Brimstone

by Peter van der Walt

  Paul gave the fee request a thumbs up.

  “Thirdly, there are legal methods not associated with the legal profession. We can certainly provide some funding to all manner of strife and activism. We have some really nasty PR players that could have them facing Hollywood celebrities and school children, crying for an end to the carnage. While at the same time taking a lot of heat from Unions. If we opt to go this route, we will also establish a permanent task force designed to go after every infringement, or any kind, ever, anywhere, by Sutherland Ridgefield, its suppliers, partners, associated companies, affiliates and subsidiaries.”

  Paul shook his head. “Tom, you know I never like your black ops shit.”

  Tom shrugged. “Don’t like it much either. And the million and a half a year we’d pay, even if it’s just door number two, that bugs me. Still, that’s less than five percent of what the Estate makes in a year. Five percent is five percent. But if the fight is really worth it, we could sustain our attacks indefinitely. At some point, as God is my witness, Sutherland Ridgefield will compensate you for the desecration of your land.”

  Tom was personally offended, Paul could tell.

  “You know… I never knew any gay guys until I met Reuben. In him I discovered a better friend than I ever had. And you, you made him a very happy man. Every time I spoke to him, he would talk about you. And tell me what you meant to him. And it was simple, Paul. You meant everything to him. The world, he called it. You meant the world to him. And he knew, and as a local I knew, how much you loved those trees and those mountains. He was proud of you, the day we set up the Will. He loved that about you.”

  Paul shut his eyes. Watching Tom’s grief brought back his own.

  “One last thing and then I promise to stop talking. You have a good law firm here. And I say that not because I want to blow smoke up my own ass – but because this firm has deep, lasting commitments to you and the Estate. We know you, well. And our teams are instructed to behave in such a way that I personally make the calls. I understand you may not particularly feel like a long legal battle. You won’t even know it is there. I will keep you informed, but not overwhelmed. Enhancing your quality of life is a contractual deliverable that Reuben tied us into. And we, I, gladly went into as well. We will take care of this; you do not need to worry.”

  Paul poured each of them another cup of coffee with the pot Margaret left. It was their ritual, sitting like this, sipping coffee and talking business. And Paul trusted Tom. And Tom would make good on his promises.

  “Still though,” Paul said. “I don’t think it will at all be necessary to go in with too much momentum. I understand you know what you are doing very well, Tom. As a friend and as a professional. I’m sure you will be precise in your execution. It’s just… it all feels a little nuclear option to me. I’m pissed off about the damage to the land. I want it to be fixed. Let’s just start there and see how far we get. I want to clean up the damage right away. I’ll pay for it.”

  “The moment you have an invoice it limits our ability to collect.”

  “I understand that. I do. But I’ll pay for that then. Either way, I have to pay. I just want Sutherland Ridgefield to understand that doing this is not acceptable. Not to the community and not to individuals. And if they continue to behave this way, it will cost them. But I don’t really care if they give me money. I just don’t want them to do it again. I don’t feel like a fight with the region’s number one employer. Even if I don’t break a sweat. This town doesn’t need that. The land doesn’t need that.”

  Hamilton then leaned over and shook Paul’s hand. His manner was formal, but somewhat less assertive than before. “As always Paul, you have great insight. I will keep our guns ready just in case, sir. But I will proceed softly, as you request. In my experience, lessons aren’t really learned unless they carry a steep cost. Generally. In business and in life, I mean.”

  Paul actually gave Tom a hug. “Thank you, my friend. For looking after me.”

  Tom just hugged back.

  “I’ve got to get back to Fairbridge. So, I’m going to shoot back to the airport now.”

  Tom shook his head.

  “Paul. You really need to take a vacation. Not a hike either. Something at a hotel. Something where you get backrubs and spa treatments and cocktails. Why don’t we go to lunch, you can stay with me and my family this evening, and fly back in the morning?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Bullshit you can’t.”

  “I have someone waiting…”

  Tom looked surprised, even excited.

  When Paul understood the assumption Tom was making, he shook his head. “Not like that, no.”

  Tom seemed disappointed.

  Paul stood there for a moment, thinking of more reasons to leave.

  “You know what,” he told Tom. “Screw it. Give me a second.”

  Paul phoned Beth at the Cro’s Post. He told her to go home and put the phone redirect to his mobile.

  “Okay. I’m going to spend the night in Charlotte. Fine. I’ll fly back in the morning. But I’m not staying…”

  “The hell you are not. My wife and kids will never forgive me if they found out you stopped by and didn’t visit. Go down from here to the ground floor. There’s a really nice French place in the lobby. Get settled there and I’ll be down in a second.”

  Paul saluted, Hamilton laughed and Paul made his way back to the reception, where Margaret was sitting, alone this time.

  “Mr. Draker.”

  “Ma’am. It’s such a pleasure, as always.”

  Paul left the firm feeling taken care of.

