The First Lady: Betrayal, Lust, Bloodshed

THE FIRST LADY

Betrayal, Lust, Bloodshed

Published by Doug Walker at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Doug Walker

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Cover Image: Mark Winfrey

CHAPTER ONE

They called him Señor Gringo and he was often drunk. But he wasn't a troublesome drunk. Generally when he had a beer or two too many, he made his way to his efficiency apartment in the Santa Rosa Hotel with its thick adobe walls and pleasant courtyard.

Señor Gringo had come to the village, just outside of Hermosillo, Mexico, seeking a type of drunken anonymity. It was his plan and it had worked out rather well for him. But now it was becoming tiresome and, besides, he thought he might have a skin cancer developing on the left side of his forehead. He was tanned like a native.

You like a beer, Señor Gringo?

Gringo smiled. Juanita liked to use her English. Years ago she had lived in L.A. He pushed away his breakfast plate and motioned toward his empty cup. Coffee, Juanita. No malt beverages before noon.

As you wish. She turned to fetch the coffee pot, swinging her ample hips. She would flirt, corpulent and forty, although her husband who was also the proprietor, kept a gentle eye on her.

She returned and poured coffee, all the time her dark eyes locked with the Gringo's, a smirking, teasing set to her lips. I'm going on a trip, he announced.

You will bring me something nice from Hermosillo, she said.

I will bring you something nice, perhaps. Perhaps a whip for your husband to flog you with. To make you a better wife. I am going to the States.

For why?

I don't know why. Why do we do anything?

For love. For money.

I go for love.

There are women here. Some very pretty. Some available. Then there's the ugly one you paid last Saturday night.

Perhaps that was why he was leaving. He was losing his anonymity. People noticed things. This is a community and he was becoming a member. Maybe I had too much beer.

It would take a quantity of beer to love such a person.

Love is a relative word.

Juanita smiled and cocked her head to one side. Passion, Gringo. I am a passionate person.

I enjoy our conversations and am pleased your husband speaks little English. But, still I must make a trip. There are a few things I have accumulated. I cannot carry the world around in a handbag. I will put them in a box and ask you to keep them for me.

An honor.

I'm certain. When does the bus go to Hermosillo?

At ten. You can never make it.

Tomorrow. I am a patient man.

I like a patient man. My husband naps after lunch. Shall we say goodbye then?

No. I would not tamper with your virtue.

I wasn't thinking of your bothering my virtue. It was something else.

You are something else. Your husband would beat you if he knew you had such a tongue.

Such a tongue, she repeated slowly. Yes, such a tongue you might enjoy. And if he beats me, then we make up.

I too lay down after lunch. Usually if the weather is hot my door is unlocked.

You are a prize, Gringo. It is always hot in Mexico. Juanita placed her hand on her breast and cast her eyes heavenward. My heart, such pounding, like ten thousand drums. In Hermosillo the people hear the sound and fear an earthquake, a volcano. There is panic in the streets.

Dan Reeves, because his name was Dan Reeves, not Señor Gringo, sipped his coffee and shot a furtive glance toward Juanita's husband, who, as usual, was hunched over the bar, sometimes thumbing through a newspaper, sometimes swatting at flies and sometimes sweeping the room with his soft brown eyes.

The following morning, Dan paid his bill and handed a shopping bag full of odd clothing and shoes to Juanita. He looked at her solemnly. If you will store these for me.

She smiled. Something to remember you by.

While I'm away. He fervently hoped that she hadn't given him anything to remember her by. Then he picked up his one cloth bag and walked into the dusty square to board the bus for Hermosillo.

At the airport, Dan hesitated before approaching the ticketing counter. He had serious self doubts and often regretted things he had done on impulse. This time he had been drinking beer before he called to reserve a ticket to L.A. That had been on impulse too. But he had given his name as Dan Gringo, the one he had been using at the hotel.

I made a reservation for L.A. for today.

There might be a delay. A young woman, attractive in her uniform with silver wings pinned to the lapel, seemed apologetic. There was a fire in a maintenance area last night. But there will be a flight. Your name?

Dan Gringo. He deadpanned.

An immediate smile lit her face, she did a double take. I saw that name on the list.

Yes, it's my name. I called for a reservation. He was poker faced. His white hair and fringe of white beard carried the day. Old people don't joke.

Of course, Dan Gringo. All business, she completed the ticket and handed it to him with a grin.

There you are, Mr. Gringo. Any check on luggage?

He nodded no. You have a credit card?

He paid cash and was thankful she didn't ask for ID. In Mexico, U.S. citizens need no passport, but she could have asked for ID. Perhaps she was preoccupied with whatever delay the flight was facing.

