Different Shades of Hardness

By Terence L Anderson

A sequel to Dog Talk: Dave, Ezra, Rupert and the Indian join a retired Frank Harris- contract work for the FBI a perfect opportunity. The team was made for the job, first time out lethally ending it for child sex traffickers hidden in the shadows for years. Turn the pages of time with Dave, second sight honed to a razor's edge. Let the slaughter begin; scattered events linked by a chain of greed, wealth and power derived from the magic of opium. Live the Russian-Afghan war, cruelty wrung from an ancient past. Come to know the tribesman driven by the war from the land he loved. See him survive the Amazon jungles; cocaine the treasure, his elderly partner owing service to the Sinaloa Cartel. Suffer the old man's enforcer, a disfigured relic preying on women for years. Meet the Ukrainian: Mafia kingpin, ruthless, effective, desperate. Tasked by the Kremlin to implement the ruin of America's pharmaceutical industry, failure puts him back on the street. Different Shades of Hardness thrives on the hidden nuance of time, exposing the darkest of human endeavor. Live with Dave: silent and lethal, judging through the eyes of his dog.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terence L Anderson
• Release date: Jan 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9780578328560

Terence L Anderson

On occasion I find objects a mystery, and where I am other than where I expect to be. Normal gatherings of people seem a cacophony of sound. Blindness can distort reality, I know, having lost my lifelong struggle with retina disease. Fortunately life has improved for the blind, accessible technology making most of the difference. Even so, nothing yet has been devised to replace the cane. As you might expect, the right guide dog in most ways far surpasses the cane. Canes for the blind are designed to find things, period. Guide dogs go around things. Proper use of the cane is difficult to master, and for most, cane travel remains an arduous process. No one wanted to pet my cane. It seemed everyone wanted to pet Kirby. Kirby liked airports, escalators, and crowded sidewalks. He liked steep trails, and restaurants. It was our bond, enabling us to work as we did that led me to envision the story I had to tell. My first book, Dog Talk, arose from my understanding of this bond, entwined with a little distortion of my own. The sequel, Different Shades of Hardness is available now.I lost Kirby to lymphoma in October of 2019. Never quitting, he fought it, working up to the last day of his life. Kirby never failed to harness up. We sensed when the other was tired, and made allowance. The time writing was long, but seldom lonely, Kirby often asleep at my feet. He lives in my heart, a companion forever.In August of last year Cruiser entered my life, huge good fortune, securing a guide dog sometimes taking years. We bonded instantly; another big yellow lab, intelligent, insistent, a personality all his own. Cruiser traverses streets and trails with equal skill, such a pleasure to move without the cane. Once again, people engage, blindness not viewed as contagious: a wonderful thing.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The Second Week of August

DAVE MADE GOOD BAIT; the humor of this lost on none of the men he worked with. Testing the water could result in the loss of a hand, the quiet aura that said leave me alone being his pleasant side.

He fumbled with his phone and spoke to his dog, cocking his head to listen for the sound of the train. Sorry Ez, we’ll find it, clearly blind, and conveying to anyone who chose to notice – lost. The sound of his voice carried through the hum of the city. LoDo wasn’t so nice that bad things never crawled out of the cracks. His clothes were expensive, including the running shoes. Anyone who really looked would consider the appearance of the black dog and approach cautiously, or just stay away, but addicts weren’t just anyone. The phone would bring two hundred, and he probably had a wallet.

The 16th St. stop was their third try in as many nights, nearly 11:00pm, last stop for the light rail. He and the dog waited two blocks west of the stop. Near the entrance to a large retail building at the corner of 16th and Champa, the spot had been selected with calculation.

The dog tensed before Dave heard the footfalls. Dave waited. The sound of the uneven steps approached bringing a putrid smell, the breathing behind him ragged and wet. A hand grabbed at his elbow. Dave no longer fumbled with the phone, feeling the surge through the harness as the dog pulled him away. He smiled, hearing the thud as the dog accelerated past the alley, wondering how many men the Indian had skulled with his sap.

He knew Harris would drive the Indian’s brown van, FBI credentials useful should someone confront them. He knew exactly where Rupert would wait, the first level parking north of the retail building having been found suitable. He knew the van was white and bore no markings.

Rupert barely looked as the pair climbed in, and rolled up his window. Any luck?

Dave said Yes, but things aren’t right with whoever we caught. Just stumbled up smelling like bad meat and grabbed for my arm. Didn’t say a thing.

Rupert said, Imagine the bastard was sick, hoping the Indian hadn’t killed him.

