Retribution

by Michael Byars Lewis

  “Bethany’s got nice tits,” Ben slurred. Bethany was Jason’s wife.

  “Thanks.”

  “I hope she don’t show her tits like Tiffany does.”

  “Me too.” That one hurt. Jason and Bethany had been married less than a year. She quit school after her freshman year to model and act full time, but after a year, her prospects dried up. She took a job as a waitress at a nightclub in Baton Rouge. Jason didn’t like the situation at all.

  “My face hurts,” Ben said.

  “Yeah, that asshole blind-sided you. Your face is starting to swell.”

  “See, that’s why I needed a two-week buffer.”

  Jason chuckled. “We need to get our asses to pilot training, where it’s safer.”

  3

  June 2, 1994

  * * *

  Sterling MacIntosh waltzed through the marble-floored foyer straight back to the terrazzo covered pool deck. His crisp seer-sucker suit swished with each step. The temperature rose rapidly once he left the confines of the Highland Park mansion for the patio and he tugged at his collar. Dimly lit in-ground lamps outlined the pool deck, and the moon smiled a dew-gleam blue, surrounded by pulsing stars, scattered like moon dust across the sky. Soft background music flowed over hidden speakers, interrupted by the occasional bug whose life ended in the zapper with a loud sizzle. The water glistened a royal blue as the surface rippled like diamonds on display from the cascading sheet of silver silk of the rock landscaped waterfall.

  He didn't want to make a social call, and he was furious that he had to walk all the way through the house to the back patio. Next to the pool, Senator Jonathan Bowman relaxed in a chair, a cigar in one hand, a bourbon in the other.

  “It’s hot as hell out here,” Sterling said, tugging lightly at his collar. The pale-yellow bow-tie remained firmly in place.

  “I don’t like to smoke inside. Makes the house smell.”

  “Buy an air filter, Jonathan.”

  “Those don’t work.”

  “Bullshit. But I didn’t come over here at ten in the evening to teach you how to keep your house smelling fresh.”

  “What can I do for you, Sterling?”

  Damn politicians. Once they announce they want to be president, they immediately start to believe their own press.

  “I wanted to clarify my position on the family,” Sterling said.

  “You mean, ‘my family’?”

  “Yes, you know damn well who I mean.”

  “I’m not sure I understand your reason for keeping my past a secret.”

  Sterling clenched his teeth. “I’ve told you before, Bill Clinton’s election changed things. Americans want a president who is hip and cool. They care more about having someone in office they’d like to have a beer with rather than someone who can stop the Russians from invading Europe.”

  “What does my family have to do with that?”

  “They don’t, that’s the whole point. Clinton has a reputation of being a ladies man. The White House hasn’t seen one like that since Kennedy was banging bimbo’s in the Lincoln bedroom.”

  “That’s why he’ll lose.”

  “No, it’s exactly why he’ll win. Unless he’s countered with a better version of himself.”

  “Me.”

  “Precisely,” Sterling said as a buxom brunette brandishing a bathrobe bounced by. She walked to Bowman and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Let us chat for a moment, my dear,” Bowman said. The woman nodded and untied her robe, revealing she wore nothing underneath. She smiled at Sterling, stepped into the pool, and swam to the other end.

  Sterling continued. “Your image is what will win you the presidency. You’ve got experience in both the House and the Senate. You’re a made for TV president. Clinton played the saxophone on Arsenio Hall, hell you played the guitar on Letterman. You’re a bachelor. Which is fantastic. But we want to ensure that you are the eternal bachelor. The fact that you’re a divorcee muddles the picture.”

  “But I got divorced over twenty years ago for Christ’s sake.”

  “You did. And how does that make you look? A young lawyer abandons his pregnant wife to chase his dream of being a politician. It doesn’t read well in the flyover states.”

  “It wasn’t like that,” Bowman said.

  “I’m aware of that. But do you think that the Democrat’s spin machine cares? They would eat this up.”

