CARLOS & KATRINA

A Novel by Charles Adrian Trevino
Copyright 2006, 2021
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Chapter 43

Katrina bustled energetically about, contemplating gowns, comparing different types of shoes, earrings and other items of interest lying on the various tables and chairs in her spacious but disarrayed room. It was a beautiful day outside, and the sunbeams were streaming into her windows full strength, which was the usual scenario in the large, climate-favored enclave of Westview where she lived.

Katrina was feeling buoyantly uplifted herself, on this fine morning; she was preparing for her upcoming wedding ceremony with Carlos. But there was a feeling of sadness that was eating away at the edges of her happy mood, also; both she and Carlos had agreed that it was best to move into their own rented house as they started a life together, away from Westview and her mother. And her mother had taken it hard.

It was experiencing the heartbreak of seeing her mother break down and cry in front of her, that had pushed Katrina to the point of no return; this unhappy separation had been forced on them by an unseen power that was driving them apart, and it was no longer some madman's easily-dismissed "conspiracy theory." She knew for a fact that this power existed, and had shaped her religion into something she now could no longer abide. She no longer wanted any part of this world, the strange bedfellows it spawned, or the family-shattering politics that resulted when an unknown, hidden power had complete control over the country and its media. It was that, and also their control over the millions of viewers who believed every word they heard on their news programs -- and she had been naively claiming to be a member of that hidden power!  Whatever her reasons, the fact remained: she was guilty by association.

She had seen first-hand how that power had tried to destroy Carlos, but couldn't; she had felt his wounds, and had suffered some painful blows herself, inflicted by that same hidden power. She had admired Carlos for his superhuman ability to try to understand, and not just eternally condemn his many enemies; she had seen him stumble and fall in that impossible effort, and then recover himself to try again, and she admired the spirit that made him persist in this effort. But a human being could only take so much, and as much as Katrina hated to admit it to herself, the Ushers no longer appeared to her to be a harmless movement of oppressed and frightened people, if they ever were. The Ushers had seemingly transformed into something monstrously huge, all-powerful... and out of anybody's control, even their own.

Katrina had resolved to talk to her mother about this painful subject, and to try to get her to see reason; it was her blind loyalty to a mysterious cult that had been hijacked by satanic actors, nurtured on lies fed to her by a media that was entirely-controlled by that same cult, that was tearing them apart -- and countless other families, as well. And it was all to assuage some neurotic, subconscious sense of guilt that served no purpose. Yes, Katrina would allocate a great deal of her time now to deal with this divisive issue, which was threatening to fester and grow worse, if not dealt with immediately. There was no more time to be lost.

She picked up a pair of long, white silk gloves, feeling the pleasing texture with appreciative fingers. As she absent-mindedly kneaded them, her mind returned to the task at hand, and the small church ceremony she and Carlos had planned out. All the arrangements had been made, and Carlos was due to fly in from halfway across the country next week; the next morning they would be married. They would spend the day with friends and relatives, share their wedding night together, then Carlos would fly off early the following morning to link back up with his group and continue on with his magnificent tour. It would be some weeks before they would even see each other again, but Katrina felt content. Soon the tour would be over, and Carlos would be all hers once again. In the interim, she still had a million things to do; she could wait.

Something else was bothering her now; it was that creep Jacob Rosenberg again. He was like some horrible, toxic, negative cloud following her around, popping up at regular intervals to darken her sky, as if he were some kind of punishment for being too happy. She had amazed herself by taking bold, extreme actions against this worm, hiring professionals to kidnap him and dump him in a part of the city he probably didn't like very much, to find his own way home -- without his magic wallet to save him. She had felt anger that he had forced her to stoop so low, to do such a vile, disgusting thing... but that anger had started to turn into trepidation, as time continued to pass. Jacob was an animal, and animals reacted predictably. She could expect some kind of trouble; this she knew.

