This one is interesting because it’s a short story and a prequel and a character study. It was never destined to be published. During my MFA, I wrote a novel. I still love that novel and would like to find a home for it some day (after I completely gut it and rewrite it). But one of the things I wanted to do while editing that novel was understand my characters better.
So, I wrote a prequel. It’s mostly a self-contained story, but it does hint at the backstory of the characters in the novel. Because it was never meant to be published, it did not go through multiple rounds of edits. It’s not my cleanest writing.
But I want to share behind-the-curtains types stories alongside more polished ones. This is a special one because it’s not my normal modern crime story. It’s historical, set in the middle of prohibition in Southern Arizona.
Hope you enjoy!
Diminishing Returns
Finnegan McGrath saw the bulge of a gun beneath Reynato’s blazer. Careless concealment by a man not accustomed to carrying such a weapon. As Reynato approached, Finnegan smiled, turned to his son, and said, “Abel, no matter what, we’ve got to make it to the ballroom at the hotel.”
“What does that—”
“My friend, how are you?” Finnegan said to Reynato, standing and extending his hand.
The two men shook, Finnegan’s smile never wavering despite the heat from the sun and the heat along the back of his neck from anger. This man was his partner. For the last two years, Finnegan and Reynato had built quite the business under the McGrath-Medina Shipping Company name. And yet, he came here armed.
“It seems to me your accent fades more and more every time I see you,” Reynato said.
Finnegan wouldn’t lose his accent, and he didn’t want to. It was as much a part of him as Ireland was. But Reynato liked to make small talk, liked to say things that weren’t true in an effort to force your guard down. It’s why Finnegan was drawn to him when searching for a partner two years ago. When he and his sons first arrived in Arizona, he had three requirements for a business partner:
Someone who was already running booze, someone who needed an infusion of cash, and someone who could talk a priest into a whorehouse.
Finnegan sat back down and motioned to the chair across from him and Abel. “Have a seat. Cool down before we go to our meeting.”
Reynato took his seat, careful not to let his blazer hug too close to his chest. He looked across the table, lifted the gaucho from his head and placed it upside down on the table. Finnegan watched the man look around the restaurant. It was all but empty, and that was to be expected. A midday trip out to a restaurant was just not as entertaining as it had been a few years before. What the country had failed to realize when Prohibition was enacted was that people left their homes for liquid socialization. Take that away, and they preferred confinement.
Reynato smiled at Abel. “Your son is ready to join the family business, no?”
“I prefer to stay away from business of any sort,” Abel said.
Finnegan patted his son’s shoulder. “And yet, he’s so good at it. Which is why he’s here today. To help us.”
“This meeting, it is for expansion?”
Finnegan nodded. “That’s right. We’ve come far, but now it’s time to run this operation from New Mexico to California. The border will be ours.”
“Bueno.” Reynato smiled. “But why the sudden change?”
“Do you know what’s made us so successful?”
“I believe it was all about timing, no?”
Finnegan looked at Abel, smiled, nodded. Abel straightened in his chair and said, “It’s the product Señor Medina. You and my father distribute something others don’t.”
“Mezcal?”
Finnegan nodded. “Let the Yankees back east move the whiskey. What we have, what you gave us access to, is the best mezcal in the country.”
“Si, and it comes at a cost to us. Our drivers go for three days just to get it from Oaxaca to the border.”
“And that cost is passed along to our all-too-eager clients.” Finnegan turned to Abel. “Isn’t that right?”
“It is, and people would pay more. You and my father offer a boutique operation.”
Reynato laughed, pressed down the edges of his mustache. “You two are funny. If we are boutique, how is it that such an expansion as the one you propose might come to pass?”
“That is what we will be discovering in our meeting at the hotel.” Finnegan reached into his jacket, and Reynato nearly jumped out of his seat. Finnegan smiled and pulled out a flask. “First, a drink to our continued success.”
Reynato took a breath, smiled. “You know, I remember coming here with my father. You could drink to anything then without fear of jail.”
Finnegan smiled and took a drink, replacing the cap when he was done. “Well, we shall drink without fear this afternoon, my friend.”
He passed the flask to Reynato. Reynato unscrewed the lid, smelled the liquor inside, and sighed. “We do have the best stuff, don’t we?”
