THE PATRÓN

By Jeffrey M Feltman

The Patrón awakes to another day in his perfect life. His days are filled with success, beauty, wealth and power but, as usual, he is dissatisfied.

The next 18 hours would be different in many ways, but still reflective of his ritualistic existence.  Today he would be faced with challenges that could upset the very essence

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeffrey M. Feltman
• Release date: Sep 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9781732763722

Jeffrey M Feltman

Jeff Feltman is an attorney, FAA certified drone pilot, hiker, wine maker, Scuba diver, cigar and fine spirits enthusiast and loves driving his sports cars and off-road vehicles. He and his wife, Sharon, live in the hills of the Shawnee National Forest of Southern Illinois. They have four adult daughters and six granddaughters. Jeff and Sharon travel extensively both domestically and internationally. "THE PATRON" is his first novel.

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Dedication

To Sharon.

My Love, best friend, travel companion, inspiration and raison d’être.

Acknowledgements

I am deeply indebted to Sharon Aussieker Feltman, and Marsha Gottlieb for their tireless efforts in getting this book ready for publication. They each spent countless hours editing my less than sterling efforts to properly punctuate and apply the correct stylistic guidelines to the text.

Special thanks to Sharon, who also is directly responsible for the appearance of the book cover.  Thankfully, she relentlessly sent me back to the drawing board to refine and re-refine the final look. Without her photographer’s eye, the cover would have been distinctly inferior.

1

Morning Ritual

For more than thirty seconds he had consciously kept his eyes tightly closed and fought his need to start the day. When he finally pried his eyelids apart, the prospect of additional sleep lost the fight. He looked through the window next to his bed and thought, It’s another beautiful day, with another perfect sunrise over another perfect view of the bay . . . so fucking what? It’s probably seventy-two goddamn degrees outside too. He then looked over at the woman sleeping next to him and thought, Another perfect brunette with a great body . . . so fucking what?

In one fluid motion, he scooted his bare butt across the high thread count Egyptian cotton sheets that covered his bed. He hung his knees over the side and selected a Montecristo #2 Habana from the zebrawood humidor he kept on the dresser next to the bed. He cut the head from the iconic cigar. Picking up the triple jet butane lighter that he bought yesterday, he held it to the light.

He whispered, Damn it! as he realized he didn’t have enough fuel in the lighter.

He sat there for a good fifteen seconds before he slid from the bed. He jumped to the floor as silently as possible. He had no intention of waking Kathrine (or Constance, or Carley) or whatever her name was.

Hell, yes! he cheered his stealth with his internal voice and in a volume that, if audible, would have raised the dead.

With cigar and lighter in tow, he shuffled across the wooden floor. He first stopped in the bathroom where he carefully aimed the stream of urine to hit the porcelain bowl’s sides rather than the water.

Quieter that way, he thought. Let’s do nothing to lose precious moments of alone time before the inevitable confrontation with the girl.

He pulled on an unwashed pair of khaki shorts that were lying in the corner. As he left the bathroom, he stuffed the cigar and lighter in the right front cargo pocket.

He used the staircase to get to the first floor. The elevator was too noisy.

Saying that the residence was a very nice space was every bit as pretentious an understatement as saying it had possibilities. It was, in fact, a partially remodeled industrial space with twenty-foot ceilings. The ceiling was adorned with the original, and still perfect, stamped tin panels. The panels had been recently stripped of their old finish and repainted in flat titanium grey.

Eight early twentieth century ceiling fans made near silent, woomph, woomph, woomph sounds as they rotated at impossibly slow speed. The walls were brick with remnants of the original plaster façade remaining. That eroded plaster look had been considered très chic in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. Originally the whole place had been plastered, but years of neglect and intermittent abandonments had left it giving off the vibe of an aged, high maintenance, prom queen. Not that the building had ever been a prom queen. Instead, it had been the nineteenth and twentieth century home to one of the highest end tobacco companies in the district. The factory he now owned and inhabited included the largest and most extravagantly ornamented rolling room ever created.

The wooden floors had a rich dark patina that had developed from years of foot traffic, tobacco stains and paste wax. Dents and scrapes in the twelve-inch wide mahogany floor planks added areas of interest to the huge expanse.