Katrina had protected herself extremely well throughout the unpleasant venture, covering her tracks every step of the way. But Jacob would obviously figure out that it was her that had been behind his ordeal... and that was what had been bothering her, from the very beginning. Exactly what would he do? Word of his kidnapping had spread around the community like wildfire, but only David Slasher could have had any inkling that it had been Katrina who had caused it, because only David knew that Jacob had tried to hurt Carlos. Everyone had just assumed it was somebody rich that Jacob had pissed off, and laughed it off. But Jacob would know... Cain had practically spelled out her name for him. Would he try to get some goon to beat up Carlos again? Or maybe do something even worse? It was not something to be taken lightly  -- everything Jacob had done up to now, the sick spying, the prolonged, unceasing defamation campaign, the car attack on Carlos in Westview that she had personally observed, the hired hitman... all these things more than proved it... the young man was clearly insane.

Katrina walked over to her bed and sat down, still holding the silk gloves in one hand. She studied them closely, marveling at the workmanship, and began to forget about her trouble. As she gently began to massage the lustrously smooth gloves again, her thoughts wandered off to a place she used to go to as a child, a dream world where she would run happily about through green elysian pastures under a surrealistic sky, with not a single care or trouble to upset her. It had been harder and harder to conjure up this vision as she had gotten older and more disillusioned, and then it finally seemed to have vanished entirely, for a long time. But now it had returned, and with it had come peace, as always.

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Jacob sat in the glass booth in Waffle Shimmerman's recording studio, smiling as he watched his friend lay down another vocal track for his upcoming album. Jacob seemed to be attentive -- but his mind was elsewhere, flying around in circles, like a vulture considering a carcass lying on the ground below.

As the drums and bass thrumbled on, melding in a typically commercial standardized mix, Jacob continued to think over the events of the last few days. After getting the phone number of the very experienced professional hitman Michael Douglas, Jacob had met with him... and set up a business deal. Mike had nearly broken the bank; although Jacob was expecting a huge transfer of money from his father's accounts any day now, he still hadn't actually gotten his eager hands on it yet -- but he had gone ahead and done a fifteen thousand-dollar contract with the hired gun anyway. For that kind of money, he expected to get satisfactory results this time.

He had made his wishes known to Douglas; he wanted Carlos to know that he was about to get it, before he actually got it, so that he would be under duress when he performed. He wanted it done in a spectacular way, which would involve much risk, and would require a well thought-out escape plan for the actors. And he wanted it done at the very moment that Carlos was receiving the crowds' applause, after a moving performance. Douglas had argued about Jacob's big demands and small money, suggesting that one go down and the other up; after much verbal wrangling, Jacob had gotten Mike to agree to only one condition: that it be done while Carlos was still onstage, in front of a full audience. Douglas had agreed to the terms and accepted a 75-hundred dollar deposit, pending further orders and information.

That had left Jacob with his next task: to find out exactly where Carlos would be playing and staying, as he criss-crossed the country with the tour. Then, when Carlos was far, far enough away from him, Jacob would dispatch Mike Douglas and his team to intercept and neutralize this little upstart jerk, who had turned into such a major threat to his sanity. Mike was a professional, and knew what he was doing; he would give Jacob his money's worth. But first Jacob had to figure out the best location to pull off this little stunt, and relay that to Mike -- knowing all the escape routes would be essential to all involved. And he wanted it to be one of the larger venues, where the biggest possible audience would see it happen.

Although asking Waffle to help him get Carlos' itinerary might seem like an unusual request to a normal person, it was far from unusual for Jacob. He frequently enlisted Waffle for his attacks, especially on Fontana; Waffle seemed to take delight in singing infantile, mocking lyrics designed to offend people like Carlos -- lyrics that were given to him by people like Jacob and David Geeken, his two close friends, always with a big wad of cash. It was just part of the fun of show business; Waffle liked it. That was the reason Jacob had relaxed his paranoia about involving friends -- Waffle was family. Still, he would first try to get what he wanted without letting Waffle in on his plot; later he might tell him, depending on how secure he felt about the whole operation... once it was completed.

When Waffle had finished recording, Jacob got up and left the booth to congratulate him on his last great take. The two old pals joked around together as the studio hands cleared up the place, then noisily exited for the night. When they were alone in the big padded soundproof room, Jacob decided to pop the question to him.

