Free Man in the Middle by Ken Morris Page A

arrived at this place and took in its unimaginable wealth, he felt humbled.
    Knocking, Carlos pointed his face at the camera mounted just inside the courtyard. The guard, already alerted by those at the front entrance, verified Carlos’ identity and buzzed him into the patio. A noisy fountain, spewing water from the mouths of posed statuettes—naked cupid-like creatures with tiny penises—greeted him as he stepped toward her house.
    He continued along an open-air esplanade lined with red tile and adobe archways. Above him, additional soldiers with high-powered weapons nodded in deference to him—as an important man, they respected him.
    Carlos turned, went up a flight of stairs, and down a second open walkway. A sea breeze, swirling off complex architectural angles, flowed through his slicked-back hair, parted with a razor’s edge on his right side— an extension of the long mound of tissue distorting his face.
    He signed the Catholic cross against his chest, whispered the words of the Holy Trinity, and knocked.
    A half-second later, she said, “Enter.”

    Carlos stood just inside the office door and waited. “We have three hundred million set up with a two-trade,” Sarah Guzman said into the phone. “Second broker-bank is First Cayman. They have booked a gain of three ten, looking to clear ten net of the transaction. Understood and acceptable.”
    Sarah listened to the voice on the other end, then said, “Yes. I am aware the Thai Baht declined eight percent last night. I agree. That is a good spot to book gains and build up the account value. Howard, I leave those details to you.”
    Sarah glanced over the top of her reading glasses at Carlos. She liked the boy and admired his intensity. He was her husband’s twenty-eight year-old nephew, and one of several bright family members she retained after Enriqué Guzman had died three years ago. Short at under five-foot-seven, Carlos had pockmarked and oily skin but a lean, strong body. Because of his looks, he became her husband’s least favorite relative—another reason for her deep affection.
    Sarah sat behind a hand-carved mesquite desk. In a corner, an arched adobe fireplace showcased a bonfire that roasted every corner of her thousand square foot office. Fur area rugs—glass-eyed brown bear and mountain lion—warmed the Spanish tiles beneath an umbrella of oak beams crisscrossing a peeked ceiling. She noted the raised tissue zippering across Carlos’ right temple and down his cheek, chin, and neck—the result of a knife-fight at the age of twelve. The boy received a disfigurement, but his two attackers had landed in paupers’ graves. Since that day, Carlos had no annoying second thoughts when doing whatever she found necessary to maintain order.
    He removed his aviator sunglasses and slid them into a breast pocket.
    Once she hung up, Sarah said, “That was Howard Muller. We have moved another four hundred from our Tijuana friends to our investment partners.”
    Carlos only nodded. Sarah understood he disliked Muller. So did she, but, to her, likes and dislikes had nothing to do with business. She hoped the tension between these men never boiled over. It would be such an unfortunate mess.
    “I understand that the aftermath of the Cannodine and Drucker affair has been satisfactory,” she said.
    “ Si, señora. We have laid those matters to rest.”
    “Good.” The only thing Sarah regretted about that unfortunate affair had been the necessity of sacrificing the man calling himself Zerets. On several occasions in the past, he had proven an asset. But, better than anyone, she understood unpleasant choices sometimes had to be made for the long-run good. Still, she grew angry when slip-ups demanded such sacrifice.
    “Now,” she continued, shaking free of these thoughts, “you indicated another matter required my attention.”
    “Regretfully, yes. Fernando Guzman.”
    “My husband’s brother? He is causing problems again?”
    “ Si. He tells the family