"Devil's Dew"

By Arbey Samuels

If you've read Samuel's first novel, Maggots, then you will recognize the principal characters in Devil's Dew.

It continues the story of Eric Laswell. His daughter is now five. Her innocent, but precocious personality involves him in situations which tests and strengthens his faith.

Eric has taken over the reins of the family empire, the legacy of every male Laswell for generations past. He changes its direction, and, using his own considerable personal fortune, establishes the Carey Foundation. It is his involvement here that brings him to the attention of the Eagle, and he becomes a reluctant operative in their scheme to pilfer money from a drug cartel.

Eric is introduced to Carley O'Day, "The lady with hair that glows like the sun when it's sleepy."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 31, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462815692

Arbey Samuels

Arbey Samuels claims no fancy credentials. In fact, he will proudly tell you he is just an old boy from the heartland farm country. He was raised in a small town of 200, and that included all their dogs, cats, and the few chickens they kept in their backyards for fresh eggs and spring fryers. He considers himself to be a fair-to-middlin’ conjurer of tales, and loves to relate them in his books. You’ll find he does not draw pictures for his readers. He believes it is an author’s responsibility to provoke thought, positive or otherwise, and to encourage introspection. There will always be a thread of spirituality running throughout his works. Recognized or not, he believes it is an innate part of our humanity. Although he admits a little spice always helps a story, don’t look for any explicit, prolonged sexual encounters. Besides "The Harbinger," Samuels has completed three other novels: "Maggots," "Devil's Dew," and "White Collars, Crimson Souls."

Book preview

DEVIL’S DEW

Arbey Samuels

Copyright © 2000 by Arbey Samuels.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-7-XLIBRIS

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 1

Michael Estrada parked his floral delivery truck in front of the Laswell mausoleum, as he had done each week for the past five years.

Today, a black limousine blocked his path. He parked behind it, loaded six bouquets of yellow roses onto his cart and wheeled it up the walkway. He was intercepted by a uniformed driver.

Pardon me, young man. Please wait here for a minute. Mr. Laswell’s inside. He won’t be much longer.

A tall, solemn man with graying temples emerged from the crypt. He held the hand of a young girl. He walked directly to the open door of the car and helped his young charge enter. He turned abruptly and approached Michael.

I’m Eric Laswell. Do you deliver here regularly? he questioned quietly.

Yes sir, Michael replied cautiously. I haven’t missed a Friday for over five years now.

The man reached into his side pocket.

Here. Come see me when you have time. I’d like to talk with you. He placed the business card in Michael’s hand.

I will sir, Michael assured. He stood watching as the stranger entered the limousine and disappeared into its darkened interior. He turned to enter the mausoleum with his loaded cart.

The window of the limousine’s rear compartment lowered abruptly. Michael halted and turned.

What’s your name? the occupant queried.

Michael—Michael Estrada, sir.

I’ll see you soon, Michael. The limousine pulled away from the curb and disappeared down a narrow tree-lined roadway, out of the cemetery.

The place Michael entered was like none other he had ever visited. All others were a place for the dead. Here though, life was celebrated—the lives of Katarina Sanchez Laswell and Thomas Antonio Laswell. Michael did not encounter a sense of sadness ordinarily associated with crypts.

It was illuminated by indirect lighting, emitting a warm glow. The single coffin was encased in granite. Centered at its head was a wide recessed area. Two large brass candles, always burning, sat atop an altar. The words inscribed above intrigued Michael.

You took flight to a place beyond reach;

Unknown, yet revered by man.

Dwell there in peace, my love, my life.;

Remember our sweet wine.

He surmised the man he encountered a short while ago must have loved his Katarina and baby Thomas very much. He had already spent a small fortune on roses alone.

Michael disposed of the previous week’s roses in a plastic bag attached to his cart, and replaced them with fresh ones. Each sat atop a wooden pedestal, six in all, located at random around the perimeter of the vaulted room. Before leaving, he turned and surveyed the room again. Satisfied, he wheeled the cart from the crypt, closed the massive steel doors to the entrance, and locked them with a key from the ring he wore clipped to his belt.

Rosalie sat behind the massive oak desk in the rear office of Estrada’s Floral Shop, talking on the telephone. The desk’s surface was littered with piles of paper. Her diminutive figure was swallowed up by the worn leather executive chair she sat upon. Only the tips of her toes touched the floor, allowing her to maneuver back and forth from the desk to a bank of file cabinets behind.

I’ll tell Mr. Estrada you called, sir. If he’s changed his mind, I’m sure he will let you know. The tone of her voice was monotonous. This was not the first time she had talked with the bank about selling their property.

Old bastard Dolan down at the bank again? Michael queried. He had entered the shop from the rear, unnoticed by a startled Rosalie.

Yes, she responded.

You handled it quite well, Michael complimented.

But for how much longer can we fend them off? Rosalie retorted. I’m terribly frightened one of these days something awful might happen.

what do you mean? Michael shot back.

You know darn well what I mean! Rosalie’s temper flared. Those people behind this will wait only so long to get what they want! The bank is only their messenger.

Hell will freeze over before I give in, Michael responded calmly. we’ve worked too damned hard to get where we are to let a bunch of outsiders squeeze us out! They’ll get this land over my dead body!

Rosalie shuddered, arose from the desk, and entered the front shop area. She pulled a tissue from the box beneath the counter and dabbed at her eyes.

The repeated calls to their business office were bad enough. It was the late night calls at home that disturbed Rosalie. They intruded into their personal life. Although Michael would never admit it, she knew there was danger in his mulish resistance.

