Yunior Page 3
“The boys are mine by marriage. The two girls are by birth,” she told Millicent as a sticky faced Isabella reached for the house guest.
Following Ryanne into the kitchen, Millicent took the small girl into her arms. Her hand smoothed over the head with sparse strands of curly black hair earning Millicent a snuggle. “She is gorgeous,” Millicent said.
“Thank you, but she is a tough one. Isabella is always trying to keep up with her big brothers. Catarina is going to be more girly, but that little lady is going to be a Tomboy,” Ryanne said as the back door to the kitchen opened, bringing in the fresh air along with the heat of Eduardo Delgado.
Yuñior materialized in the kitchen, grabbing a biscuit from the bowl on the table. Ryanne tried to smack his hand, but he moved quickly, avoiding the rebuke. His eyes twinkled with mischief at seeing his father and his friend together. Brody was still alive and not bandaged, which was a good sign of acceptance by his father.
“Brody the Johnson, this is Señora Ryanne Delgado, the Lady of the Lands,” Yuñior said, “Señora, my friend, Brody the Johnson.”
“Just Brody is fine,” he said, extending his hand for a shake.
“The scar...,” she said, looking at his face. “It makes you look tougher than you are inside.”
“No, I’m tough on the inside, too,” he said as the sound of thundering feet came down the stairs, led by Chad. Micah and Angel were close on the kid’s heels, and Isabella struggled to get down out of Millicent’s arms to follow her brothers. Mr. Yield went all soft upon seeing Millicent holding the child, but his entire demeanor changed when Chad ran over to him.
“Daddy! Daddy! Micah is going to teach me to ride a horse. Can you ride a horse, too, Daddy?” Chad asked.
“Yes, I can ride a horse son,” Mr. Yield said, looking at the boy with a tenderness that escaped no one’s notice. Ryanne’s gaze went back to Mr. Yield, who had bent down to the boy’s level to hear the child talk fifteen miles a minute. He listened to everything Chad had to say, answering when given an opportunity, asking horse-related questions of Micah, and drawing Angel into the conversation as well.
“Yeah, full of needles and nails on the inside, aren’t cha?” Ryanne said, looking at him with a new appreciation. “Everyone get washed up for lunch. I don’t want the food to get cold.”
She swatted at Eduardo with a kitchen towel. “That goes for you too Señor.”
Ryanne stood back from the fray of legs and arms scrambling to the table for a seat next to the warm biscuits she’d just baked, but her focus was on the man called Brody. He was tough on the outside but observant. Including Angel in the conversation added points to the man for being inclusive. Yuñior shooed the children, steering the conversation to his father and work to be done on the farm.
“Yuñior, there’s an issue with Unit 20,” Eduardo interjected. “It’s not producing at capacity, which may impact this month’s shipment.”
“I will check it out after lunch, Papa,” Yuñior said. “Brody the Johnson, you shall ride with me and see the production facility. We must go on horseback. Vehicles going in are difficult to navigate in dense foliage.”
“Lucky me,” Mr. Yield said, rubbing his backside from riding in the wooden wagon. Next, he was going to be given a chance to bounce his balls up and down on the back of a horse to see the making of cocaine in hundred-degree weather in a jungle loaded with slithering things that could kill him with one bite. Plus, he knew beyond a shadow of reasonable doubt that another conversation with the parents of Yuñior had to take place. It was like his old job all over again at the university, having to explain to them that their superstar kid was going to flunk out in life if something didn’t change. He hated those conversations more than having to grade poorly written papers.
The man famous for having a load of blind luck sighed deeply. As he looked at the wall hangings, hand-painted tiles set into the walls and floors, the years of Delgado’s growing in this house settled on him like a heavyweight of change. Yuńior didn’t seem to be one for tradition. It was at that exact moment, he sincerely started to believe that his luck had run out.
