Hard Candy Saga (22 page)

Avon closed his eyes and placed his palms flat on the table. In an unnervingly calm voice, he recounted everything that happened between Rock and Brubaker for what felt like the tenth time in less than an hour. Avon looked up at the ceiling, as if recalling the entire scene from some distant place in his mind. He wanted to finish his recount of the events with his own personal opinion that the traitorous rat bastard deserved to have his head blown off, but he refrained himself from doing so, knowing those types of statements would make him look like he wanted his partner dead.

“Do you wanna take a break? Um . . . I think my client needs a break,” Avon's pimply-faced Georgetown-graduate lawyer stammered, sounding just like one of those clichéd television series attorneys. No one in the room paid him any mind. “Okay . . . may-maybe not.” The attorney shrank back down onto his seat.

The DEA interrogators who surrounded Avon turned quiet; it was a tactic Avon recognized. Silence usually unnerved guilty suspects, making them feel the need to fill up the silence with words, which would inevitably cause a slipup. Avon was silent too. He was trying to read them. Were they appeased? Were they still suspicious? The tension in the room was stifling. Some of the interrogators' faces had looked as if Avon had just announced that he had a terminal illness, while others looked less surprised and more suspicious.

A tall, square-shouldered white man broke from the group and walked over and placed one leg on the edge of the table, where Avon sat. The man leaned in so close—Avon could smell stale coffee on the man's breath. “And you didn't attempt to save your fellow agent's life?” the man asked again, his bulldog jaw shaking with emphasis as he spat the words in Avon's face.

Avon slammed his hand on the small, wobbly silver table, causing the man to quickly remove his leg and stand erect. Avon jutted his pointer finger toward the beefy man. He was tired of the accusatory tone of this whole circus.

“Are you listening to what I am saying? Brubaker tried to have me killed. He left me undercover with some of the most dangerous drug dealers in New York, and then he went and fucked my wife—just for the hell of it! Somebody paid Barton to kill him, and then Barton turned the gun on himself! But it wasn't me! This entire fuckin' movie-like conspiracy is much bigger than me. I shouldn't be the one explaining it all. Somebody should be explaining to me why I was thrown in the thick of a fuckin' government cluster fuck, and why my case agent was a crooked motherfucker who was probably working for you! Not only could I have been killed, but a lot of innocent people died because of this little fucked-up game you're running here!” Avon barked back, the muscles cording in the chocolate skin of his neck. They had finally penetrated his resolve.

The interrogators eased back and softened their tones. Another tactic. Now they'd play nice guy and try to get some type of admission, if not a confession. They'd never seen any guilty person speak with so much conviction.

“Agent Tucker, we know this is hard. We just need the facts. Tell us one more time where you stood. What about the girl?” the lone female of the bunch chimed in, her eyes soft and placating.

Avon's face softened when he pictured Candy's face in his mind's eye. He had been thinking about her nonstop. He wondered where she had gone and if she was in any danger. Avon rested his elbows on the table and placed his bald head in his hands. He had to admit, as young as Candy was, she had done something to his heart. He had tried to tell himself that the night they shared together was purely a result of finding out his wife and partner were playing house during his absence, but Avon admitted to himself that he really had feelings for Candy. After the night they'd shared, he could not stop thinking about her. He felt sick, crazy even. Candy was a young girl, and he was a married man; yet she was a recurring thought.

Everyone in the room seemed to be suspended in time waiting for Tucker to answer the question. Avon opened his mouth to tell them the story again. He would pick and choose what he told them about Candy.

A loud knock, echoing through the door, interrupted his thoughts. Avon's shoulders went from tense to relaxed; the knocking was a welcome distraction from the line of questioning. Everyone else turned toward the thick metal door as well, unsure of what course of action to take. The female interrogator stood up in a law enforcement stance—her legs were shoulder width apart; her hands up and at the ready, like she needed to be prepared for Armageddon.

One of the DEA interrogators stalked over to the door and snatched it back like he was ready to chew out whoever was interrupting their show. The man standing behind the door walked into the room—it was like Moses parting the Red Sea to reach the Promised Land. Time seemed to stand still.

“There will be no more questions, unless we are the ones asking them,” Grayson Stokes announced firmly, his voice raspy like his throat was covered with phlegm.

Avon's lawyer shot up from his seat; all of his papers flopped all over the floor, as he forgot they were on his lap. “Wait a minute, my client—” he interjected.

“Shut it!” Stokes snapped, pointing a curved finger at the attorney. The attorney snapped his mouth shut; it was as if the man had put him under some sort of spell. All of the agents in the room reacted as if they were a group of teens who had just gotten busted at an underage drinking party.

“If you ever want to earn a paycheck from the United States government again, I suggest you get the fuck out of here,” the old man hissed, pointing a yellow fingernail. Immediately taking the man for an authority figure, the rank-and-file agents all began to scatter.