  Even though he spent years at Reuben’s side, and Reuben trained him in how to move with society, and handle all kinds of sizes of money – and he had all the backup he could want reinforcing the scale of what Reuben left him…

  Something about it still felt unreal to him.

  He grew up a working-class kid in Southern Appalachia. He had little prospect of making it anywhere, let alone big.

  He joined the military because it provided structure he desperately needed. Things could have easily gone sideways for him back then, even with Tina’s help. He understood the value of every cent. And that’s why he never really got used to the idea of all this wealth. He didn’t think of it as his own. It was Reuben’s money. Reuben worked with money the way Paul tracked in the wilderness.

  Yet whenever he was around people who knew, they treated him with a kind of deference he found difficult to deal with.

  Yes sir this. Yes sir that.

  Reuben’s money was like an ever-present reminder that he himself was no longer here. The money made Paul feel lonely.

  But Tom had a nice family, and the Hamiltons were good people. It would be fun to get away for a bit.

  He was seated at a table. Moments later, Tom Hamilton joined him for lunch.

  Chapter 6

  Free Air

  So that’s how they kick you out the door.

  They let you know your brother died, oh, and by the way, you’re a real son of a bitch. That’s what they all do – part of their way of keeping you caged.

  Stepping into the parking lot, Brad stopped, closed his eyes, and drew deeply on the first free air he had for over three years. Three years and six months if you count all the time since his arrest. Since the cagers and the cages won a round. A big round, but still just once.

  Brad felt proud of his time inside. How he had developed. Perfected his skills, his knowledge. It was as if for 38 months all the energy and potential had been collecting, pushing up against the wall. Like too much water being held back by a dam wall.

  And this is what it felt like when the wall finally burst. And all that genius and power and charisma flooded out into the valleys below.

  He expected to be out of the place by 12:00. Stein made sure it was 12:38 by the time
his feet hit the pavement.

  Brad opened his eyes and looked at the parking lot. Not too many cars. He immediately saw the car his father sent. Even though he’d never seen the car before, it was exactly the kind of fleet vehicle his father would get. A 2019 Lincoln Continental, a very dark gray, parked beneath a line of trees that demarcated the public parking area.

  Paul walked towards it and he could see movement behind the driver’s side, with one of those hats that his father made the drivers wear.

  He stood behind the trunk and waited for it to open. Dropping his bag and his jacket into the trunk, Brad slammed it shut a little loudly – so whichever fucking driver they sent would get the message that it was not a good idea to let Brad wait.

  That’s the thing with staff. You had to show them who’s boss. Like dogs, they responded well to structure, and clear hierarchies.

  Then he went to the passenger side, recognizing the old Mexican who was one of his father’s longest-serving employees before he even slumped in the seat and shut the door, more softly than he slammed the trunk but only slightly.

  The old man had dark eyes and a very dark, creased skin. Since Brad had last seen him, quite a bit of gray hair had showed up in the short beard he kept neatly trimmed.

  “Gustavo, it’s good to see you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jensen,” Gustavo answered without skipping a beat. His voice was completely flat, completely official, cold and professional. He kept his eyes in front of him, even though he wasn’t driving – looking at nothing but the tree line.

  Brad looked around the interior of the car. Brand new, nice enough. He rocked backward and forward in the seat. It was comfortable. Bet this baby could go fast.

  Brad studied Gustavo’s profile – searching for a hint of emotion, wanting that wall of detached and well-trained manner to show a crack, an opening.

  He knew Gustavo hated his guts. He had since Brad was very young. But he never let it show, because his job was all he had. Not just an income, but his very presence in the country. It’s part of why Brad’s father picked him. You get an illegal like that, and you could keep them loyal even after they got the little card that said they could stay.

  Back in the day, Gustavo was assigned to all the kids.

  He would drop them off at school, take the girls to ballet classes or social events. Gustavo drove the Jensen children everywhere they needed to go, first five days a week and then six days a week.

  He disliked Brad because he didn’t have the brain capacity to enjoy experiments and caught him exploring the ideas of life and death when he was thirteen.

  Brad caught a neighbor’s kitten and tied it in a pillowcase, which he hung from a tree. He then beat it to death with a stick – until the soggy bloody pillowcase dripped blood to the ground.

  He was never charismatic and ongoing. Never showed too much emotion, but he was mild and gentle with all three of the children.

  Yet after that day Gustavo never smiled around Brad again. In fact, he stopped showing any emotion at all.

  It had been a mission for Brad to get something out of him ever since that day. But so far, no luck. Maybe today was different. It must have been a crappy job to be assigned, to go pick up the kid he didn’t like, at prison. Quite a drive and a State line away.

  But Mexicans like Gustavo were mules.

  They did what they were told.

  Gustavo sat stone faced. There was no hint of any emotion, not in his posture, his eyes, or his lips.

  “So?” Brad asked, his tone jovial, even playful. “All the way from Rhode Island?”

  “Yes, Mr. Jensen.”

  That was typical of Gustavo. The rapid answers.

  “And now? Back to Providence?”