Floor-to-ceiling sixteen-inch square mahogany support columns stood every eighteen feet on both the x and y axes of the room. The columns, like the flooring, had been cut, dried and milled in the forests of Honduras and brought here by boat over one hundred and fifty years before. Once on site, master carvers began their work of gouging intricate patterns of tobacco plants, leaves, cigars, mountain views and haciendas. As the building was raised, the columns were put in place to both stabilize the internal structure and carry the weight of the second floor office and third floor residential areas.

To the south, a twenty-foot high wall of windows framed a breathtaking view of the bay and the mountains beyond. The light provided by these windows was amazing even on those rare overcast days. Full walls of windows were uncommon in the tobacco factory world. In fact, most rolling rooms had only a few windows, placed more for ventilation than for view.

He walked to the northwest corner of the main floor. This was the section he designated as his kitchen. He placed the kitchen away from the windows over the objections of others who thought he should take advantage of the better view from the south. He did not like to be distracted when cooking, so off to the north it went. He designed everything himself. Open architecture, island food prep area and stainless steel industrial appliances, massive quantities of rosewood cabinets and granite surfaces clearly identified this area as having an early twenty-first century influence. It was huge, almost eleven hundred square feet of work area. Understandable if this were a hotel or restaurant, but this was a single-family dwelling.

Hell, he thought, this is a single person dwelling, what made me think I need all this?

He threw open a kitchen drawer and pulled out a silver can of triple refined butane. He never paid any attention to those people who advised that before refilling butane lighters, you should purge all the air and remaining butane from the reservoir. He just jammed the nozzle into the orifice and pumped it a few times. He thought, Why does that always seem sexual to me? Then, knowing the answer, he giggled silently. He knew he was still almost completely ruled by his high school self when it came to sex, sexual innuendo and sexual references. Men never grow up. Those men who appear to have grown up are really just better at hiding the urges than those others who are considered uncivilized. He believed he was somewhere between totally repressed and a complete pig.

He put the lighter down onto the granite counter top to let it warm up after filling it with butane. The act of filling a lighter cools the metal and gas to a point where it won’t light.

He took this time to reach into the cabinet just above his head and grab a large earthenware mug. The red baked clay was unglazed on both the lower three quarters of the cup and the braided handle. On both sides of the mug were small crests. Each crest carried the impression of a single letter E in Spanish Main Regular font which looked, to almost all who saw it, like a slightly fancier Olde English font. The crests had been glazed in rich blue and then attached to the body of the cup with wet clay prior to the final firing. The interior, lip and top quarter of the mug was covered with a thick, glossy, brilliant red glaze. The visual effect of the glazing was staggering. That the brilliant red glaze was composed of highly toxic lead and Uranium Oxide was a fact he either never knew or disregarded. He took the mug and placed it under the drip hole in his single serve coffee maker. He selected a small plastic cup from his selection of prepackaged coffees thinking, Sumatran would make a good pairing for the Monte #2. Pressing the brew button, he waited the minute it took for the machine to finish pressurizing the package of coffee and spitting out the hot rich caffeinated drink he desperately craved and needed. He told himself that he really hated the machine and believed that he could get a richer brew from his French press.

Still, he thought, this stuff is miles better than the café shit and is way easier than fucking around with the press. Besides not enjoying the usual café coffee offerings, he hated most baristas more than the coffee they made. He felt baristas were smug, elitists and just all around schmucks.

Reaching for the lighter, he held it in one hand and retrieved the cigar from the pocket of his shorts. Deliberately, and with great ceremony, he held the cigar with his left hand. He took the lighter in his right hand and pressed the mechanism that fired the gas. In the silence, the hiss of gas and fire sounded like an inferno as the triple jet blue flames reached out an inch or more from the top of the lighter. He then began to toast the foot of the cigar by bringing it to the flame. Carefully, he made certain that each millimeter of the end had been browned evenly. Only then did he place the cut head of the hand crafted torpedo shape between his lips. Next, he began the process of drawing breath through the expertly rolled tobacco while exposing the pre-toasted head to the flame. He continued to draw air through the tobacco and, with expertise gained from years of smoking, coaxed the end of the cigar into a beautiful red-orange glowing ember. When he was satisfied that the ember completely engulfed the foot, he closed the lighter, placed it in the front right cargo pocket of his shorts and drew a full mouthful of the thick, rich creamy smoke. He held the smoke there for a few seconds and removed the cigar from his lips. He turned the cigar so he could look at the glowing end. Now, satisfied fully that the entire end of the cigar was evenly glowing, he exhaled the creamy warm smoke and was engulfed in the haze. He replaced the cigar between his lips, picked up the mug and walked eastward along the north wall.