Michael’s strong arms enfolded her from behind. His warm lips pressed against the nap of her neck.

we’re right, you know, he assured calmly, to fight for what is ours. Everything will work out for the better, you’ll see.

Rosalie didn’t respond. She didn’t feel up to another exercise in futility.

Michael unclipped the key chain from his belt and placed it in the cash drawer. The business card given him by the stranger in the cemetery fell to the floor. He retrieved it, and placed it on the counter.

What’s this? Rosalie asked pointedly.

A guy coming out of the mausoleum gave it to me, he responded. He seemed kind of strange to me. He told me to come see him some time. He had a kid with him. A girl about five. She looked like she was part Mexican.

Good grief Michael! Rosalie rallied. You didn’t know who you were talking with?

Nope, Michael responded nonchalantly. I don’t think we run in the same circles. He looks about my age though.

This, Rosalie underscored, is the Thomas Eric Laswell. Laswell Industries. He’s one of the richest men in the country, if not the richest! He actually asked you to come see him?

And soon, he said, Michael responded. Rosalie was gaining his attention. Who is this dude anyway?

You silly ass! Rosalie chided. Katarina Sanchez was his wife. She died about five years ago in childbirth, remember? She had twins, but only the baby girl survived. The boy died with his mother.

It all came rushing back. Michael remembered the big hoopla the Laswell-Sanchez marriage created in their community. Katarina and her aunt, Theresa Rodriguez, were well known in the community. Their courtship and marriage seemed to happen so quickly, not many got to know Katarina’s husband well, but everyone in their Hispanic community spoke well of him. Laswell indeed was a man of extraordinary means and influence.

Michael thrust both hands into the front pockets of his faded blue jeans, lowered his head, and left the shop by the front door. He headed east, passing a large, vacant lot abutting his property. He stopped momentarily, glanced back over his left shoulder, then continued on down the street.

Rosalie had become accustomed to Michael’s moods long ago. She knew better than to interrupt when he entered into one of these thoughtful epochs. He would be back soon. His stomach would tell him when. It was almost lunch time. She picked up the business card, returned to the office, and pinned it to the bulletin board. Curious, she thought, only a name Thomas E. Laswell. Nothing more.

CHAPTER 2

A gentle knock on the private, side entrance door to Eric’s office didn’t distract him from the financial report he had been pouring over for the past hour.

Hey Marcie, whatcha got? he asked without raising his head.

His executive assistant and confidant had free access to him, day and night. Marcie Daniels knew Eric’s priorities, and brown paper packages delivered by bonded couriers definitely was one of them.

Another brown paper package just arrived. I knew you’d want to see it right away. She placed the parcel on Eric’s desk and retreated without further comment.

Thanks! Eric called after her. He returned the report to its folder, and tossed it in the out box.

Brown paper packages were indeed a priority item for Eric. He recognized the bold handwriting. It was addressed simply to T.E. Laswell, Carey Towers. The return address was nothing more than the initials D.D.

Eric got up from his desk and walked to the opposite end of his office. He seated himself on a couch, arranged with other living room furnishings, in an alcove. He withdrew the contents of the package and retrieved a computer disk from its padded envelope.

He slipped the disk into his side pocket, returned to his desk, picked up the telephone, and pressed a button.

I’ll be busy for the next few minutes, Marcie. Button up the hatches and don’t let anyone in, OK?

Marcie reached beneath her desk and pushed a button. The sound of dead bolts engaging was barely discernible. Eric returned to the alcove and walked to the mirrored rear wall. It parted, and he entered a small, darkened room. The wall closed behind him. He sat down at the computer, engaged the disk and flipped a switch. He heard a dial tone, followed quickly by a number being dialed.

The computer screen pulsed its challenge: Halt! Who goes there?

Eric typed Manna.

The screen unfolded its message:

"Hello Manna. Devil’s Dew here. Following info re M. (Michael) Estrada: Age 28. Fifth generation US citizen, life time resident Casa Parade Hispanic Community. Married, wife Rosalie, one child, son Michael Jr., age six.

Owner Estrada Floral, 2123 Camp Street. Must have outstanding business sense. No mortgage. Owns shop and home free and clear. Total personal/business account balance $126,555.03. Active in church (Roman Catholic) and community activities.

Curious facts after computer intrusion into records of First National Bank & Trust: M. Estrada has repeatedly been denied small building loan for expansion. Owns adjacent lot. Apps disapproving loans signed by Charles Dolan, Vice-President, Acquisitions. None were subjected to review by higher authority at the bank.

Dolan has been applying pressure to buy both Estrada Floral and adjacent property for out-of-state conglomerate. This group headquarters in Los Angeles area. From what I have pilfered so far, suspicious they are involved with illegal drug markets. Motive for hots on acquiring Estrada’s property not known. Anyway, they are up to no good.

My first impression was that Dolan is just plain stupid, unwittingly doing laundry for the California guys. However, he may be dumb like a fox. He drives a new Mercedes!

Any questions? (Y/N)"

Eric punched Y. What’s the balance of their devil’s dew?

Wait a minute, came the response.

"They pass it through pretty quickly, usually within five days.

We’re lucky. Dolan received $25 million today. It’ll be gone by Friday, except for a few thousand—just enough to keep the account active and out of suspicion. How much do you want?"

Eric paused, then typed: All of it.

Six seconds elapsed before the response appeared on the screen. "Done. Their balance is now $5,000. Any further