Dave knew Harris and the Indian had beat them back to the building, the smell and confusion in the room with the closet telling. He heeled Ezra to the edge of the wooden table and took a chair.

Rupert said Shit, bastard smells infected, pulling on a huge pair of rubber gloves to help with the man who struggled on the concrete floor.

Harris said, Not what I expected. Better get his clothes off and see the rest.

Dave heard the rustle of a garbage bag and the sounds of vomiting, Ezra laying head-up beside him.

Harris pulled the man feet first away from the vomit, restraining him hand and foot with plastic ties. He nodded to the Indian who held the man’s head flat to the floor.

Rupert said, I got his feet.

Dave sensed Harris close on his right, going into the lawyer’s bag that sat on the table.

Harris moved back to the man on the floor, took one knee and showed him the syringe. Is this what you want?

The Yes was garbled, overpowered by the wet sounds of choking.

Did you buy it or make it yourself?

The man’s eyes pleaded. He gurgled again.

Harris bent forward and injected the side of his neck. Three men watched the large man die on the concrete floor, while one man listened. Ezra hadn’t moved.

Three men stood, and Rupert held open the garbage bag. The Indian bundled the man’s clothing and dropped it in, followed by his gloves. Harris peeled off his gloves and put them in the bag. Rupert added his last, spun it, and tied a knot. He dropped the bag on the floor and headed for the bathroom. The other two followed.

Done washing first, Rupert spoke to the Indian We’ll finish up here, get after that other thing.

The Indian gestured Harris to the sink. I use this once for poison, to torture. Man only last three days.

Dave remained at the table, absorbing what had happened since smelling the man on the street. The gloves and the gurgle of a voice told most of the story, and Harris would tell the rest. He directed Ezra to the kitchen, sat, and waited. He knew the way, and so did his dog.

Rupert laid a hand on his shoulder, but spoke to Harris. That Russian shit, big in prison. Only seen it in a few sent over from Canyon City. Thought there was no money in it.

Stepping through the door, Harris sat before he answered. There isn’t. Looking to Dave, he said, I killed him with ketamine. He was nearly dead, and no point letting him suffer. How he went after you I have no idea. What smelled was gangrene, all the way to the bone, knee to ankle on his right leg. The rest of him wasn’t a whole lot better, lots of green scaly sores.

Rupert remained silent, and Dave said, What caused this?

Rupert said, I’ll get rid of the poor bastard, standing to leave.

Harris collected his thoughts. Medically the drug is called desomorphine. Codeine is cooked up with paint thinner, gasoline, hydrochloric acid, iodine and the red phosphorous from matchbox strike pads. Poor man’s heroin, but far more potent. Addicts typically last one to three years. They just rot away, inside and out. It’s generally known as Krokodil, like the animal. Addicts get green scaly skin at injection sites. Thank the Russians. Could be a million users over there. His voice flattened. We suspect not much is done to control it. This gets us no closer to large regional sellers of illicit opioids. Nagged by the futility of what they were doing, he sensed something else at play. I’m going to call Steinwall before we go out again.

Dave said, Is he good with our work?

More than he lets on, said Harris. He liked our disposition of those three that were selling children, the problem isn’t limited to Colorado. Normal means of prosecution would clog the system for years, assuming sufficient evidence could even be obtained to charge them.

Dave waited, making sure Harris was through. Someone local called a friend in Washington. The problem ended up back with you. Given results, the Bureau’s budget for independent contractors remains large, and of equal importance – unspecific.

Harris said, Not that simple, but close enough.

Harris thought of all he didn’t know about Dave Henry, saying, I have a confession to make. After Ezra killed Branden Worley I did some checking. Entry Level Separation isn’t that uncommon, but you were only seventeen, and yours stands out. Even with the kind of access I have, it took all these months to get the paperwork, and it doesn’t add up. Harris watched the trace of a smile cross Dave’s face.

Dave said, No, it doesn’t add up, but it beats a dishonorable and prison for pre-meditated murder. Those three had done it before to a small black kid, used a piece of pipe. He’ll wear diapers for the rest of his life. Given a chance he might have made army intelligence. I found out about it, and when nothing happened I had a word with the big one from New Hampshire. The three of them tried that night. My CO was an astute man who appreciated having a problem solved. We had one interview. I gave him copies of the service records for my father and grandfather. He put me at ease, read them, and handed them back. Then he stood, offered his hand, and said ‘It’s too bad, we could have used you.’ The file was closed, predicated on his opinion of my unfitness for military service. It was the army. Let’s call it a night.