In the middle of the east wall, which was constructed of solid one-inch mahogany panels, huge double doors hung from hand pounded iron hinges. The hinges, which had never been reset since they were first installed, still allowed the doors to be effortlessly moved through their opening and closing arcs. The handles, pulls and reinforcing straps were also wrought iron. The doors were each eight feet high, six feet across and two inches thick.

The entry doors were flanked by large stained glass sidelights. Over the doors and extending across both sidelights was a transom, also of a matching stained glass design. The transom could be opened at the top to allow flow through ventilation when the doors were closed. Against the odds, all of the glass had survived every hurricane, riot, insurrection and abandonment since they had been installed when the building was originally constructed. The art glass was hand cut, leaded and soldered together to create the feeling of, rather than realistically representing, the tobacco plantation owned by the original family. The northeast sidelight represented the tobacco fields with the greens and browns predominating. The southeast panel represented the plantation house, the fermenting barns and drying sheds. Reds, auburns, and browns prevailed in this panel. Above, the transom, as if connecting the fields and the structures was a representation of the sky and mountaintops. Various blues, yellows and whites dominated while the grays and blacks carved the border between the mountains and the sky. It was beautiful and perfect, but he totally ignored the glasswork as he pulled open the huge door and stepped out onto the veranda.

Those fucking doors are too heavy. I am going to have to remind myself to have the contractor cut two normal size doors into the panels of the big ones. He knew he would never desecrate the beautiful doors, but he did love to complain.

As he stepped through the door, he instinctively raised his right hand to shield his eyes. The sun was at just the right angle to stop him in his tracks and momentarily blind him. He spun around, walked back through the still open door and to a small desk on the east wall just adjacent to the hinged side of the southernmost door.

The desk was actually a refinished and repurposed cigar-rolling table. Literally dozens and dozens of these tables had been placed around the rolling floor when the factory had been in full production. The mahogany tabletop was about thirty inches by thirty inches and stood twenty-nine inches from the top to the floor. The tabletop itself had three-inch tall, carved skirts attached under the edges on three sides. Along the front, a five-inch wide by two inch deep trough extended across the entire width of the table. Here, in the old days, good sized and high quality scraps from the rolling process would be saved for later use or disposal. Some rollers kept other things in the trough. Sometimes, as in this case, a three-inch diameter hole had been drilled through the bottom of the trough. In this hole, rollers kept a tumbler of water that they used to smooth and dampen the leaves as they rolled the cigar. At the back of the table, a top shelf, which was about one-third the depth of the rolling table itself, hung eight inches over the tabletop and held in place by three intricately carved risers. Although it was artistically carved on the face visible from the front of the table, the back face of the piece was simply a thirty-inch long rectangular board of one-inch thick mahogany, attached to the top of the tabletop and the underside of the top shelf. The sidepieces had gentle s curves that swept down and forward from where the riser extended from under the top shelf to the surface of tabletop itself. The exposed s curves of top shelf supports and the extensive carvings gave this little utility table a much more refined look than most of its working cousins. He first noticed the table the day he bought the factory space. It was in the corner of the factory just barely sticking out from under a pile of more than fifty others, all of which had been unceremoniously dumped there. Something about it grabbed him and he paid many pesos to have it expertly refinished. He never found out if the carvings were done while it was being built or later, by the roller who was assigned to the workstation. Now, the humble table stood next to the entryway and became the guardian of his wallet, keys, sunglasses, mail, or anything else he had in his hands or pockets when he came home.

He often thought, it was a pretty big step up in responsibility for the little guy.

He grabbed the vintage Maui Jim ‘Wailia’ sunglasses from the top of the desk and, with one hand and practiced efficiency, dragged them perfectly into place.

Back out on the veranda, he looked around. It was still very early in the day for the culture. Most people rarely, if ever, moved this early. Those who did were of two different worlds. One group was representative of the underclass of laborers and food service workers. Their lives, such as they were, started before dawn. That group was off the streets soon after sun up. The other group was comprised of the young and wealthy. They were finally starting home after a night of revelry and/or debauchery. He had no use for either group’s company.

