afternoon, he walks along a narrow path fifty yards up the mountain to a sprawling bungalow where a porter serves him a drink on the terrace. The sparkling blue Caribbean stretches for miles below him. He lights a Cuban cigar and enjoys the view.
The man of the house is Ramon Vasquez and he eventually wanders onto the terrace. The woman of the house is Diana, his longtime mate, though Mercado has never met nor seen her. Diana waits and watches from a bedroom window.
Ramon pulls up a chair. They do not shake hands. “What happened?”
Mercado shrugs as if there are no problems. “Not sure. The job wasn’t finished on the inside.” They speak in soft, rapid Spanish.
“Obviously. Is there a plan to complete the deal?”
“Is that what you want?”
“Very much so. Our boys are not happy at all and they want this problem to go away. They, we, thought you could be trusted for something this simple. You said it would be easy. You were wrong, and we want the deal closed.”
“Okay. I’ll work on a plan, but it most certainly will not be easy. Not this time.”
The porter brings Ramon a glass of ice water. He waves off a cigar. They chat for half an hour before Mercado is excused. He eases back to the resort, suns by the pool, entertains a young lady during the evening, and has dinner alone in the elegant dining room.
The following day, Mercado uses a Bolivian passport and returns to San Juan.
Chapter 37
There are only two incorporated municipalities in Ruiz County: Seabrook, population 11,000, and the much smaller village of Dillon, population 2,300. Dillon is to the north and farther inland, rather remote and seemingly forgotten by time. There are few decent jobs in Dillon and not much in the way of commerce. Most of the young people leave out of necessity and a desire to survive. Prospering is rarely thought of. Those left behind, young and old, muddle along, living off whatever meager wages they can find and checks from the government.
While the county is 80 percent white, Dillon is half and half. Last year its small high school graduated sixty-one seniors, thirty of whom were black. Kenny Taft finished there, in 1981, as had his two older siblings. The family lived a few miles out from Dillon in an old farmhouse Kenny’s father bought at a foreclosure before he was born.
Vicki has put together a spotty history of the Tafts, and they have seen more than their share of suffering. From old obituaries, we know that Kenny’s father died at fifty-eight, cause unknown. Next in line was Kenny, who was murdered at the age of twenty-seven. A year later, his older brother was killed in an auto accident. Two years later, his older sister, Ramona, died at the age of thirty-six, cause unknown. Mrs. Vida Taft, having outlived her husband and all three children, was committed to a state mental hospital in 1996, but the court records are not clear about what happened after that. Commitment proceedings are confidential in Florida, as in most states. At some point she was released, because she died “peacefully at home,” according to the obit in the Seabrook weekly. No will has ever been probated for her or her husband so it’s safe to assume they never signed one. The old farmhouse and the five acres around it are now owned by a dozen grandchildren, most of whom have fled the area. Last year Ruiz County assessed the property at $33,000, and it’s not clear who paid the $290 in taxes to prevent a foreclosure.
Frankie finds the house at the end of a gravel road. A dead end. It has obviously been abandoned for some time. Weeds are growing through the sagging planks of the front porch. Some shutters have fallen to the ground, others hang by rusty nails. A thick padlock secures the front door, the same around back. No windows have been broken. The tin roof looks sturdy.
Frankie walks around it once and that’s enough. He carefully steps through the weeds and returns to his truck. He’s been sniffing around Dillon for two days and thinks he’s found a decent suspect.
Riley Taft’s day job is chief custodian at the Dillon Middle School, but his real vocation is ministering to his congregation. He’s the pastor of the Red Banks Baptist Church a few miles farther out in the country. Most Tafts are buried there, some with simple headstones, some without. His flock numbers fewer