Leaving the building they paused in the room with the closet. Rupert stood by the gurney that held the body of the addict in a cardboard tray. The knotted bag containing clothing and gloves sat on its belly. A small Mexican was finishing up, knotting another bag with soiled towels.

Turning to Harris, Rupert said, Best if this one disappears. We can go out again whenever you want.

Dave said nothing, no longer hearing the sounds of human torment from within the closet. Not even those of Edwin Carter. To Ezra, Carter no longer existed; alive, or otherwise.

At home Harris sat in the bedroom that served as his office, contemplating the hardness buried within Dave Henry. Barely seventeen, Dave had made a decision that put an end to his military career; risking prison. Apparently, nothing had changed within the man in thirty years. Harris shook his head. Nothing much except blindness, and his bond with that dog of his.

Harris was aware that Branden Worley, one of Rupert’s janitorial clients, had raped a mentally challenged twenty-one year old man in Rupert’s employ. Ezra found out. Leaving no sign, the animal had practically torn the man’s head off, and the animal had not gone to Worley’s home alone. Worley had been killed by a shadow that seemed to move with impunity from the laws of nature, or for that matter, laws of any kind at all.

CHAPTER 2

The First Week of September, Sunday Morning

OSCAR MUNOZ WAS IN that void past uncertainty, pushing up against looming trouble, and he knew it. He again had that feeling in the pit of his gut, the one that simmered from the poverty of his childhood. In spite of his efforts, Oscar was losing control of the building. Normal tenant screening had ceased to find the worms, and he always had problems. He sat in his pickup, watching the thirty unit place like an interloper. Mental wrangling with the problems that ensnared him presented no good solutions. The resulting tenant attrition would cost him the property, everything they had. He thought about how this had all started in June, not certain of what he would have done differently.

Easy enough to remember, just another Sunday picking up trash…

***

The dumpster sat at the rear of the property, well screened from the street. At least he seldom found syringes and condoms. In the seven years since building the place the neighborhood had gotten better, but there was always trash.

He heard footsteps from where he knelt by the bin, trying to pull a volunteer that apparently thrived on weed killer. Turning slightly Oscar watched the slow approach of a heavy man named Rob, a tenant he had paid for two months to keep after the weeds. It hadn’t worked out. The stem of the Elm seedling was a half inch thick, so well-rooted he couldn’t pull it, too tough to break off flush with the cracked asphalt.

Only 7:00, it was early for this man to be up, much less outside. His voice sounded hoarse. Those damn things are why I had to quit. Back just can’t take it anymore.

Oscar looked up, not smiling, but not frowning either. Well you tried, we need better poison. Rob’s laugh turned into a coughing fit, deep spongy coughs that left the man gasping for air. Oscar went back to the seedling, hearing the man hawk up the phlegm and spit.

Sorry, just thinking about that high priced crap from Home Depot that doesn’t work, when some diesel with a little 2-4D would take care of it.

Oscar said, You might be right, knowing he couldn’t use home remedies to take care of weeds, or anything else.

Rob got to his reason for being up so early. Is it alright if Linda’s stepson moves in? His mother’s in jail again. Kid’s fifteen, I know it’s one more than my lease allows, but his Dad got some kind of offshore job.

Oscar considered the request. Rob lived in Unit 3, a two bed, one bath unit with his girlfriend and her teen-aged daughter. The unit wasn’t large enough, but in the rental business blended families were the norm. People being ruined by divorce, job loss and all that attached itself to these conditions seldom came up roses. Oscar ignored this truth, caught by the changing nature of a business he had once trusted.

He looked up from where he knelt. Is the boy here now?

Yes, Linda just brought him from his father’s.

Oscar doubted the truth in this, wondering when the kid really moved in, and decided it didn’t make any difference. He stood. Let’s go meet this boy, and get your lease adjusted.

***

Cramped in his pickup, Oscar wondered about his other mistake…

***

At the other end of the building, Maggie Crane brewed coffee in the tidy kitchen of the one bedroom apartment. She listened to the water run in the shower, Costco cinnamon rolls warming in the oven. The whole unit smelled like a bakery. Maggie wore a clean terrycloth robe and leather slippers. Her name conveyed girl next door, but her appearance at the moment conveyed anything and everything. Twenty pounds larger than small, Maggie had thick blond hair and a pretty face. Large hazel eyes and soft lips told the rest of the story. The knee-length robe didn’t conceal the swell of her breasts any more than the softness of her voice concealed its clearness; sincere and friendly, enhanced by the warmth of southern inflection. She used all of it, along with a smile to greet the man who had finally finished his shower. Separated by a bar height counter, she placed one of the large rolls on a small plate, and a cup of the coffee next to it. Was everything all that bad now?