After buying an English language paper, he headed for the boarding area but pulled up abruptly when a voice behind him growled, Where do you think you're going, old man?

The term old man didn't really bother him, few things did. Dan was 56-years-old and looked every year of it. His face was tan, too tan, there was this spot on his forehead the size of three postage stamps that he thought might be skin cancer. But he loved the sun. Old age and its penalties.

He stopped and turned to face a man in his mid-thirties. Obviously, from his voice and appearance an American, and a neatly dressed one in crisp dark summer suit despite the heat, white shirt, diagonally striped tie. I'm going to L.A.

The man eyed him coolly. Dan noted a pair of uniformed Mexican police officers standing casually a few yards back, obviously in support of the man who had stopped him. You know who's on this flight?

I don't have a passenger list, Dan said. There was no sarcasm in his voice, but he thought to add, I'm just a tourist.

The man cracked a faint smile. We're all tourists, aren't we?

I think the word might be sojourner.

Whatever. If you don't know, the First Lady's taking this flight. Air Force Two was damaged last night. We don't want to disrupt your vacation, but we've got to screen passengers. He pulled a sheet from his pocket. What is your name?

You mean Mrs. Keen, the president's wife? Dan asked.

Yes, Mrs. Keen, and you?

Dan Gringo.

The man looked up in surprise. You must be the man they don't like down here. When Mrs. Keen spoke yesterday there was a man outside with a sign that said 'Gringo Go Home.' Is that you?

No that's not me. He hesitated, then added, And my name's not Gringo. It's a joke. I was drinking. You know how vacations are. I checked in at the hotel as Dan Gringo. Big Joke. So when I called for a ticket home, I gave the name Dan Gringo. My name's Dan Reeves. I've got ID. He produced his wallet and passed it to the man holding the passenger list.

This is irregular, the man finally said.

I suppose, Dan agreed. It's my ass, not yours. I didn't know Ramona Keen would be on this plane. If I have to miss it, I will. I said I was on vacation, but really I'm retired. I've got nowhere to go and nothing to do.

Your ID looks OK. Drivers license, three credit cards, membership cards. I'm Secret Service, not Mexican law. You can board as far as I'm concerned. But do let me have a look in your bag.

Dan exchanged his wallet for his bag. The only thing in the bag remotely the size of a gun was a Spanish-English dictionary. His Swiss Army knife was in his pocket.

Thanks for the favor. What's your name. Dan extended his hand.

Bob Rose, Washington D.C.

Glad to make your acquaintance. They told me at the check in counter there might be some delay.

Only slight. We have to get out of here soon. There's a storm brewing over the Pacific. Mexican security and our own flight crew's going over the plane. Normally we'd wait for a backup from the States, but Mrs. Keen has a speech set in San Francisco tonight. She does not like excuses.

So I've heard.

Incidentally, you'll be sitting near the front. We've preempted the rear block of seats.

How many of you are there?

Just the two of us, Bob Rose laughed. She's in the back of the block punching up her speech, I'm in the front of the block, riding shotgun.

Dan continued to the boarding area, while Rose waylaid a pair of Mexican nationals. Dan could hear him spouting a steady stream of fluent Spanish as he moved down the long corridor.

Apparently, the Mexican police were backing him, but taking a hands off attitude. Relations between the two countries had not been the best in recent years. NAFTA had not quite lived up to its billing. There had been charges and counter charges over union matters, wages and tariffs. Immigration remained a raw nerve.

CHAPTER TWO

The plane was a small one with only one flight attendant, a youthful stewardess with dark hair running to deep red and a no nonsense matter. The flight was short and she would have to hustle to serve coffee, juice, alcoholic beverages for a price and the ubiquitous packets of airplane peanuts.

Each weekday morning the flight would lift into the air on a northward heading, then turned almost due west. Hermosillo lies east of the Gulf of California and to the west of the imposing Sierra Madre Occidental. Just beyond the gulf to the west is the largely barren Baja California and beyond that the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean. The flight to Los Angeles would zero on Isla de Guadalupe, a dot in the Pacific owned by Mexico. Once over the ocean, the flight plan called for an abrupt course change that would carry it north to Los Angeles.

Dan had not gotten any look at the first lady as she boarded the plane. Ramona Keen and Bob Rose had been taken from a VIP lounge to a small van and driven to planeside.

When the few other passengers walked from the boarding gate the short distance to the plane the air was already alive with turbulence. Clouds scudded from west to east and the smell of rain was in the weighted air. The top blew off a metal trash container and skipped across the tarmac with the clang, clang, clang of metal on hard surface as it gathered speed, finally banging against a brick wall with one last resounding clattering clank.