If he liked much of anything in this world, he liked this time of day; there was nobody there to bother him. He almost felt as if he owned the city. Even though he did, in fact, own a big part of the city, this time of the day was the only time he had any feeling of ownership. He just wasn’t too crazy about people. He wasn’t too crazy about much of anything at all.

He walked over to the white painted rattan loveseat and ottoman placed at the southeast corner of the building. From there he had an unobstructed view of the sky, the bay, and the mountains beyond. The morning sun bounced off the glass smooth water in the bay and across the remaining drops of last night’s rain on the grasses near the bay’s edge. Slight wisps of steam rose off of the still wet cobblestone and brick pavers as the sun began to heat the stone. It was just a bit surreal because the remnants of evening rains generally are gone long before the sun rises. Grudgingly, he accepted the fact that at least one natural occurrence might interest him, even if to only the slightest degree.

He sat on the loveseat’s overstuffed white cushions and arranged the ottoman to hit his legs at the calf. He leaned back, propped up his legs and took another puff on the Monte #2.

2

Interruptions

Without celebration, he considered how right he had been once again. Of course he chose not to see the egotistic component in his thinking. The Sumatran coffee was the perfect companion to the cigar. Of course, it always was. Such is the stuff that creates ritual. If something didn’t work, and you weren’t clinically insane or stupid, you would try something else. If it did work, you didn’t need to try anything else and you ritualistically recreated success time and time again.

Actually, his entire life also had a form of ritual to it. His every step created and recreated success. His success in business, in sport and with women was ritualistic. He took the same strategies and acts he used in previous successful situations and applied them ritualistically to new, but similar endeavors.

Absentmindedly, he stared across the bay. The bay was one of the unique and distinguishing features of his city, Palma del Río. Only a few fishing boats remained at anchor, the rest had long since motored out of their moorings to begin the day’s hunt for Amberjack, Mahi-Mahi, Red Snapper and Grouper. Alongside the remaining working boats, three sailboats and five motorboats of varying hull designs also shared the protection of the bay. By far, the most interesting of all the boats was a twenty-seven foot long Bermuda rigged sloop. This was something that had previously gone unnoticed. Even from this distance, he could see the brilliant white monohull rising from the waterline and ending at the deep chocolate stained wood gunwales. The polished brass rails and hardware reflected both the sunlight and the dark inky blue of the bay waters. The torpedo shape of the low profile cabin rose seamlessly from the yacht’s deck. The cabin windows appeared to be treated with a gold reflective coating. The golden windows, when coupled with their polished brass frames, gave the effect that solid sheets of gold had been inlayed into the bright white paint and dark wood of the cabin’s walls. The single mast rose about thirty feet from its base on the roof of the cabin and a third of the way from the bow to the stern. Stainless steel stabilizing cables, called forestays and backstays, attached the top of the mast to hardware at the most forward and rearward points on the deck.

He only realized how long he had been sitting there when he noticed that he was out of coffee. He turned the cigar sideways to his field of vision. Even though it still carried a perfect inch long ash, the cigar was already half gone. Speaking softly and as if to an unseen servant, he commanded himself to, bring a refill and make it Costa Rican this time! He swung off the loveseat and ottoman in an effortless motion, opened the large entry door silently and leaving it open, walked over to the coffee maker and brewed a cup of the black liquid.

Less than three minutes later he rearranged himself on the loveseat. More people were on the streets now and the rare official car silently drove past his observation post. No private vehicles, commercial trucks making deliveries, taxis or buses or vans carrying tourists ever drove through this part of town. It was simply not allowed. This was, for all intents and purposes, a motor free zone.

The first of the two interruptions was inevitable and the scene would, he believed, take its well-rehearsed course; the second was totally unexpected and had no contingency plan. It turned out he neither accurately anticipated nor was properly prepared for either scenario. The raucous sounds generated by low growling electric motors, gears, pulleys and cables signaled the impending appearance of last night’s chica del dia.

Why do they always have to use the fucking elevator, he grumbled under his breath. Too god-damned lazy to walk down two flights of stairs! I understand that walking or drunkenly stumbling up two flights might be a problem, but down? Fuck me!