Chapter Three – Finding Purpose
LUNCH SURPRISED BOTH Millicent and Brody as the children discussed books and classical music, and the discussion swung back to Yuñior, the eldest of the Delgado brood. His father spoke of the violin pieces he’d overheard him working on late at night. It was well known by the family that when Yuñior couldn’t sleep, or a matter troubled him, he played the instrument as a calming device.
“I’m working on it, Papa, but I can’t get the fifths right,” he confessed, looking at Millicent, who seemed surprised by the revelation. “A violin, although it only has four strings, is tuned in fifths. Each string is tuned at an interval of a perfect fifth from the string next to it.”
“I have no idea what that means,” Millicent said. “Would it be possible to show me later? I learn better by seeing.”
“If time permits, I shall play for you both,” Yuñior said, looking down at his watch. “I must check on Unit 20. Mr. Yield, we need to ride.”
Chad didn’t like the idea of his father leaving with Ed. They were in a place he didn’t know, and even if he had new friends to play with, his father wouldn’t be here, and it made him anxious. He got out of his seat and moved to his father’s side. His large brown eyes questioned and waited for instructions.
“The same rules apply Chad. I won’t be gone long, maybe a couple of hours tops,” Mr. Yield said. “You can play and have fun with your new friends. Your Ma is going to be fine here with Ed’s parents. No need to worry, but if you, Micah, and Angel, head outside, you must pay close attention to the instructions they give you so you don’t get hurt. Understand?”
“Yes, Daddy,” Chad said, leaning in for a hug. “They have a swimming pool.”
“I would prefer you wait until I can be in the pool with you,” Mr. Yield said with a smile. “You can’t have all the fun without me.”
“Oh, Daddy!” Chad said, scowling. Millicent appreciated the sly move, although Brody had taught the boy to swim when they were on vacation last month at Disney. Chad wasn’t a strong swimmer and neither was she, which made her truly appreciate the sly move by her husband to keep the boy out of the water.
“Señoras, that was a fine meal. I thank you both,” Mr. Yield said, getting up from the table to take his plate to the sink.
“You can leave that,” Ryanne told him.
“Sure? I don’t want you talking about me when I leave,” Mr. Yield said, arching his eyebrows. He moved over to Millicent, bending down to whisper in her ear and making her cheeks turn crimson. He placed a light kiss on her lips, ensuring her he would return soon. “Ready.”
Yuñior made his way out a side door, which led to a patio. Two stallions waited with lightweight saddles. He recognized the big black horse from earlier that Yuñior had ridden when he stepped off the plane. The chestnut stallion eyed him suspiciously as he approached.
“This is Thunder,” Yuńior said with pride, patting the flank of the black stallion.
Yield looked at the chestnut. “Is this one named Lightning?”
“No, his name is Juan Valdez,” Yuńior replied, looking at Mr. Yield as if the man had bumped his head on a rock.
It had been years since Brody had ridden, but he figured it would be very similar to riding a bike. He held the reins, sticking his boot into the stirrup, and up he went. The animal was spirited, but Mr. Yield was unflinching as he tugged on the reins, squeezing the sides of the animal with his thighs. His balls were going to be sore at the end of the night, but he wanted to ride and see the operation.
“Lead on,” he said to Yuñior, who turned the black stallion, kicked it into a trot, and headed for the wood line. Mr. Yield kept pace, riding until they reached an open field. Yuñior, wearing a baseball cap that had the Astros’ logo, glanced sideways a
t Brody, arching his brows. Brody knew what that look meant, so he raised his chin, indicating he was ready.
Two clicks of his tongue and the black stallion opened up his gait, running full out down a dirt path that came into view once they left the tree line. The chestnut knew the game and Mr. Yield held the reins loosely, giving the stallion his head and allowing him to race alongside the black boss, trying to overtake him and win. Hot wind slashed across Brody’s face. He was grateful for the dark glasses, which shielded his eyes not only from the sun but also the onslaught of bugs landing on his face. In truth, he’d never felt freer.
He’d lost the race across the open field, but gained a bit more; another notch of trust from Yuñior Delgado.