  “But we can use it to our advantage. My son wrote me a letter. He wants to meet me. . . begin a relationship. He’s a lieutenant in the Air Force now. He asked me to go to his commissioning. That would have played great with my military base.”

  Sterling sighed. “You don’t need to play to your military base, Jonathan. You have their votes. You need to steal some of Bill’s votes. And you do that by being a cleaner, more honest, better version of Bill. Not by taking your long-lost son fishing.”

  “I’m still convinced having my son seen on the campaign trail would help. Plus, his wife is gorgeous. Chip off the old block.”

  The tips of his fingers met and rested against his chin as he looked down. His white bucks appeared light blue in the shimmering illumination from the pool.

  “Jonathan. Have I not steered your campaigns? Do you not trust me to make the right decisions?”

  “Don’t be foolish, Sterling. Of course, I do.”

  “Then take notice. If word gets out about your ex-wife and son, your days in politics are over.”

  "That's a little melodramatic, don't you think?"

  “No.” The answer, crisp and short.

  Bowman had a sheepish expression on his face and glanced over his shoulder for the brunette, who swam under the waterfall across the pool.

  “Why didn’t you contact me about your friends at Century Avionics?” Sterling changed the subject. His voice sharp and commanding.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’ve been in touch with you.”

  “Yes,” Bowman stammered. “I was going to tell you.”

  “Well, you waited too long. The idiots contacted me.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Don’t worry, it’s taken care of.”

  “Y-you mean—”

  "I mean, I paid them off. What, do you think I had them ‘eliminated'?"

  Bowman didn’t respond.

  "Jonathan, I appreciate your enthusiasm for this new phase in your life. Not many men, throughout the course of history, have this opportunity. But, you must trust me on this. And you've got to do what I say."

  “I understand.”

  “Good. Then I don’t want to hear any more talk about a reunion with Jason Conrad.”

  “Okay.” Bowman’s response dripped with disappointment.

  “I’ll let myself out, Jonathan. You don’t stay up too late, you’ve got the television interview at lunch with CNN.”

  Sterling strutted back into the house, then paused to watch Bowman strip off his robe and jump in the pool with the brunette. A subtle smile formed on his face. If Bowman does what he tells him, he would win the presidency. And Sterling would be poised to increase his fortune exponentially. But it was about more than that. Having Jonathan Bowman in the White House would give him power. So much power. He would have access to . . . everything.

  In the driveway, his assistant David stood by the car.

  “David, I told you to remain in the car. It’s too hot out here.”

  “No problem, sir,” David said as he opened the door for Sterling to climb in. “I felt better standing outside.”

  David climbed behind the wheel and backed the car out of the cobblestone driveway.

  “Where to sir?”

  “Love Field,” Sterling replied. “Tell the boys to pre-flight the plane. We’re going to New Orleans. I’ve got to pay someone a visit tomorrow.”

  4

  June 2, 1994

  * * *

  Philip Ashford paced on the empty sidewalk. Each step splashed in the puddles formed on the imperfect walkw
ay. Pooled water dripped from the overhang along his path, despite the fact the storm stopped over fifteen minutes ago. Summer in New York City can be miserable. The rain, however, was refreshing. It washed away the stench that heat brings to the concrete jungle.

  Journalism is dead, he thought. Hell, for that matter, morality is dead. At what point did mankind forsake its own well-being for personal gain? Since the beginning, of course.

  His pants hung loosely on his gaunt hips, and he cinched another notch on his belt. Periodically, he glanced at his Rolex, hoping time would slow, while he waited for the two men. Their arrogance was evident, they were almost an hour late. His schedule was tight, his plane from JFK leaves in three hours. He had invested everything on this trip. It was a flight he couldn't afford to miss.

  He sat in Ray’s Pizzeria, near 42nd and 8th, while it rained and ordered a slice and a beer. It was the real Ray’s Pizzeria, they claimed. Not one of the thirty or so Ray’s around the city. The walls were covered with pictures of yesteryear: boxers, ballplayers, celebrities, and simple, everyday people. Joyous, hardworking men and women. A sliver of a symbol of what New York once was. Of what America once was.

