably has had ten guns trained on her from different vantage points, knowing Sam. She winces at the memory of a much younger Samuel Edward Carlos back at Stanford. Back then, Sam and Jennifer were an on-again, off-again couple, and Kate was a part of their party circle. A three-month string to start 1999 changed all of that.
Johanna Beckett was killed in January, which sent her daughter, Kate, back to the east coast. Two months later, Cecilia Carlos was gunned down in the Mission District, sending her son, Sam, across the invisible line a few months later after graduation.
Sadness paints Jennifer's face as she watches Kate walk across the street towards the small bar, as Sam walks toward his car across the street. The two ex-close friends pause for a moment before walking toward one another. They stand for a few seconds on the curbside, neither saying a word, both taking the other in. Finally, Sam takes a step closer and Kate reciprocates. The two embrace for just a couple of seconds, and Kate breaks the embrace and turns to walk inside.
A few seconds later, Kate Beckett sits at the table with her friend, neither saying a word. Tears form in Kate's eyes, which Jennifer matches.
"So fickle," Jennifer finally muses aloud.
"What?" Kate asks.
"Fate," Jennifer remarks. "So fickle."
Kate can only nod.
Jennifer stares at her friend across the table and her head instinctively turns to see Carlos' car pull away from the curb. Two of her best friends in life. Both lost their mothers, within three months of each other. One murder pushed one friend to the right side of the ledger. The other murder pushed another friend to the wrong side of the ledger. Both are equally passionate in their pursuits.
"So, what did you find out?" Kate asks, running a hand through her hair while she glances down at the menu.