The man sipped his coffee and tried to smile, consumed by obvious guilt. No, the smile finally broke through. It’s just that I’ve never done this before.

Maggie thought this might be true. She chalked up another homer. Probably three times her age, he might have been handsome, except for the double chin that hung like a turkey’s wattle. Maggie started in on his guilt by way of the food, trying to build trust that would bring him back for more than the pussy. Now eat that, you’re not getting away until it’s gone.

The man only looked at the roll.

God, I have a granddaughter your age.

Maggie stood straight, opened the robe and cupped her breasts. These don’t belong to your granddaughter, and if you decide to come back, we can talk some more.

***

Oscar didn’t pick up any trash, but driving away decided home remedies might be just what he needed; calling Rupert. It had been a while. It wouldn’t matter. One thing at a time, and he would start with the girl.

CHAPTER 3

Sunday Morning

MAGGIE CRANE HAD GROWN up poor in Huntsville, Alabama, bad made worse by the way her childhood ended. Uncle Aaron began lessons in trust at age two. Her lessons ended at age eleven, the hard diploma inserted between her legs. That same day, he left for an oil rig in Indonesia. It happened late on a humid Friday afternoon in August. He was home, his wife wasn’t, and the couple had no children of their own.

Nine years’ worth of toys had watched them from the open shelving: coloring books and crayons, dolls of all kinds, all the little trinkets and bobbles, and the stuffed animals. To Maggie they had seemed the saddest, and remembering them now brought her pain. The kind of pain that never quite left.

The phone had awakened her on the couch where he left her, ringing and ringing, and then Mama’s voice. Maggie, you need to get home, tell Aaron.

To answer the phone Maggie had moved to the kitchen, and stood holding the handset of the old wall phone pressed to her ear. With her free hand she pressed between her legs, feeling the stickiness of her cotton panties, afraid to look down. He’s not here Mama.

Where did he go? Like Maggie didn’t matter.

I don’t know Mama, now crying, He hurt me Mama, it really hurts.

The voice sharpened. Stay there, and then nothing but the hollow sound of a disconnected call.

***

Maggie shook herself from the past, doing the drill without thinking. Strip the bed, wash the sheets and take a shower. Then clean; the unit was immaculate, but she cleaned it anyway because it needed to be perfect, and because she liked the place. The furnishings were new, cheap but nice, just like the kitchenware. The carpet and paint were also new and like the rest of it, cost her nothing courtesy of the landlord, and the guy she took it from.

She had arrived in Denver four months ago to the day on the bus, two grand to her name, and a small suitcase. She spent the bus ride on Zillow, locating a room in a house in Highland Park, near LoDo.

The old couple were enthralled with her, fading empty nesters needing the money. Maggie walked into her new room and remained only long enough for six dates. Number five had been perfect – just delusional enough. Maggie left the couple without a word, but did leave a beautifully hand written thank you note, along with a little extra money.

***

Not getting Rupert, Oscar left a message, remembering the warmth of the thigh that had pressed into his, sitting beside her on the couch, adjusting another lease.

It was clear by her appearance that Maggie needed Greg Clayton like she needed herpes, but that had been none of his business. Greg was a nice guy who waited tables at a so-so restaurant, and liked cooking at home. He had furnished the unit in the weeks after moving in, often showing Oscar what he was doing. He was an honest guy, and Oscar liked him for that.

Maggie’s rental app checked out perfectly. She had worked for a State Farm agent in Huntsville the year prior to leaving for Denver, living at home. The old couple near LoDo wanted her back. She had a real estate job, and three thousand worth of credit on a Chase Visa. The card was always paid on time, with nothing owing. No court actions appeared against her.

The lease had eight months remaining, and required just three words to amend it, and Maggie Crane, three simple words written in his own hand. In addition to making her read the lease, Oscar had explained what most tenants failed to grasp. Each of you are individually responsible. The rent was thirteen hundred, with utilities bringing monthly costs to about two thousand.

Maggie pressed close and turned her head. Greg says I only have to pay five hundred. Greg sat at her other side, nodding and smiling.

Oscar stood, moving forward and turning to face them. That’s your business. If this doesn’t work out, both of you go.

***

Two weeks later Greg left, ordered by the court to vacate pending settlement of domestic violence charges, making eviction uncertain.