Those who had hats clung to them. Dan did not have a hat, although he had toyed with the idea more than once. He found if he stayed out of the sun for a day or two the rough spot on his forehead would begin to vanish. Once, years before, he had developed a small skin cancer on his cheek and a doctor had removed it by burning it off with dry ice. But this rough spot on his forehead, the size of three postage stamps, at least that's how it felt to his fingers, too big for dry ice. A hat, sun block, but not dry ice. Ramona Keen was standing when Dan entered the passenger compartment and walked about halfway back to his seat. Her hair was not light, or dark, a nondescript between blond and brunette, certainly not the natural tone. He guessed her height at about five-six and her weight at maybe 125, slim, healthy, a country club type.

She was too far away for Dan to see her eye color, but they seemed alert and intelligent. The face was more elongated than round, her nose classic in the Greek sense of the word, maybe a little too long, but attractive. It went with her face.

About her, Dan perceived a brusque sense of authority, a blunt, breathless quality. But perhaps that was an impression he had already formed from reading profiles in national magazines. Ramona had been around the White House for some time.

As Dan studied her face, the configuration of her body and its movements, she looked up. Their eyes locked and she held his gaze. It seemed a long moment, but it was no more than three or four seconds. He smiled and raised his right hand in greeting. She nodded back and went on arranging material from her attaché case. The mood was broken.

Dropping into aisle seat, he pondered her age. No doubt early forties, had to be. Her husband, Dennis Keen, was mid to late forties.

I'm Bernie Bate, a deep voice came from the next seat.

Dan shook the powerful outstretched hand and said only, Dan.

You do business with the Mexicans? Bate asked. He was a big man, a burly man, with curly black hair and bushy eyebrows to match. His eyes were blue steel, his nose aquiline.

Tourist, Dan replied, then added, retired. Spent a few weeks near Hermosillo. Nice country, a little hot.

But the beers good.

Right. And I drank plenty of that. Stayed away from the tequila. You a businessman?

Earth movers. Bulldozers. Backhoes. Forklifts. I sell 'em.

Dan nodded. I suppose someone in Mexico has money.

Damn right. You may not see it, but it's there. Take Mexico City. Hell of a place. Women. You bet.

"I can imagine. Mexico your territory

Mexico. Central America. I grew up down yonder. My folks were missionaries. I could speak Spanish before I learned English. He poked a finger at Dan.

That's the secret. The language and the culture. I know them both.

Dan didn't really feel like talking, particularly about bulldozers. He fiddled with his seat control and eased the back lower, just as the stewardess told everyone to move their seats to the upright position and prepare for takeoff.

The plane rolled slowly to the runway, wheeled toward the long concrete strip, then, engines racing, began its powerful move forward, gaining speed as it went until it was in the air and climbing sharply toward the dull lead of the sky, lightning dancing on the western horizon.

Even as the plane struggled to reach cruising level there were signs of trouble. The aircraft rocked and pitched in the troubled air, like a boxer feinting first to the left, then the right. It was as if Mother Nature might be annoyed that such an alien craft should invade her air space.

The stewardess asked the passengers to please remain in their seats with belts fastened, then hurried along the aisle to insure her suggestion was carried out. Dan heard her a few seats behind him chide Bob Rose for standing in the aisle.

Rose was disturbed. He didn't like the small plane and he didn't like the weather. If it had been up to him they would turn back instantly and make a safe landing at Hermosillo. It was this position that he was emphatically placing before the first lady when the stewardess told him to sit down and strap in.

He shrugged and did as he was told. Ramona had told him simply that she must make the speech in San Francisco and fulfill the evening commitments -- a reception, a dinner, then a late reception -- all fund raisers, all would be filled to capacity by West Coast party dignitaries and moneyed angels.

The stewardess moved to the extreme rear of the aisle and strapped herself into a seat. She too, was not pleased with the weather. Young as she was, she had been flying this route for more than two years and knew its every peril.

In the cockpit up front, the co-pilot shot an anxious glance toward the pilot, but even as he did he knew there was no chance of turning back. Waiting for the pilot in L.A. was one of the prettiest girls west of the Rocky Mountains. More than pretty, she was exotically seductive and the pilot had shown the co-pilot her picture just before taking off. With a grim look at the weather ahead, the co-pilot made the sign of the cross.

Dan lowered his seat back and rubbed his hand across his face and yawned.

You prayin', old buddy? his seatmate asked. The weather ain't that bad. I tell you I've flown in every sort of climate there is. I've seen lightning skip across the wings. This ain't much of a storm.

Dan glanced out the window and suddenly realized what the salesman was talking about. I'm sorry, I'm just a little tired. I don't really worry much about flying. My status as passenger doesn't give me even a little control over the plane. It's like, uh, out of my hands.