"Hey Wah, you know that big tour Frank Fortune's got his jerk band opening, what's their name... the Cool Bandito Fuckheads? What do ya' think we jet out there and catch a few shows, keep old Carlos company, eh? We could fly out there and intercept him somewhere fun, you know, do the town, boo his shows, piss him off..." Jacob's big obsequious grin was at full display. "Why don't you get me his itinerary? Through your guys, you know..."

Waffle looked at him coolly for a moment, then fished out a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. "Hey Jake, let's step outside and get some fresh air," he said, pulling out a cancer-stick.

"Why? It's air-conditioned in here! Hot out there, Waffey..." Jacob wiped his brow with his sleeve. "So, wadda-ya' think about my little vacation plan, huh? You've got some free time now, you laid the last vocal track today... c'mon, let's have a little fun, bro... at you-know-who's expense!"

"Just come along..." Waffle grabbed Jacob's arm and began moving towards the door, his puzzled partner in tow. After they had exited the studio and walked well beyond the parking lot, Waffle stopped and lit a cigarette; turning to Jacob, he regarded him with a curious expression.

"Jake, I brought you out here just in case the studio's bugged," Waffle began, taking a quick drag on his butt; he blew smoke over Jacob's shoulder. "Jake... I know you're planning to do Carlos Fontana."

Jacob reacted as if he had been electrically shocked; then quickly recovering himself, he looked Waffle straight in the eye. "What the fuck makes you think I wanna' do that jerk, jerk?" he bluffed, sneering.

"Because you told me the other night... when you were passed out drunk in my pool room chair." Waffle stared straight back into Jacob's confused green eyes. "Don't try to bullshit me, Jacob... you're gonna' drag me into this shit, and I don't want any part of it, understand? Personally, I don't give a flying fuck if you have that idiot killed... he deserves it, after what he did to Katrina. Just don't try to involve me, in any way, Jake... you know what could happen if someone talks." Waffle thought of Bill Bronsky, lying still as death on his pool table. He had decided not to bring up the subject of Bronsky's barely audible words, spoken just after Jacob's drunkenly murmurred admission; it would entangle him even further into the web of intrigue, and he definitely didn't want that. He would watch and see how this thing played out before telling Jacob about Bronsky; the big dummy would most likely never recall what had happened after he left the last watering hole that night.

Jacob gazed coolly back at Waffle; so his bluff was called, and Waffle knew. But Waffle was like family, and had pretty much assured him that he would not object or interfere in any way, if Jacob kept him out of the plot. Things were right back on track; all he had to do was get Fontana's tour schedule information from another source, and he knew exactly where he could get it; his friend David Geeken, who could get anything, on anyone, anytime. Geeken would somehow have to be bamboozled into getting the itinerary for him; Jacob's industrious mind quickly set on the problem, as possible ways to achieve his latest aim began streaming through his brain.

Suddenly Jacob laughed out loud; why even bother to try to fool him? He could tell the starmaker king straight out what he wanted to do, and Geeken would probably reimburse Jacob's expenses... it was well-known among insiders that Geeken despised Carlos Fontana! And Geeken was also like family to Jacob... Jacob was a frequent invitee to the famous, star-studded parties he threw on his billion-dollar yacht. Jacob totally revered the man; he really knew how to live!

Waffle was still staring into Jacob's face. Jacob's stern expression mellowed, and a cunning grin spread across his face. "Alright, Waffle. You can think those terrible things about me... I know you know what a bad boy I can be! But whatever you think, don't think I would ever do anything that would get you hurt. You're my best friend, cuz!" Jacob reached out and mock-punched Waffle's arm.

Waffle kept gazing inexpressively at Jacob, as he took another drag off of his smoke. Exhaling, he tossed his barely-touched butt out into the street, where it lay like a burning testament to his powerful will, still smoking away. "Ok! We're straight, then!" he exclaimed, smiling. "Not another word about it, at least not to me... ok Jakey? And good luck!" Waffle smiled and winked at his grinning chum.

Jacob burst out in one of his typical jeering laughs, as he leered back into Waffle's mischievous eyes. "Luck has nothing to do with anything, Waffle my son... fortune favors the bold!"

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Copyright 2006, 2021 by Charles Adrian Trevino.