Too Late to Say Goodbye Read online

  Table Of Contents

  Dedication:

  Acknowledgment:

  Chapter One:

  Tony Mora

  Chapter Two:

  Eliza Cortez

  Chapter Three:

  Iris King

  Chapter Four:

  Gene Orr

  Chapter Five:

  Renaldo Luna

  Chapter Six:

  Gene Orr

  Chapter Seven:

  Franklin Hayes

  Chapter Eight:

  Renaldo Luna

  Chapter Nine:

  Gene Orr

  Chapter Ten:

  Tony Mora

  Chapter Eleven:

  Iris King

  Chapter Twelve:

  Eliza Cortez

  Chapter Thirteen:

  Franklin Hayes

  Chapter Fourteen:

  Tony Mora

  Chapter Fifteen:

  Iris King

  Chapter Sixteen:

  Tony Mora

  Chapter Seventeen:

  Renaldo Luna

  Chapter Eighteen:

  Franklin Hayes

  Chapter Nineteen:

  Iris King

  Chapter Twenty:

  Eliza Cortez

  Chapter Twenty-One:

  Tony Mora

  Chapter Twenty-Two:

  Eliza Cortez

  Chapter Twenty-Three:

  Gene Orr

  Chapter Twenty-Four:

  Franklin Hayes

  Chapter Twenty-Five:

  Renaldo Luna

  Chapter Twenty-Six:

  Tony Mora

  Chapter Twenty-Seven:

  Gene Orr

  Chapter Twenty-Eight:

  Iris King

  Chapter Twenty-Nine:

  Eliza Cortez

  Chapter Thirty:

  Renaldo Luna

  Chapter Thirty-One:

  Tony Mora

  Chapter Thirty-Two:

  Eliza Cortez

  Bio:

  Too Late to Say Goodbye

  Tulsa Underworld Trilogy Book 1

  Copyright © 2022 Mark Atley. All rights reserved.

  4 Horsemen Publications, Inc.

  1497 Main St. Suite 169

  Dunedin, FL 34698

  4horsemenpublications.com

  [email protected]

  Cover by 4HP

  Typesetting by Michelle Cline

  Editor Laura Mita

  All rights to the work within are reserved to the author and publisher. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 International Copyright Act, without prior written permission except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Please contact either the Publisher or Author to gain permission.

  This is book is meant as a reference guide. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All brands, quotes, and cited work respectfully belongs to the original rights holders and bear no affiliation to the authors or publisher.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2021951207

  Print ISBN: 978-1-64450-461-1

  Audio ISBN: 978-1-64450-459-8

  E-Book ISBN: 978-1-64450-460-4

  Dedication:

  THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO MY WIFE AND family and to the real Gene Orr, who is nothing like my character, but whose death inspired this book. I will forever remember my evening on watch. I’m glad you were my friend.

  Acknowledgment:

  I WANT TO THANK THE FOLKS (GIRLS) AT

  4 Horsemen for taking a chance on me, and I hope to make it very worth their while. I want to thank those of you who follow me on Twitter and offer encouragement, including Martine, Craig, Gareth, J. Todd Scott, J.B., Stephen, Eric (Beetner—Long live Writer Types), Max, Neil, Alec, and many more who I’ve interacted with over the years. To my coworkers and family who have put up with me during many story breakdown sessions. A very special thanks to my wife—for putting up with me.

  And always, thank you to each and every one who reads this novel. Without you, this would not be possible.

  CHAPTER ONE:

  TONY MORA

  DEA AGENT ANTONIO “TONY” MORA crouches through the open door into the backseat of a tan 2004 Buick Regal belonging to a guy known as Stevie Gragg to complete a drug deal. It is two o’clock in the afternoon and twenty degrees outside.