Finnegan watched Reynato take a sip then pass the flask back, and he thought about the operation. As it was when the McGrath family arrived to Arizona, Reynato’s business would not have survived. He was paying too much for transportation. His storage location just across the border in Agua Prieta was far from secure. And while Reynato had been able to sell mezcal to people more accustomed to tequila, he was not able to sell it to the right people. Finnegan, and in part, Abel, changed that.
“Shall we head over?” Finnegan said, rising.
Abel and Reynato rose as well. Finnegan watched Reynato’s hands, watched his blazer. Any indication that the fucking gun was coming out, and he’d use the tables as protection. But Reynato turned and walked toward the exit. Finnegan looked at Abel—a smart kid, a helpful kid, but too idealistic. He motioned for Abel to go ahead of him, putting at least one person between Reynato’s gun and Finnegan’s chest.
His son hadn’t even wanted to make the move to Arizona. When the tobacco business dried up in Pennsylvania, Abel refused to travel in search of what he called “illegal commerce.” Finnegan’s son would prefer an education at a university over distribution of the next vice. But what Abel never understood was that denying a man’s desires was the only truly illegal action humans could take. Finnegan had learned this long ago from his own father back in Ireland. He’d tried to pass along the knowledge to his sons, but it failed to sink in with Abel. At least he had Braden and Charlie.
Finnegan, Abel, and Reynato exited the restaurant and stepped into the dusty street under a one-hundred-degree sun. The hotel, fortunately, was just across the road.
If all had gone well, Finnegan’s oldest son, Charlie, would have already crossed into Agua Prieta. He was to wait until exactly two o’clock. And Braden, he had been in Mexico for a week now, stacks of cash in hand.
“Who, exactly, are we meeting with?” Reynato said, turning around and stopping in the middle of the road.
“Who do we always speak with, Rey?”
Reynato smiled. “Politicians, Finn, pinche políticos.”
Abel pointed toward the entrance to the Bisbee Grand Hotel and guided Reynato across the road. Finnegan and his boys had been renting two suites in the hotel for the past two years. An experiment of sorts, but it was time to put down roots. To become real Arizona cowboys.
Finnegan almost laughed to himself. He and his boys might soon own cows and horses, but they would never be cowboys. They were businessmen, and it was time Finnegan cut the deals he’d always intended on cutting when he came west.
Inside the hotel, Finnegan nodded to the concierge, then pointed Reynato and Abel toward large, wooden double-doors beyond the lobby. Abel opened the doors and allowed Reynato to enter first. Finnegan watched his business partner brush his hand along the bulge in his blazer before entering. Abel and Finnegan followed, allowing the doors to shut behind them.
“Where is everyone?” Reynato said, his voice higher and faster than Finnegan could ever remember it in all their dealings.
“Late, as we might expect.”
Finnegan sat on one of the sofas in the room, pulling the flask from his jacket. He took a sip while Reynato paced. Abel stood near the door until Finnegan addressed them both.
“The two of you are making me nervous. Sit down.”
Abel came across the room and sat on the sofa across from Finnegan. Reynato sat next to Abel.
“Are you going to tell me what to expect of this meeting?” Reynato asked.
Finnegan took another sip from his flask, replaced the lid, then put the flask away. “Of course. Abel, he’s the real economics genius, so I’ll let him explain.”
Reynato shifted in his seat to face Abel, pushed his hat back a little further on his head.
“This is simple economics, Señor Medina. You are facing the law of diminishing returns.”
“¿Vale, cómo?”
“You and my father have been increasing the number of people working for you. More people may mean more production, but in most cases, it just means more costs. Protection, production, distribution, it all adds up. And your margins are down significantly since my father made his initial investment.”
Reynato shifted again in his seat. He looked as if he might stand, but he took a breath and looked at Finnegan. “What is this?”
“It is business, Reynato.”
Reynato nodded for a moment. “So you propose expansion—more cost—to fix our problems?”
“It could—”
“No, Finnegan,” Reynato said, standing. He pulled the gun from his blazer and pointed it first at Finnegan, then at Abel, then back to Finnegan. “I know what this is.”
Make sure to come back next week for the conclusion!