THE PROCESSING PLANT wasn’t anything like Mr. Yield had imagined. The plant was an old barn with a conveyer belt and large vats that smelled like gasoline. Chemicals sat in tubs on wooden crates on a concrete floor. Three large machines churned, but one got turned off as Yuñior and Mr. Yield walked inside the building.
“You need to put on this mask,” Yuñior said, handing the lightweight breathing device to Brody. He donned one himself, walking over to the machine, which chugged slower than the others. Upon issuing commands in a version of Spanish, which sounded foreign to Mr. Yield’s ears, tools were brought to Yuñior, and the two other machines came to a stop.
The processor on the end ran alone. Yuñior turned his head to listen to the machine and asked for another tool. He adjusted three bolts, listened once more, adjusted the bolts again, listened, and then nodded.
“Manuel, you’re over-oiling the gears, which is making the bolting loose,” Yuñior said to the worker. “It doesn’t make it go faster. Try to keep it on track until quitting time. In the morning, run it at regular speed, entiendo?”
“Si, Señor. Si. Si,” Manuel said.
“Good. Good. How are Maria and the baby?”
“The Lady of the Lands came out last week and provided the gold coin. Maria so proud. Very proud,” Manuel said in broken English.
“As I’m sure you are as well, but go easy on the lady. You don’t want to push her too fast either for the next little one, no?”
Manuel blushed at the implication, and the other men laughed along. Yuñior introduced Mr. Yield to the seven-man team, taking the time to share a personal detail about each worker, their families, or a personal hobby. Coffee cups were passed around during the short break outside the facility as the men updated Yuñior on their children’s schoolwork, and an older man, who appeared to be the crew chief, bragged on his daughter’s acceptance to the University at Bogotá.
“I’m hoping, Señor, that she can help us find a more sustainable means of extraction from the coca leaves,” the man name Matias chirped.
“We hope so as well,” Yuñior said, offering praise for Matias’ daughter’s work thus far in finding an earth-friendly solvent.
“Solvent?” Mr. Yield asked Matias.
“Si, Señor. After the leaves are harvested and dried, we must soak them in the petrol,” he said, pointing to a large red barrel. “The petrol is then drained into the yellow barrel, leaving the coca base from the leaves. From there, we must dissolve the dried base in a solvent, and when the solvent is removed, we run it through the machine to dry it into bricks.”
“The white blocks of powder?” Mr. Yield asked, only to be met with uproarious laughter.
“No, Mr. Yield,” Yuñior replied, “that is a different step.”
He walked over to a large locked cabinet, opening it to remove a small brick that looked like grey mud wrapped in plastic. Yuñior informed him that it was pure cocaine, explaining that the next step required adding baking soda, and in some instances, levamisole, which caused the men to all shake their heads.
“We have to purify the product down into a fine white powder from here,” Yuñior said. “That is not done in this location.”
“I learned something new today,” Mr. Yield said, watching him with the men. From start to finish, the entire visit took thirty minutes. The men went back to work, and Yuñior mounted his horse. On the ride back, he was quiet.
“Something on your mind, Ed?” Mr. Yield said.
“A great number of things,” he responded.
“Care to unburden yourself? Maybe I can help.”
They rode a bit further, Yuñior holding the reins loosely in his hand, the stallion stepping with pride as his rider made for the tree line. It seemed as if the horses knew exactly where to go without being told, which made the ride far easier for them both.
“I’m dealing with a new feeling inside my head, Brody the Johnson,” Yuñior said. “I’ve never had any friends because of who I am and who my father is. The boys who desired to be my friends all had ulterior motives, or their fathers were jockeying for a position in the cartel. Being my friend would be a leg up for their parents.”
“Tracking,” Mr. Yield responded.
“I hope you are because after dinner, my father is going to sit you down and ask you why you are my friend and what is it you want from me,” Yuñior said. “I too wish to know these things, but right now, you’re all I have. I’m not sure if that makes me pathetic or desperate to connect with something outside of this life.”