  The sedan is in a McDonald’s parking lot in a suburb north of Tulsa, backed into the parking space, running with the heat on full blast. The McDonald’s is quiet. The lunch rush has come and gone; they are far removed from the hectic morning breakfast crowd. Through the windows, a mom and a child walk back toward the restrooms, a couple of people stand at the counter ordering, and an employee mops the floor; otherwise, the place is like most McDonald’s off a highway in the mid-afternoon in winter, a sparse parking lot with some light traffic in the drive thru.

  The two men in the vehicle have been waiting for Tony, so neither of them pays much attention to him as he slips into the car. The guy in the passenger seat tells the driver who’s smoking a cigarillo, about his shoes. He lifts his foot and rests it on the dashboard to display the sneakers. “They’re genuine Air Jordan’s, never worn, my size, white like a polar bear’s ass—” Tony slams the car door shut, and both men check him out; the passenger glances at Tony, mid-sentence, “a sweet find.”

  The passenger is Franklin Hayes, a black man, bald, fit, with no distinguishing features except for a wicked scar running across the left side of his face, horizontal from his lips to his ear. Franklin wears a cheap gray suit with a crisp white collar and apparently genuine Air Jordan’s. Tony knows from surveillance Franklin bought them from a pawnshop that specializes in knock-off footwear. Franklin’s a salesman.

  Stevie, the driver, scans Tony from the rearview mirror. He’s a white man, large—some would say fat—with a full beard. Stevie wears a tan work jacket, a Carhartt, and a stocking cap. He says, “I always liked LeBron better,” in response to Franklin’s comment about the shoes.

  Franklin, Tony knows a lot about, but Stevie, Tony knows very little, other than the guy buys Black & Milds by the boatload and his brother’s a killer who goes by the name Leon.

  Stevie ashes out the cracked driver’s side window, which lets cool air into the cabin, and after a moment blows smoke through the crack as Tony settles into the backseat. He’s eyeing the old man inside the McDonald’s who is reading a newspaper, flipping pages slowly as he reads, drinking coffee. Tony puts his hands up to his face, blows warm air into his gloveless hands, and studies his surroundings. This spot works, but it could be better. His partner, Clyde, is parked a couple of spaces down, nose in a parking spot with Clyde low in the driver’s seat so that he’s harder to see. Not that Tony can see him. Just they’ve done this a hundred times, and that’s how they operate. Clyde’s his partner, so Clyde’s the closest guy. He’s the oh-shit guy. His closest support if things take a turn for the worse.

  Besides Clyde, there are others. Across the street, there’s a car with two agents. Lawrence Johnson and Nader Kahn, both fuckups, but enjoyable to work with. They’re watching the Regal through binoculars. Then, there’s another vehicle two businesses down. Eliza Cortez, competent, tough, and very pregnant. And one street over, the arrest team’s set up and ready to go should things go sideways, which consists of Tony and Clyde’s boss Marque Boykin and five others. Today, Boykin plays host to Assistant United States District Attorney Eli Buchanan, who’s pretending to be junior field man, so he has a better understanding of how things are done.

  This morning, at the mission briefing, Eli Buchanan, Bucky to most, bull-nosed his way into Clyde’s briefing and explained how knowing how they worked will help him explain things better in the courtroom. On the way over to the meet, Clyde told Tony that’s bullshit. Bucky just wants a story to brag about so he can get laid.

  All of them are waiting for Tony’s signal.

  Or lack of signal.

  Because today’s deal is supposed to go forward with no problems. Tony is just supposed to set the deal and confirm the drugs, nothing else. No hang-ups. Flash the cash so to speak, except he doesn’t have the cash. Bucky wouldn’t let them withdraw what they needed, partly because Franklin kept changing the meeting location, three times with no explanation, which is what Clyde calls “doper-time,” and partly because Bucky didn’t want to release the money until they saw the product. When Tony protested showing up to a drug-deal without the funds to purchase the drugs, Bucky told him to be creative. He didn’t trust the deal, or rather, didn’t trust Franklin. So Tony’s supposed to record the interaction and set another meeting for another day.