“Everybody leave,” the man demanded, gazing at the attorney and the few brave investigators lingering in the room. They silently cleared out, though many of the faces looked none too pleased.

“Wait a minute here. He works for the DEA and we have the—” one of the bolder DEA agents dared to challenge. However, the icy stare and stone-faced grill he received from Stokes had him taking three steps backward toward the door.

Stokes's
Men in Black
–looking escorts waited for the attorney to gather his papers before ushering him out of the room. Talk about walking clichés.

“Are you going to be all right?” Avon's lawyer turned and asked from the doorway.

“Didn't I say get the fuck out of here!” the old man barked. His chest suddenly erupted and he exploded into a fit of coughing. His escorts each grabbed one of the attorney's arms and shoved him through the door.

Avon started to stand up too, but the man clapped one of his liver-spotted hands on Avon's shoulder.

“Not you, Agent Tucker . . . or should I just call you Avon?” the old man asked, forcing Avon back down onto the chair. The metal door slammed shut with a ring of finality.

“Look, I don't know where you're from, or what you want, but I know I have the right to an attorney,” Avon demanded, starting to stand up again.

The dark shade–wearing escorts moved in closer.

Avon slumped back on the chair. “I am not under arrest . . . or am I? If I am, I need to hear my Miranda warnings, now,” Avon snapped.

Stokes let out a sarcastic snort. With his hazy, silvery, medicine-dilated pupils trained on Avon's face, the man sized him up.

“You're right. You're not under arrest and you do have certain rights, under certain laws. But at what cost would you exercise your right to leave?” he grumbled, reaching into the left side of his suit.

Instinctively, Avon went to his waist. He found nothing there, of course. The old man chuckled, and then another fit of coughing.

“Did you think I was reaching for a gun, Agent Tucker?” the man asked. “I have something far more valuable to you,” he corrected, flicking two glossy 8x10 photographs on the table in front of Avon.

The photographs floated onto the table and slid perfectly into place in front of Avon; it was like a special magic trick. Avon sucked in his breath. He felt like someone had kicked him in the chest. He stared down, unable to peel his eyes away from them. He was experiencing changes in his body chemistry that he couldn't explain—sweat seemed to pop up on his forehead, like unwanted dandelions on a fresh green lawn, and his breathing felt labored. His ears began ringing and he lifted his hand to his chest. He felt like someone had sucked all of the air out of the room. Avon snapped his head up from the pictures. It was as if someone had pulled it up abruptly with an invisible string. His eyes hooded over and he set his jaw squarely.

“Who the fuck are you? And what the fuck do you want?”

Avon gritted his teeth, eyeing Stokes evilly. The man remained silent as he placed another picture down on the table. It was a picture of Avon and Candy leaving Kings County Hospital together on the night her friend Shana had died. Avon's heart jerked in his chest, and he couldn't stop staring at all of the pictures now. Obviously, this old bastard had been watching him very closely.

“I didn't think you'd be interested in leaving after you saw those. Listen, Special Agent Avon Tucker . . . Tuck, the drug dealer, or Tucker—or whatever the fuck you want to be called these days,” the man said snidely. Moving close to Avon's ear, he leaned over Avon's shoulder so that Avon could smell his Ralph Lauren Safari cologne, cigar smoke on his clothes and his breath. “This should be easy. I am Grayson Stokes. I used to work with Joseph ‘Rock' Barton. Sound familiar? I thought it would. Barton trained your little friend Candice Hardaway . . . or maybe you call her ‘Candy.' See, Agent Tucker, we have a few friends in common and I need you to do something for me. It has to be you, or it wouldn't even be worth it,” he said, moving away to see Avon's expression and reaction.

Avon's face was drawn into a scowl and his jaws rocked feverishly as he ground his molars together. He didn't like this old bastard mentioning Candy.

“You don't have to like it. I know you already know some things about Operation Easy In and Joseph Barton, but not nearly enough to think you know the entire story. You do what I say, and you get to see these little angel faces again,” the man proposed.

“What do you want? I don't know shit,” Avon said through gritted teeth, his nostrils flaring.

“The girl . . . Candy . . . I want her, and you're going to be the one to bring her to me,” the old man said sternly, using his head to signal one of his men to surround Avon. “Are you in? Do we have a deal, Agent Tucker?” Grayson Stokes asked, reshuffling the pictures in front of him.

Avon Tucker was a captive audience now; and he knew no matter what his answer was, he would be making a deal with the devil.

 

 

“Oh shit!” Candice jumped out of her sleep and out of the bed. She whirled around on the balls of her feet, trying to get her bearings. Her body was covered in sweat and her ears were ringing. Clutching her chest, Candice flopped down on the side of the bed. She exhaled and looked at her gun on the hotel's nightstand. The dreams were worse now than ever before. She didn't even realize she had dozed off in the middle of the day. It had been a long, exhausting day spent buying wigs and costumes, and perfecting her disguise. Candice shook off the nightmare and walked into the hotel's bathroom.