  He would normally take a Seroquel and a beer to keep himself relaxed. And to keep the voices away. His doctor didn't know whether he was borderline schizophrenic or bipolar when he described what was happening, so he prescribed the Seroquel. It was supposed to help him sleep, which it did. A little. It made the voices go away sometimes but blurred his vision and made him dizzy. A tradeoff that seemed to have little positive impact. He didn't want the Seroquel now, the voices needed to be in control.

  The pitter-pattering of the runoff against the overhang reminded him the environment would be changing soon. The city was more tolerable when it rained, he thought. The sounds, the crowds, the overall tension and stress of the city seemed to melt away. He no longer had a stomach for such things. But he'd stomach it today, for the men he waited to meet.

  The two men were independent journalists: Kevin Underhill, a reporter; and Sven Uugernst, the cameraman. These two men reported the initial surge in the Rwandan massacre that started in April and still occurred to this day.

  The reporter and cameraman were the reason he was here.

  Fifteen more minutes passed before a Yellow Cab pulled to the side of the road, and two men stepped out. Both wore Columbia rain-jackets in earth-tone colors.

  “Underhill and Uugernst?” Ashford said.

  “Yes,” Underhill replied. Ashford had detailed biographies on the two men. He knew exactly who he was dealing with.

  “I’m familiar with your coverage of the Rwandan uprising. My company has hired a producer who wants your side of the story.”

  Underhill was the first to speak again. “We don’t have a side. We’re journalists.”

  “No offense,” Ashford said. “My . . . employer would like to get copies of your video.”

  “We sold most of it to NBC already,” Sven said.

  “Not for what we are willing to pay,” Ashford said to the Scandinavian blonde.

  Underhill paused when he looked at Ashford. “What are you willing to pay?”

  “My client is aware that while you sold NBC the broadcast rights, you still have the rights for a film or documentary, correct?”

  The two men glanced at each other and smiled.

  "Yes," Underhill said. "We do, indeed."

  “We would like to make an offer for a three-part documentary. We’ll pay you five hundred thousand up front to write, produce, and edit this film. You’ll stand to receive a significant amount from advertising as well. Then there’s always the residuals, VHS sales, you know.”

  The two men stood in awe, their jaws relaxed, mouths open.

  “Is this something you might be interested in?”

  “Hell, yes,” Underhill said.

  Ashford smiled. “Standing on 8th Avenue is normally not somewhere I do business. Do you mind if we go to my client’s office? It’s just down 43rd Street on the west side. We can work out the particulars when we get there. Plus, the drinks are free.”

  “Lead the way,” Sven said. The two beamed and followed Ashford up 8th Avenue and left on 43rd Street.

  Ashford paused in front of the alley, his body shaking. Tears seeped from his eyes. Looking down the dark alley, his breathing came in large gasps. His mind wandered. Stay focused, he told himself. Don’t fight it. He had worked so hard, so long, just to get to this point. Don’t blow it now.

  “Fella. Are you okay?”

  Ashford wiped his eyes and looked down at the man’s hand touching his arm. It was the Scandinavian. “Y-yes. I-I’m fine. T-this has been an enormous undertaking.”

  “You’re kind of spooking me, pal,” Underhill said.

  Ashford got his breathing under control. “Sorry. Tonight’s a big deal for me. Kind of nervous, I guess.”

  Underhill nodded, looking more aggravated than sympathetic. “It sounds like a big deal for us, too.”

  “We’re going to go in the back way,” Ashford said, thumbing toward the alley. “They don’t want you seen until the deal is signed.”

  “I don’t get it,” Underhill said.

  “Our competition might outbid us if they knew we were buying your story.”

  Underhill paused. “Competition?”

  Ashford began walking deeper into the alley. “Is this going to be a problem?”

  “Well,” Underhill analyzed his options. “We have the right to negotiate with other companies.”