  Gustavo kept the blank expression, but he did turn to Brad, and motioned to the back seat. Brad saw an overstuffed white envelope lying there. Not the safest place to keep it.

  Gustavo revealed nothing, keeping his face perfectly numb.

  “Mr. Jensen, he gave me the envelope on the back seat. It has money for you. He also say I drive you anywhere you want to go. But not to Rhode Island. Mr. Jensen he say he have enough. Mr. Jensen he say you don’t come home.”

  That was the game, right? Stay passive, stay non-threatening, but dish out hits. A perfect little bitch. Follow orders and keep his mouth shut – all the while with thoughts running in his head. Sizing Brad up. Relishing any punishment he was just following orders to dish out.

  Brad felt the anger push up all the way from the pit of his stomach.

  He felt that so often in the past few years. But inside, he controlled it by powerfully and brilliantly directing his focus, laser-like, elsewhere. You couldn’t enjoy anger in Devens. Because in Devens, someone was always watching.

  But now Brad allowed the anger to fill him, to wash over him.

  It started with a ripple in the pit of the stomach, but soon turned into a warm, persistent tide, beating throughout his entire being.

  It was so typically fucking self-righteous of the old man, too. Pretending that Brad made such a terrible mistake, when he himself couldn’t keep it in his pants. He went to Fairbridge on a business trip, after all. A married man. But he left a kid behind with some barefoot hill folk.

  And then, taking the kid in. Like he had a conscience attack.

  Only to treat him with a kind of distant contempt.

  Brad didn’t blame his father for fucking some barefoot white trash bitch in heat. Brad understood the urge.

  Someone your equal, always have demands. They play games. They want you to understand this, or know that. They demand respect.

  But someone beneath you? They were the best. You could fuck them as hard as you wanted, when you wanted. You could shove bottles in them, slap them, spit on them. Kick them in the pussy. Anything you wanted.

  And those of them that fucked you back… well… there was something about blue collar types that made them fuck better than rich folks. A desperation in their movements. Like they were riding their ticket out, or something. The had some energy.

  Brad understood his father and did not judge him.

  The least the old man could do was extend him the same courtesy.

  Sending the Mexican to do his dirty work. Breaking the news through an intermediary. And then handing him cash in an envelope as if he could purchase away Telling the Mexican not to bring him home. Sending cash in an envelope as if he could pay away the fact that he had a son – he made him – and now had to deal with him. Forever.

  The old man was big on trying to make statements like that.

  He’d come around.

  Brad did his best to mock Gustavo’s accent. “He say I don’t come home, huh?”

  Nothing. Not a hint. Just an immediate “Yessir.”

  Brad reached into the back seat, taking hold of the envelope. He lifted it a few times, bulging his biceps as he did. Whatever his father gave him would be more than Gustavo got paid in a month.

  He brought the envelope to his lap and peeked inside. Little rolls of cash tied up with elastic bands, with a note lying on top.

  Brad lifted the note, reading it out loud to Gustavo, putting on a sarcastic and heavy Mexican accent.

  “Dear Brad. Here is twelve thousand dollars to help you get back on your feet. Do with it what you will. But this is it. We don’t want you to come around the house, we don’t want any phone calls. We’ve tried everything with you. I am sorry the circumstances of your birth were hard to accept. I am sorry I could not be a better man. But I have two other kids, a family and a business – and I just can’t afford to lose everything else because of how you behave. Please. Jensen.”

  Brad crumpled it into a tight ball with his fist. “What do you think, Gustavo? Will he pussy out? I bet he’ll pussy out. I think he’ll be giving me anything I ask for in no time at all.”

 
; Brad uncrumpled the note, tore it up, held it like the shit it was and shoved it into Gustavo’s face. “Well, Gustavo, what do you think of that?”

  “Yessir,” Gustavo answered, and for just a second, Brad thought he could see pleasure flash behind those dark little beady eyes of his.

  “No, Gustavo,” Brad spat, like he was talking to a three-year-old. “‘Yessir’ is the incorrect answer. I ask you what you think, not if you do. You think after all these years you’d understand the fucking language.”

  Very slight narrowing of the eyelids. Something most people would not even detect.

  It would seem the fucking help wanted to test Brad’s mettle.

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  His clipped answers were starting to annoy Brad. “No, you don’t. You don’t know anything, do you? And, Gustavo, do you know why that is?”

  “No sir.”

  “Tell you what. Do something useful, open the fucking trunk while you think about it.”

  Brad went to get his jacket, then sat back down, starting to stuff the rolls of money into every pocket he had.

  “Any thoughts yet, about that?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “You don’t know if you have any thoughts about that? Fucking hell, you are stupid, aren’t you?”

  Brad squeezed Gustavo’s cheek. He didn’t wince, but he moved away from Brad’s hand.

  “Gustavo, can you say ‘ignorant immigrant’?”

  Gustavo said nothing, and shook his head.

  “C’mon. Say: ‘Ignorant immigrant’.”