One Blood

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty

 

Ten years earlier

1992

Lake City, LA

 

Randy sat at his desk in the Lake City Senatorial office across from James Diaz, the park manager from Simmons Park. He studied the piece of paper the older black man had just handed to him.

“So you finally got it done,” Randy said, after reading the one-page agreement in its entirety. The document was a peace treaty signed by the leaders of Lake City’s two most notorious gangs, the Dirty Skulls and the Seville Scorpions. Among other things, it stipulated that Simmons Park was officially a cease-fire zone.

“Yessiree. Them boys want ta do tha right thing.”

“Well, you’re doing the right thing, too. When it’s all said and done you’re going to be a wealthy man, Mr. Diaz.”

The old man shifted in his seat. His eyesore of a tie was going in two different directions across his short-sleeved, button-down shirt. Randy could smell the desperation oozing from his pores.

“Is there something else you want to get off your chest?”

Diaz looked up, unsure of himself, but finally said, “Why do it have to happen during the week? We could ‘complish tha same thing on Satuhday, right?”

Randy stared back blankly.

“I mean, there’s gonna be kids out there that day. I don’t want nuthin’ to happen ta my…ta them babies. You unnerstand?”

Randy offered a thin smile as he said, “You and I have a deal, Mr. Diaz. As you know, until the park is officially shut down and condemned, I can’t repossess the land. No land equals no casino. No casino equals no money for me and my friends. And it certainly means big problems for you. Do you want problems?”

“Well I—”

“Well what, Mr. Diaz? You’re in too deep to start second-guessing now. If you back out, your career and your life will be over.” Randy unfastened the top of a manila folder sitting on his desk. He slid the contents across the table.

He watched as Diaz examined the photos with an expression of bewildered fury. The photos depicted Diaz in compromising situations with several young boys. Randy’s father had taught him a lot about negotiating. The chief lesson was, dirt was the best bargaining chip when negotiating.

Mr. Diaz looked up with tears brimming. “So now you blackmailin’ me?”

“Call it what you like, Mr. Diaz. I like to think of it as insurance. We wouldn’t want Mrs. Diaz to find out why you love your job so much, now would we? All you’ve got to do is make sure both gangs arrive at the designated time. We’ll take care of the rest. You’re doing such a valuable service here…ridding your community of ruthless killers and opening the door for a casino that’s going to bring jobs and prosperity to the city. You should feel good about that…”

* * * * *

Later that evening, Randy stood before Lake Francis shooting skeet—his favorite pastime between hunting seasons. He was focused on pulling, tracking, and shooting.

Two up, two down. Let’s go for three. Pull. Track—

“Dad?”

Randy wheeled around, shotgun pointed at the intruder’s head.

Kristopher’s eyes were wide with fear, his hands raised in a defensive gesture, like a common thief caught red-handed at the coffers. That damn Sony recorder Coral had bought him for earning A's in his AP classes was cupped in the palm of his bruised right hand. Kristopher’s face was still swollen and discolored from the scuffle he’d gotten into playing basketball yesterday.

“Goddamnit, Kris! How many times have I warned you not to sneak up on me while I’m shooting. Huh? How many goddamn times?”

“You gonna shoot me, Dad?” 

Randy was still pointing the gun at his son’s head. He lowered it to his side.

Kristopher looked down at his shoes, took a deep breath, and then looked up again. He had his grandfather’s piercing blue eyes—a hereditary trait that almost got him smothered in his crib.

“You want to talk so bad you had to come out here and interrupt. So talk!”

“This was a bad idea…”

He had his mother’s sensitivity to boot. “No. I apologize, Kristopher. It’s been a long day. Let’s start over. What’s on your mind, Son?” Randy’s eyes flicked back to the tape recorder. He didn’t really want to hear what his son had to say, and was annoyed when Kristopher started talking.

“Dad, what’s going on at Simmons Park?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“I’m just trying to understand. I’ve been recording your conversations for a week now, and today, I heard you blackmailing that old black man, the caretaker of the park…”

Speechless, Randy examined the man-child before him. Just yesterday they’d celebrated Kristopher’s eighteenth birthday. He’d taken his son out for a round of golf and at the end of the day they’d gone down to the Elks Lodge and talked over a couple of beers. Kristopher was supposed to go to LSU. Become a lawyer. Follow in his old man’s footsteps. Shit, go farther.

Kristopher could have been president, but he had to stick his nose where it didn’t belong. It grieved him to admit it, but by the time his son finished speaking, Randy’s mind had already conjured up a strategy to keep Kristopher quiet for good.