“Can't believe I have to sleep in this stuff too,” she whispered to herself. She stared at her image in the large vanity mirror hanging over the hotel bathroom's sink. She hardly recognized herself anymore. The wet and wavy lace front wig she wore was cut into a short, high-low bob; it was also at least five shades lighter than her normal dark brown hair. She adjusted the wig a few times and secured it by applying the lace front glue, like the little Asian lady in the store had told her to do. Candice shook her head left to right to make sure her wig wouldn't go flying off at random. Candice was so accustomed to having long hair; the change seemed drastic. But that was exactly the look she was going for. She leaned in close to the mirror to examine her new eye color—gray. These new cat eyes were courtesy of a brand-new pair of light-reflecting colored contacts that accented her natural color with just rims of gray. Candice turned to the side to examine the most drastic change in her identity shift. She touched her midsection, lifting her new overhang gut. Candice had to laugh at the sixty extra pounds around her stomach and sides, thanks to the fat suit she'd purchased from a costume store. She looked like an overweight Spanish woman as she pulled up the thigh pads that made her usually long, slender legs look grossly misshapen and riddled with cellulite.

Walking back out into the hotel room, Candice couldn't help but take another look at the collage she had created on the far left wall. With her hands on her hips, she stood in front of what she considered her new target board. She had taped a bunch of photographs, names and maps together in perfect pattern—a masterpiece in her mind.

Moving her eyes across each face, she studied each name and each place, making sure she would not forget the real individuals responsible for the massacre of her family.

“Rolando DeSosa . . . sons Arellio and Guillermo,” Candice read aloud, for probably the one hundredth time. “You, Guillermo, are not that bad-looking, still not my type,” she said with a tsk. “I guess it really doesn't matter, though, now . . . does it?” she continued as if the man in the photo could somehow hear her. She rolled her new eyes and smiled. “We will meet soon; and when we do, your ass is mine,” she murmured.

It had been easier than she'd thought to find information on the Internet about DeSosa and his family. Candice had to doubt what her Uncle Rock had told her before his suicide about DeSosa working for the CIA. In her assessment there was just way too much information out there about the supposedly notorious man. Candice had found information on several of DeSosa's past arrests, his current and past real estate listings, his legitimate business holdings, court documents from past indictments containing his whereabouts, his children's names and even some of the names of his many mistresses. The fact that this information was so readily available made her skeptical about Rock's claims—after all, the government was quite capable of planting information if it suited their needs.

Candice clicked on her laptop and inserted her Rosetta Stone CD. She needed to get her accent down pat. Uncle Rock had taught her basic Spanish while he had homeschooled her, but she wanted to be great before she set out on her new mission. Once she infiltrated DeSosa's circle, she needed to be able to keep up with every conversation within her earshot.

Picking up her laptop, Candice walked over to the bed and settled her back against the headboard, with the laptop on her thighs. As she focused on the computer screen, the photograph of her family on the nightstand fell silently to the floor. The air in the room seemed to become lead heavy. Keeping her emotions in check was no easy feat. Now that Rock was gone, the only link to her past was this solitary 3x5 family photo.

Candice flopped down on the side of the bed and picked up the portrait. On the one hand, she wanted to turn it on its face so that all of the smiling faces would stop taunting her; but on the other hand, she needed to see them like she had for the past four and a half years. She looked at each face and the anger she had previously felt in the years since their deaths finally eased into real sorrow—pure mourning. The photo had been her talisman for many years, keeping the kindling lit under her seething anger and need for revenge.

Candice didn't even realize she was gnawing on her bottom lip as her eyes carefully gazed upon each face. The picture had an entirely new look now. Everyone looked different in her eyes. Gone was the innocence of a family of victims. Now, with the information shared with Candy by Uncle Rock prior to his death, she saw them with fresh eyes. Each one, with the exception of her baby sister, harbored secrets that were now being uncovered.

“Your father made a deal with the government, and there was no turning back. Rolando
DeSosa,
the man who supplied your father with all of the drugs, worked for the CIA, and so did I.”
Those had been Uncle Rock's final words before he took his own life.

Candice's temples throbbed as she searched the recesses of her mind, digging into her memory for some clue, some inkling, that would help her understand her father's double life. Why had her father treaded such dangerous territory, putting his own family into the fray? Tears fell on the shattered glass that covered the picture. Candice used her trembling thumb to swipe the glass clean. Her sweet baby sister stared back at her with a toothy grin. Candice's chest felt tight. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, racking her brain for memories that would bring her sister back to life.

 

 

 

“C'mon,
Candy Cane, tell your favorite guy what's going on.” Her father smiled.