  Today, Tony wears black over black, black leather jacket older than him over black jeans, with an off-white t-shirt underneath because he’s still the good guy, wearing what Eliza calls his millennial greaser look. He chose black on black for working with criminals. Easy to clean and easy to blend in. Doesn’t stand out too much, goes with his dark hair a
nd olive skin, hints of his Cuban heritage, and doesn’t distract from his average height, average build, and green eyes. Tony can be nobody and anybody. He’s an ethnic jack-of-all-trades.

  Franklin slips his foot from the dashboard and rotates, placing his hand on Stevie’s seat to turn his body, to get a look at Tony. “You paying attention?” Franklin looks back at Tony, but Tony’s not paying attention; he’s watching the old man inside, letting Franklin’s voice wash over him.

  Tony drops his hands from his mouth. “It’s cold outside,” he says and transfers his attention from the old man with the paper to Franklin, dropping his eyes, but doing it slowly to show he’s not going to be pushed around.

  Franklin asks again, “I said, did you bring the money?”

  Tony repeats, “It’s cold outside.” Then adds, “I’ve not been in the car two seconds, and you’re already coming at me like this. Let me warm up a bit before we get down to it.”

  Franklin throws his hands up. “Hey what can I say, it’s two o’clock in the afternoon,” he taps the gold watch on his wrist with his index finger, “and I got better things to be doing than sitting here jibber-jawing with the likes of you. You think I try this shit with my woman, go in cold, and try to get her jump-started without any of the sweet stuff? Only when I don’t want to wait for a good time—and well, buddy, I don’t want to wait for any time with you any longer.”

  “Jibber-jawing?” Tony says. “Who talks like that? Look, this was supposed to happen at the Home Depot at ten. That’s ten this morning.” Tony taps Franklin’s watch with his forefinger to make his point. “If anyone should be upset about things, it should be me, not you.”

  “You want to do this or not?” Franklin asks, sliding his wrist away from Tony. “Because like I said, I’ve got other shit to do.”

  “Well yeah,” Tony says, “of course, but like, what’s so important that you got to blow me off for a couple of hours and then give me a hard time like I’m the one that’s late to the party? I got things to do today too, man.” Tony crosses his arms. “So, what’s got you in such a hurry now?”

  The cloying, sweet smell of geranium, lavender, and something reminiscent of peppers fills the cabin with an arrogant, self-assured swagger. It must come from Franklin, who absently runs a finger over his forehead, stroking the prominent ridge above his left eye. “We wanted to see how flexible you would be,” he says. “And by we, I mean my boss, because Stevie and I couldn’t give two fucks if you’re flexible or not. But I’m tired of wasting your time and mine, and the boss is the boss, you know? So, we do what he wants up until a point. Consider that fucking point reached. And just so you’re aware, we got Thunder tickets for tonight’s game. Stevie here says he’s not been to one. I’m going to change that. Say it’s a thank you for a job well done. I closed a major deal the other day. Stevie brought them to the table. So, we want to get this taken care of so we can get to the city before too long. I want to get to the city before it gets too late because I want to have dinner at this place down in Bricktown.”

  From the driver’s seat, Stevie says, “What’s the point of going? They’re no good this year.”

  Franklin turns to him. “The point is when you’re a fan and your home team’s playing at home, you go. Doesn’t matter if they’re good or not. You go. You support them.”

  Tony asks, “What you got, like season tickets?”

  Franklin shakes his head. “No, but I’ve not been to a game since Durant took off.”

  Stevie says, “See, that’s what I’m saying. Without him and without what’s his face, the short one that wore the glasses and dressed like a clown trying to sell used cars—you know who I’m talking about?”

  But Franklin doesn’t know who Stevie’s talking about because his face twists into a strange look trying to determine if his partner’s serious or not. “No, I don’t know. Who the fuck are you talking about?”

  “The short guy.”

  “What short guy?”

  “The guy that just left.”

  “Who the fuck just left?”