  Ashford stopped. “Yes. Yes, you do.” He turned and looked at the two men. “Perhaps this was a mistake. Good day gentlemen.”

  Ashford brushed passed them and began to walk back toward 8th Avenue.

  “Wait,” Sven said.

  Ashford turned; the two journalists whispered to each other.

  “I think we’ve got a deal,” Underhill said. It was a sheepish statement, either out of necessity or embarrassment.

  It was inevitable. Ashford checked his watch, grinned, and approached them. He patted them on the back and flashed the phoniest smile he had. His right hand reached in his breast pocket and retrieved three mini-bottles of Jack Daniels; the kind served on airliners. He looked at the labels, then handed one to each of them.

  “I know it’s tacky, but it’s free. A toast.” Ashford raised his mini-bottle, chugged it, and stepped into the alley. The whiskey calmed his nerves. He wished he’d drank it sooner. The voices did too.

  The two reporters shook their heads in disbelief. They downed the booze and threw the bottles to the ground.

  “Follow me.”

  Ashford walked down the alley, took a left, then a right.

  He reached a dead end and turned to face the two men.

  “What the hell—are you lost?” Underhill said.

  “I don’t feel so well,” Sven said, looking at his partner.

  Underhill twitched. Sven doubled over and fell against the wall. Underhill joined him right after. The two men's body's ceased functioning as they leaned against the wall. Their legs gave out, and they slid to the ground.

  The tetrodotoxin he placed in their bottles shut down their central nervous systems, which basically shut down everything else. The toxin prevents the nervous system from transmitting messages; therefore, the muscles are unable to respond to nervous stimulation. They couldn't move, couldn't speak; they were helpless.

  Helpless like his family was two months ago.

  Philip Ashford reached in his overcoat and pulled out a machete he’d bought at an Army/Navy Surplus store outside the city. The sharp blade appeared gray and lifeless in the misty alley. Again, he checked his watch. Two and a half hours until his plane left. He could make it.

  5

  June 3, 1994

  * * *

  Alicia Conrad stepped into the courtyard off Royal Street and locked the cast-iron gate behind her. She strolled across the faded red brick patio, sprinkled with petals that had fallen from the lone crepe myrtl
e, positioned majestically in the corner. Her mandevilla diplandenia, scaled six-feet up the south wall, opposite banana trees and a variety of ferns that hung in baskets. Around the three-tiered fountain in the center, the wishbone flowers, danced in the morning sunshine, lending color and freshness to the air, away from the stench of Bourbon Street. She loved the Quarter this time of morning. The sunlight pried its way into the streets and revealed the innocence lost the night before.

  Her heart swelled with joy this morning, just like any other time her son came to visit. It wasn’t uncommon for him to bring several of his friends. When Jason asked if the guys could take Ben out for a night in The Quarter, she was more than happy to oblige. It was no surprise when she found two of them were missing this morning. She set the beignets and café au lait from Café du Monde on the kitchen counter. It was Jason’s favorite hangover cure for “the morning after.”

  In the living room, Ben was stretched out on the couch. She had prepared a room for him, but he never quite made it that far. Closing the door to her bedroom, she set her purse on her dresser and walked to the bathroom. Despite the breeze coming off the Mississippi River, the summer heat was on its way. She washed her face and dabbed it dry with the fluffy towel.

  When she returned, Jason sat at the kitchen island, well into his second beignet. The powdered sugar on his face and shirt were the tell-tale signs.

  “I’m glad to see you’re alive this morning,” Alicia said.

  “Me, too.”

  “What did you guys do?”

  “The usual. . . Pat O’s, Preservation Hall, up and down Bourbon Street.”

  Jason told her about Ben’s encounter that erupted into a brawl as they narrowly escaped up an alley.

  She squinted and shook her head. "You're getting a little too old for that, aren't you? You are married, after all."

  “Yeah, but he was blindsided. I wasn’t going to let him get pummeled in the middle of the street.”

  Alicia picked up her coffee and added three packs of sugar.