Mr. Yield sat high in the saddle rocking along in pace with the slow walk of his horse, questioning himself about why he was here, being a friend to a kid who could have been his son that was conceived on prom night. Until Millicent came along, he also knew the loneliness, hiding in room additions to his home that he never seemed to finish. He had a lifelong friendship with Gabriel Neary, and his bond with his cousin Tim had made his teen years full of fun and adventure. Over the years, life’s changes hadn’t strained the friendships, only altered the pathways. However, at least he still had those times. Yuñior Delgado had none of those things.
“I’m here because you need me,” Mr. Yield said. “I also wanted to see the inside of The Terror Dome, to get a better understanding of you, but...I dunno, getting to see the Pyramids of Giza, kind of teach you, Millicent, and my son about the wonders of the world on your dime, which seemed like a smart decision. But I’m here mostly because you need me.”
Yuñior stopped his horse, lifting his hat, wiping his brow with a dark green bandana. The little boy inside of him stared at Mr. Yield, asking for acceptance. The tough nails he swore lined his insides of steel were dissolving faster than the coca leaves in the diesel fuel.
“Does it make me pathetic to care what you think of me?”
“No, it makes you human,” Mr. Yield replied.
“My father will ask the details of that night we met,” Yuñior stated, looking at his friend.
“How much do you want me to tell him?”
“One thing you never should do is lie to the Fer-de-Lance,” Yuñior stated. “He is my father, but he is also my Czar. My actions are accountable to him. He cannot respond to what he does not know. He knows the children were moved, but I didn’t say where. I made him aware of cutting Tito with my knives. The other details he will learn from you in moderation.”
“In moderation,” Mr. Yield whispered softly. “Ed, why me? What do you want from me in return?”
“Guidance.”
“Excuse me?”
“My father has created in me everything he needed in case his eyes were to close permanently on this night. I would step in and see to the care of my siblings and my stepmother. I shall marry the woman of his choosing and be the man he wants me to be,” Yuñior said. “These things, I shall do with no understanding of the man I want to become. Guide me, Brody the Johnson. I know how to do this shit with my eyes closed and to take the life of a man with no loss of sleep. I’m not a sociopath because I care, but the lines are blurring, and I’m caring less and less.”
“Okay, but how will your father react to me taking such a role in your life?”
“You are my friend,” Yuñior said, “when he asks the questions, you answer openly and honestly. My father only sees
me as his son. My shortcomings, flaws, and social anxieties don’t register with him because he only sees me as the heir and Andres as the spare. I do not wish to marry a woman I don’t know or love and become this broken shell of a man.”
“Got it,” Mr. Yield said, looking at the young man who was far wiser than his twenty years. When the Professor he used to be was teaching, he couldn’t get half the students in his courses to understand their roles in the next generation of history recorders, and here was a young man set to make history, who asked for an additional compass to ensure he got where he needed to be. Brody felt honored to be gifted with such a task.
“Brody the Johnson,” Yuñior said, turning the stallion towards the open field. “What is this Dome of Terror?”
“‘Welcome to the Terror Dome’ is a rap song by Public Enemy.”
“The group with the black man with shiny teeth and a clock around his neck?”
“One and the same,” Yield added.
“I must hear this song,” Yuñior said, as Mr. Yield hit the open field. He looked over at Yuñior and arched his eyebrows, clicking his tongue twice and loosening the reins.
The chestnut took off at top speed, the thundering hooves of the black stallion on its heels racing across the wide-open spans of iridescent fields. The green shirt Yuñior wore blended into the scenery. Mr. Yield clenched his teeth, hoping this time to win the race. Evidently, the black stallion didn’t like to lose and gained on the chestnut, reaching the wood line by a body length.
The horses knew how to play the game. It was time Mr. Yield learned as well. He had a meeting with the Czar and a great deal of explaining to do. In his mind, it wouldn’t be any different than telling exasperated parents their son with a 1.5 GPA wasn’t going to medical school. A young man finding his purpose was one thing. A forty-two-year-old man being given a new purpose in life had a different vibe, and in some ways made Brody feel useful again.
Or at least he hoped.