He braced himself for the woman to present herself in front of him with a quizzical look on her face. That look was one all these women gave him. It was a look that nonverbally demands he answer the question of why he left her side or why, at the very least, he did not bring her a cup of coffee or a flute of some species of champagne cocktail. God he hated that look. He believed the look spoke to the entitlement and sense of ownership these women believed they had over him and what was his. He hated the assumption that, if he sleeps with a woman once he is then required to read her mind and provide for all her physical and emotional needs. To his mind, the worst part was that all these women knew his reputation, and yet they were so self-centered that they believed they would be treated differently.

The mechanistic noises stopped and he could hear the elevator door open and close. He waited for thirty seconds, and yet the front door had not opened.

Interesting, he thought, they usually figure out where I am within ten seconds. She must be dumber than usual.

A full minute passed and still nothing happened. Two minutes passed, then three.

What the fuck, he thought, half intrigued and half irritated.

What is she trying to prove? She’s just fucking with my head, so screw it, I’ll just sit here and wait.

As hard as he tried, he could not get back to the level of serenity he knew in the hour before he heard the elevator. Prior to the noise, he had slowly sipped the second cup of coffee until only half remained in the cup. Up to the point the elevator racket broke into his world, he had been steadily working away at the cigar but at the pretty relaxed pace of no more than a puff every minute or two. Since the machine tore ruthlessly into his consciousness, he had slugged down what coffee was left in his mug in two large and un-enjoyable glugs. He had also been puffing the cigar in double hits every fifteen to thirty seconds. The result was that the last quarter of the cigar had started to get hot and taste ashy. He tried to cool the smoke by blowing back through the cigar, but one draw later he knew that the rest of the cigar had been ruined. He flipped the one and a quarter inch remains into the street.

Fuming now, because she had not followed the expected script, he rose from the love seat and walked back into the house. She was fully clothed, hair brushed, face washed, and makeup in place. She was sitting on one of the barstools that surrounded the food prep island. She was drinking a cup of coffee from a mug that was identical to his. She looked up and directly into his eyes. He felt off balance somehow, lacking control of the situation.

Good morning, she said without a hint of a smile or coquettishness. I heard you get up and saw you head into the bathroom.

By the way, it was a nice move urinating onto the porcelain instead of directly into the water. Most guys wouldn’t be that considerate. There was a sarcastic note in her voice that told him she knew exactly what he had been thinking at the time.

Before he had a chance to say a word, she added, You have a nice place. I’ve heard about it from lots of people and wanted to see it for myself. I would recommend however that you ditch the single serve coffee machine and take the time to make a good pot of coffee with the French press you seem to have abandoned. I hadn’t taken you for lazy.

Stunned, he stood there practically slack jawed as she upended the mug and finished the last sip of coffee.

Well, she said, it has been real. Thanks for a lovely evening but I do have business to attend to.

As she walked out the front door, she said in a matter of fact tone, "I know where you live and where you hang out in case I need to see you again. Hasta la vista, baby," he heard her sarcastically say as she closed the door.

He just stood there for the longest time trying to figure out what truck just hit him. Then, as the shock wore off, he thought to himself, Damn, that went way better than it could have.

With the mission of getting rid of the girl accomplished, he decided he would take the time for another cigar and maybe a slightly different coffee. Half out of embarrassment from her earlier rebuke and half out of his own desire for a great cup of coffee, he pulled out the French press and put three heaping tablespoons of course ground Pilon brand coffee into the bottom of the carafe. He added two heaping teaspoons of raw cane sugar and carefully blended the mixture. He walked over to the coffee maker and removed the plastic cup that the woman had used to make her coffee. Next, after rinsing out his mug, he placed it in the coffee maker and pressed the button for a large cup. Without a prepackaged cup in place, the machine put out pure hot water at exactly one hundred and ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit. For his tastes, one hundred and ninety-eight degrees was the perfect temperature to extract the coffee flavors without burning the oils; therefore exactly right for making coffee. He then poured the liquid from his mug into the carafe and stirred the mixture vigorously for a few seconds. He placed the lid and press plate into the carafe and let the slurry steep for several minutes. While the coffee and sugar mix brewed he walked over to his living area on the north central side of the main floor.

He stood in front of what appeared to be an end table that was nicely positioned just to one side of the couch. The piece of furniture was about three feet wide, two feet deep and about twenty-eight inches tall. It was absolutely stunning. It appeared to be seamless, as if carved from a solid piece