  “Not Durant, he made everyone mad leaving, you remember how they treated him?” Stevie says. “He goes on to make more money, try to get a championship ring and all that. And everyone’s pissed off at him for having an opinion on his own career. I mean the other guy, the one that stayed behind. Everyone loves him.”

  “Westbrook?” Tony provides from the back seat.

  Franklin glances at Tony and then back at Stevie. He asks, “Do you mean Westbrook?”

  Stevie just shrugs, his large shoulders banging up and then slouching in a fall, with one hand still on the steering wheel.

  Tony adds, “Russell Westbrook; he left a couple of years ago.”

  “If you mean Westbrook,” Franklin says, “fucking say you mean Westbrook. Do you mean Westbrook? He’s not short.”

  Stevie puffs on the cigarillo, blows smoke out the window, and says, “He’s shorter than Durant.”

  “It’s the NBA,” Tony comments. “No one’s short in the NBA.”

  Stevie says, “What about that guy with the Golden State or whatever? The one who’s got the curly hair, and everyone loves him, he’s not tall.”

  Tony tells Franklin, “He’s got a point.”

  “What the fuck’s wrong with you two?” Franklin says, twisting in the seat. He pounds the dashboard. “You two doing a stand-up bit? Is that it? You two doing some comedic bullshit, who’s-on-first-type-fuckery, where the new guy in the back knows what the fuck you mean, but with me, I’ve got to play fucking charades with you, twenty-fucking-questions?”

  Stevie says, “No, I’m just saying, they’re nothing without the guy with the colorful outfits.”

  “Outfits?” Franklin says, “Who the fuck wears outfits? What the fuck is an outfit?” Franklin reverses in the seat, asks Tony, “You wear an outfit?”

  Tony shakes his head.

  Franklin goes on, “What are we just like fucking toddlers, is that it? You’re like a fucking first-grader, your mother dressing you. Dressing you in outfits? You want to wear a sailor’s outfit, with the little white cap and all that bullshit? Look like Donald Duck?”

  Stevie shakes his head.

  “That’s what I thought,” Franklin says. “Now, if you don’t mind,” he hangs his hand out toward Stevie, “I’d like to get on with business with the gentleman in the back seat unless you have something more you would like to add?”

  Stevie doesn’t move and doesn’t say anything either. He just wraps his lips around the cigarillo and takes in some of the smoke, which adds to the noxious mixture of Franklin’s cologne and makes the car smell like gummy bears, and he stares intently at Franklin.

  “We done?” Franklin asks, clarifying, “Or you got some other bullshit you want to get off your chest, anything more you want to spout? How about you do this—you drive. Stick to driving. Let me do the talking. Now, where were we?” He turns back to Tony. “Oh that’s right, do you have the motherfucking money or not?”

  “I’ve got the money,” Tony says and puts his hands up. “But it’s not on me.”

  Stevie’s eyes flash up toward the rearview mirror.

  Franklin says, “What’d you mean you don’t have the money on you?”

  Tony shrugs. “What’d you mean what I mean? I don’t got it on me.”

  “Why not?” Franklin demands, jutting his hand out as if he’s expecting a tip before closing his hand into a fist, squeezing tight until his skin turns white at the edges, and he presses his fist against the seat, speaking in a slow controlled manner before his words out-race his indignation. “Why come to a deal without the money? Do you go to dinner without your wallet? Tell the hooker, sorry babe, put it on my tab? Buy the lemonade from the kid, tell him you’ll get him next week? Because if you did, then I’d get to thinking you like fucking people over. You trying to fuck me over? Is that it? Is that what you’re trying to do? Man, I do so much business I don’t have time for these bullshit little kid games. Either you buy the product or not, but don’t sit here, in Stevie’s fucking car, and tell me you didn’t bring the money. That’s disrespectful. Hey, what you smiling at?”

  Tony doesn’t tell him. In his head, he hears Clyde’s voice, telling him to breathe. Stay calm. The voice telling him don’t let Franklin get to you. No reason to get upset. He’s just blowing steam. It’s the stress. It’s nerves.