***

July rent for Unit 3 arrived June 30th, five hundred dollars drawn on Maggie’s checking account, along with a key, and a note. Oscar’s wife Kimi read it as her stomach knotted. Greg and I are having problems. He’s moved out, and I’ve had to change the locks. Maggie.

***

Oscar had been working in Colorado Springs, tiling the floor of a new Walmart. Still running the big jobs himself for their company’s buyers, he was often away. Kimi sighed, wanting to cry. We take a hundred down and the bastards are running thirty years of hard work into the ground, and we’ll have to take the business back. Nothing will be left.

She would discuss this rental thing with Oscar when he called.

They were both tired, but spoke daily when he traveled, even if it had to be late. The calls were important for both, though thirty years of tenants created pockets of annoyance which they sometimes couldn’t encapsulate.

All I got from Unit 3 was five hundred.

Who paid the money?

That girl, Maggie. Kimi had the lease in front of her.

I’ll come home, said Oscar, sick of Walmart, and wanting to be home anyway.

Can’t it wait? All you’ve got left is two days.

His groan, and the words that followed made her feel better.

If Del fucks it up I’ll kick his ass.

Kimi laughed. You’re not kicking anybody’s ass anymore.

Oscar groaned again. See you tomorrow.

***

At the apartments, at the same time Kimi hung up, Rob stumbled, weaving towards the dumpster with the trash; Netflix and the beer forgotten. Linda’s daughter still occupied the dining table, alternating from her laptop to her phone. Soon she would want the couch, and Rob would retreat to the bedroom he shared with Linda. She would read awhile longer and he would lay still, trying to sleep. She would turn out the light, neither having spoken.

***

In Linda’s daughter’s old bedroom the kid’s hands flew across his laptop, household sounds deadened by his headphones. The household dynamic had changed. Samuel Clell was intense and aloof, by all appearances just another gamer. His fingers stopped and he looked into space, considering his old handle. Shooter took him back. He had been obsessed, earning a rep for designing specialized prototypes. His front end – back end subsystems for multiplayer gaming apps were seamless, including the well regarded application programmer interfaces. He knew the chat room vultures piggy-backed on his work, but only Richie had listened.

Samuel had tired of his father who never sent enough money, and disgusted with his whore of a mother who drank herself through it. He shook his head. Good thing she kept her looks. Linda was nice but had lasted less than a year with his old man, and had a daughter of her own. A child outcast with a brilliant mind, shunned and ridiculed, gaming had been Samuel’s salvation. Learning on his own for years, he stretched his mind to the breaking point, making computer science his life. At fifteen, had anyone else paid attention and actually cared he might have interned for Amazon, but there had only been Richie.

Staring again at his screen, he now worked with quiet desperation. Way different, he thought, but all the gaming had paid off. Shooter had never forgotten Grand Theft Auto.

***

Rob struggled with the lid and swore, his anger shifting to Linda’s stepson. God-damn kid should be doing this, but what could he say? Working as an aesthetician Linda paid the rent, while his disability barely covered food.

Linda came outside a half hour later, expecting to find him smoking. She didn’t even find an empty waste can. It had ended up in the dumpster, and would be as gone as he was after the bin was emptied tomorrow.

CHAPTER 4

Saturday Morning

THE KNOCK AT THE door interrupted Maggie’s cleaning, along with her thoughts. Waddle neck had returned Friday, and it hadn’t been nice. He barely got hard and never came. His struggles pathetic, she felt the soreness all over. His frustration turned things rough. This morning over coffee he joked about it, but tried to, as a regular, halve her fee. She stared him down and said no, glad that he just paid the money and left. The knock came again as she hurried to the door.

The peephole wasn’t good, but the man stood back like he knew that, wanting to be seen. He had a confident air, and held the harness handle of a large black dog. Dark sunglasses covered his eyes. Maggie had never seen a blind man that looked like this. Tall and rangy, he seemed powerful. She called through the door, I don’t know you. The smile softened his face.

My name is Dave Henry. We have a mutual acquaintance.

She cracked the door to the length of the chain, her morning still darkened by wattle neck. And who might that be? The smile didn’t waiver.

At least for now he shall remain nameless.

Maggie laughed at herself. Like I check I.D. She had never done a blind man, and opened the door.

Preceded by the dog, he stepped in. This is Ezra, and please don’t pet him. If it’s OK I’d like a cup of that coffee I’m smelling, and to talk. The best thing would be if I took your elbow.

She turned and presented her arm, "Straight shot to the counter, the