Refined!

Chapter 1

Carson Uvela was frantic. The Bureau had implemented a strict inventory policy only months before in an effort to cut costs. After all, they weren’t the most popular government agency recently. The Director demanded that every stick of government-issued paraphernalia be accounted for. That meant every FBI jacket, every weapon, every stinkin’ jar of white-out. And, more important to Carson, every pair of handcuffs. Each pair had a serial number and, of course, a name that corresponded to it.
The handcuffs.
It was only a matter of hours until Magnusson would know that the cuffs on the cave floor in Steamboat Springs were Carson’s. And more condemningly from the DNA testing that was sure to come, that they had been on Wassir’s wrists.
So this is how my career is going to end! The man couldn’t stop pacing back and forth on the spacious living room carpet.
“You’re going to wear out that carpet if you don’t stop pacing!” Maria shouted angrily from the other room.
Carson barely heard her. Carpets can be renewed. FBI traitors cannot.
Why he had ever gotten involved with Holcomb was now a moot question. The fact was he had gotten involved. And he knew why. Addiction. He was addicted to the ponies. He hated his job, always having to answer to Magnusson. He was always the one who got the blame, the write-up, the one who got read the riot act. It had been by sheer grit and determination that he’d made the rank of Special Agent in Charge. But SAIC’s were a dime a dozen, not paid well at all, and, besides, they took all the guff. He’d had enough. He wanted out.
But that took money. Money he didn’t have.
Then one day that all changed. Shortly before their shift changed, a group of agents from the field office, on a lark, went to the track and Carson joined them. He won more in one day than he made in a month! He returned and won again. And yet again. This was a snap! Why hadn’t he thought of this before? In the ensuing months, he’d asked the staff if they wanted to join him for a return visit, but more and more they shied away. Often Carson caught glimpses of some of his subordinates rolling their eyes at one another when he talked about his winnings.
But then the winnings stopped. And the more he invested, the larger the hole. Without Maria’s knowledge he’d hocked just about everything they owned. He sold his golf clubs, he pawned his wristwatch, he even bartered away some of his suits.
That’s when he met Holcomb.
The man was pleasant enough. And he liked to gamble as much as Carson. They struck up a friendship. Many evenings they’d have a drink or two at the track lounge where Holcomb would regale Carson with some of his military exploits in years past.
One day, Carson was edgier than ever. His hands shook, his eyes twitched, he kept getting drinks of water. Everett knew the signs and closed in for the beginning of the kill.
“You look like you could use a strong arm to lean on, my friend,” Everett intoned kindly as they met at the track gate.
“More than an arm, I’m afraid,” responded Carson.
“Hey, if you’re tight on funds, let me loan you some bucks. I have a sweet old aunt who left me more money than I know what to do with. Here take this.” And Everett handed Carson a set of five bills each with a picture of Benjamin Franklin on them.
“No way, man! I can’t take this!” Carson said as he started to hand the money back.
“What are friends for? Please take it. It will make my day, trust me. Call it an investment,” Holcomb responded with a smile.
That began a series of “bail-outs” that joined both men at the hip.
“Do you realize that as an FBI agent, I’m violating company policy, if not the law, by receiving money from you?”
“No!” Holcomb lied. “How can that be? I’m just a guy loaning some money to his friend.”
“Well, actually, it wouldn’t be anything more than that if I weren’t an FBI agent. But as it is, I’m not permitted to put myself at the mercy of anyone who could ‘use’ the relationship to influence my position.”
“Well you certainly don’t have to worry about that,” Everett responded.
And so the indebtedness mounted. First it was small payments – money for the electric bill, money for his daughter’s braces, dues to stay current with the Connecticut bar association. But then the hole got larger. Mortgage payments, car payments, tuition for his son’s college…all at Holcomb’s largesse.
Then one day, Carson, as was his pattern, asked Everett for a “loan” of $3,000 to fix the air conditioning system in his home.
“Sure, no problem,” came Everett’s reply as he got out his check book. But this time, before he wrote the check, he looked up and said, “Carson, I need a favor. I need you to get me the record of my investigation in my application to join the FBI. I’ve talked to you before how I was turned down. I want to know who did the investigation and what was in that report.”
Carson blanched. Blood drained from his face. “Everett, you know I can’t do that! That’s illegal. And besides, I don’t think I could ever get my hands on that report.”
“Well then, I’m sorry but after all I’ve done for you, if you can’t do this one little favor, then it shows me that our friendship is strictly one-sided. And Carson, I don’t like one-sided friendships.”
Carson wrestled with the decision for days and finally got the record. From that day forward, the noose was set and Everett began drawing it tighter and tighter.
The day of reckoning came when Maria couldn’t find her engagement ring. She put two and two together and came down on Carson like a load of manure. It wasn’t pleasant in the Uvela household that day and the marriage quickly began to disintegrate.

**********
“Wudgeya do this time, Carse?” Maria shouted sarcastically now in the kitchen. “Sell your mother?”
As the woman came around the corner into the living room expecting a smart retort or the usual scratch-your-eyes-out cat fight, she was stopped dead in her tracks by what met her vision. There was her husband, kneeling at the footstool of the Lazy-boy, hands folded, tears streaming down his cheeks, mumbling something apparently to the Almighty.
Without thinking, all the meanness and pain evaporated and Maria flew to her husband’s side. “What is it, Carse? What have you done? Whatever it is we can work it out. We can get the money even if we have to sell the house. We –“
“Stop it, Maria! Stop it! It’s too late! I’ve gone too far this time! I’m sorry.” And with that Carson rushed out of the house.