And in the hands of the Almighty.

And the pilot. The plane had reached altitude and was still in the storm. Suddenly it dropped a good hundred feet, like a plunge in a fast elevator. I suppose we won't get any snacks on this trip.

If this keeps up, we won't even get to keep our breakfast, Bernie Bate said, a trifle more pale than he was a minute before. He looked anxiously out the window at the seething clouds, now slate gray, now white with lightning. We should fly out of this in a matter of minutes. It comes from the west and we're headed west.

Dan nodded and dug a lemon drop from the pocket of his safari jacket. He offered one to Bernie who refused. Dan at first thought the jacket was an affectation, something a white hunter might wear. But the four big patch pockets with their copious storage appealed to him. He usually wore it when he traveled. In fact, he had to wear it. It was the only jacket he owned.

A resounding clash, like giant cymbals an inch from the ear drum, shuddered and wrenched the fuselage of the plane. It was as if the world had ended. The cabin lights went out. No one screamed, or cried out, everyone was struck dumb by the horrific noise and the trembling of the aircraft. The lights returned and the plane seemed to right itself and an audible sigh of relief came from the passengers.

In the rear of the plane, the stewardess sat in fear, knowing that she should do something to comfort the passengers, but not knowing what to do. She knew the plane could not have sustained such a shock without suffering some damage.

In her seat, Ramona Keen wished she had heeded Bob Rose's warning and asked the pilot to turn back. She was certain it was too late now. Dan, who had almost swallowed his lemon drop, was aware that even though the initial shock was over, there was a different timbre to the aircraft, a subtle change in tone. The speed had decreased and they were slowly losing altitude.

In the cabin the pilot was tense, staring into the storm. He repeatedly asked the co-pilot what had happened as the co-pilot, with a tight control on panic, checked out each system. For a plane to be seriously struck by lightning was unusual.

Our electronic gear took a wallop, the co-pilot said. Does the plane respond?

About half, the pilot said tersely. What can we do?

Reach the coast. Flop down on the beach, wheels up.

No. Too much damage to the plane. Wheels down.

You can't make a wheels down landing on the beach, the co-pilot insisted. We're really losing altitude. I hope to hell we can make the beach. You can't see shit in this weather.

The plane was just passing from the Gulf of California to the Baja peninsula when it dipped under the clouds. Now the weather was clearing to the west as the crippled plane limped toward the Pacific shore.

After a hurried conference in the cockpit, the frightened stewardess patrolled the aisle, quickly and as quietly as possible telling every passenger that the plane had sustained damage, apparently from lightning, and a forced landing was imminent. She instructed them on the proper procedure -- remove glasses, seat belt snugged, pillow on the lap.

Ever been in a plane crash before? Dan asked his seatmate.

Oh, shit, Bate replied. I hate these small planes.

Dan looked beyond his seatmate and through the small window. The sky was clearing rapidly now and the rough terrain of Baja could be seen getting closer. The aircraft seemed to be under control.

But it mattered little to Dan. Ever since his wife died of cancer and he opted for early retirement, he had felt that his life was somehow at an end. That his time span on earth was in fact over, but he lingered on, something like a poltergeist, watching everything from outside his own body, mildly amused at the bizarre antics of the human race. Here was Bernie Bate for example, all bravado a few minutes ago, now about to jump out of his skin. But there was no place to jump, no where to go. In the game of anticipating a crash landing one remained in their seat, strapped in. It certainly was an object lesson in patience. It would feel so much better to be tearing madly up and down the aisle, shrieking and screaming.

But Dan was not entirely nonchalant. He let his eyelids droop shut and began quietly going over his life, the good and the bad. The excellent parts -- the giddy highs when he and Jane were first married, those days of back yard barbecues, parties with friends, evenings at the movies, nights of love making -- a time when he was certain, positive, he could conquer the world.

And now here he was, headed for a jolting collision with Baja turf, the same person as before. He felt the same, maybe a little older, quite a bit older, but where were the dreams of yesterday? Where was the urge to conquer? To triumph over the grime of everyday life? To rise above the mundane and take pride in accomplishments. He searched his soul for that one noble accomplishment, but hit a blank wall. He had begun life with a blank canvas and that was how it would end.

Wheels down, the pilot said. They had reached the coast and were in sight of the Pacific.

I don't think we should put the wheels down, the co-pilot said. But he knew the wheels would go down.

The pilot cautiously began nosing the plane north, attempting to head it along the beach, just over from the long line of surf that stretched in an endless chain to the horizon.

Bob Rose was busy. He had sacked every overhead compartment for blankets and pillows and was attempting to encase the first lady in a soft cocoon. She protested at first, then acceded to his wishes.