NOT AN AMERICAN

by Stanley W Rogouski

  "What we were doing in Iraq was wrong," it said. "Sometimes it makes me want to kill myself."

  Cathy Chegoffgan reached up, pulled the copy of Romeo and Juliet that John Avellanos had given her the day before off the window sill, and looked at the address. It was too late to call him even if she had her smart phone, which she didn't, or had a land line, which she didn't, but after she typed the address into Google Maps, she realized he lived less than 2 miles away. She looked out of the window at the illuminated white steeple of the First Presbyterian Church on the bluff over Route 1081. He was in one of those houses, home from work, undoubtedly wondering why she had never showed up at the fountain, and would almost certainly not object to a late night visit. She walked over to the table to get her cars keys, but after she tripped, fell, and almost smacked her head on the chair, she decided to drive up to East Poison Springs the next morning. She booted down the computer, finished the last of the beer, turned off the lights, went back to the futon, and fell asleep.

  Chapter 13 - Some Training in Public Relations

  John Avellanos looked out of the window of the Number 18 bus. He felt sleepy, having stayed up for most of the night reading the packet of opposition research on Martin Ruiz, finishing the collection of notes, printouts of e-mails, high school transcripts, and oral testimony from childhood acquaintances as the bus pulled to a stop on Reagan Plaza North. He did a quick loop around the fountain circle, then went back to the War Memorial, frowning as he walked along. Whoever Michael Catalinelli had hired to compile the research on his cousin had done a very thorough job. Just about the only thing missing were photographs, explained by a note that said "Mr. Ruiz's troubles with the law prevented him from posing for his high school yearbook portrait, although he did finally manage to graduate." The bells ring out that it was nine o'clock when John Avellanos walked into the pump house. David Sherrod was waiting, his elbows up on the table.

  "I'm sorry I'm late," Avellanos said, putting the folder of opposition research down on the table, pouring himself cup of coffee, and sitting down. "I missed the 7:30 bus. I had to get the 8:30."

  "We've got plenty of time," Sherrod said, sliding a page of notes across the table. "But why don't we get started? Read that."

  Avellanos picked up the page of notes.

  "Martin James Ruiz is a man of limited intelligence and ability," he read. "A poor student in high school, he was given the option of jail or the military after being arrested for drug possession. He was manipulated into getting involved for a brief time in Afghanistan and Iraq Vets Against the War after leaving the Marine Corps, but made only one public speech, where there was almost universal agreement that he was a simpleton who could barely form a coherent thought. He's currently working at a low level menial job for WillyMart."

  "What do you think?"

  “I think it's outrageous to smear a man like that."

  Sherrod seemed pleased with how angry it made him.

  "You've already seen the man who wrote it."

  "Who?" Avellanos said.

  "Dan Grossinger."

  "He's a liar. Not a word of that report is true."

  "Not even the part where your mother wouldn't let you learn Spanish?" Sherrod said.

  He took out the printout of an e-mail and read.

  "I remember Jimmy from high school. He was a nice guy if a little in his own head. We used to call him the space cadet. But he was OK. His mother was a trip. I think she just hated herself for being Puerto Rican, or Cuban, or whatever the hell she was. I still remember the time she pulled him out of Spanish class. He was supposed to have signed up for French or German, or for no foreign language at all. I can't remember. But he signed up for Spanish. So his mother takes a day off from work, drives down to the school office, and pulls him out herself. Then she waits for him out in the parking lot and reams him out at lunchtime in front of all his friends. It sounds ridiculous, but I saw it with my own eyes. I was there."

  Avellanos took a drink of coffee.

  "You don't think that's exaggerated?" he said.

  "It did seem a little too good to be true," Sherrod said.

  He slid another page of notes across the table.

  "It's clear that Mr. Ruiz is living with his older sister, not out of loyalty," Avellanos read, "but because of the economic desperation stemming from his less than average intelligence. This might provide opportunities."

  He put the page back down on the table.

  "So they're saying that I'm a moocher and I just might bad mouth Elizabeth if they throw a few bucks my way?" he said.

  "That's exactly what they're saying," Sherrod said, "but it's our opportunity not theirs."

  "How so?"

  “They think you're an idiot. You're not. You give them a chance to ask you questions. They underestimate you. You hit all their softballs out of the park and throw their gotcha questions back in their face."

  "But what if I just freeze up?" Avellanos said.

  "You won't," Sherrod said.

  He reached over, picked up one of the framed photographs on the table, and gave it to Avellanos. It was a recent photo of Nicholas Felton. Even though he was already dying of cancer, he still managed to look viral and masculine.

  "I can't get over just how much you look like your father," he said.

  "I'm sorry I never got a chance to meet him."

  "You fill out his clothes like you were the man himself."

  Avellanos lifted up the slack around the shoulders of his sport jacket.

  "Not quite. Nicholas Felton was much better built than I am."

  "He was better built than almost anybody," Sherrod said. "Sometimes, looking at Nicholas Felton was like looking at Hercules in the flesh."

  Avellanos gave the photo back to David Sherrod.

  "Don't take this the wrong way," he said, "but do you think you're seeing something in him that wasn't there? Maybe it's your way of making the final break with your old boss. Michael Catalinelli Nicholas Felton on TV last night. You're singing his praises this morning."

  David Sherrod paused, as if to consider seriously what Avellanos had just said.

  "There might be something to that," he said examining the photo. "But I don't think you should sell yourself short. Your father had natural charisma. I see some of that same charisma in you. That's why you'll do fine in front of the press. Him? He could have been anything he wanted. I think he could have been President if it hadn't been for that sister of his."

  "You mean Laura Felton?" Avellanos said. "I thought they weren't planning to use her."

  "How could they? Your father was the one who turned her in."

  "Fucking rat," Avellanos whispered under his breath. "Why would that matter?" he said out loud.

  Sherrod put the photo of Nicholas Felton back down on his desk.

  "Michael is trying to paint your sister as an out of touch liberal elitist. Your father chose to turn in his own sister, your aunt, for the sake of his country. He put justice for three temporary janitors ahead of his own patrician family. That's the last thing Michael wants to remind people of. That was the definition of patriotism."

  Avellanos laughed.

  "So being a snitch is patriotism," he said. "Me? If I had to choose between my country and someone I loved, I'd say fuck the United States of America. Bring me a flag. I'll burn it right now. I think I even admire Laura Felton more than I admire Nicholas Felton. I don't think she was a terrorist at all. She did what she had to do to stop an immoral war. I think she was a heroic freedom fighter in the cause of anti-imperialism, like Lenin, like Mao, like Ho Chi Minh, like Zapata, like Poncho Villa."

  David Sherrod look shocked. Then he laughed. Avellanos laughed along with him.

  "You really had me going there for a second," Sherrod said. "You see? You're better at this than you think you are. Come on. Let's get started. You know why you won't freeze up? Because you're going to be prepared. It's going to be just like basic training. I'm going to ask you every question that you can p
ossibly be asked by every little jackal reporter you can possibly run into in this town, and you're going to practice answering them until you do it by instinct, until you won't even have to think about it. So let's get started."

  Later that afternoon, John Avellanos emerged from the pump house, having agreed to return the next morning. He walked around, looking for Cathy Chegoffgan, whom he now hoped, even expected to run into, even though David Sherrod had warned him she would probably be too angry to come out to Reagan Plaza for a few days. He came back to the war memorial. He strolled around looking at the signs and banners, admiring the "message discipline." Now that Catalinelli had given in on the issue of the statues all references to John Mitchell and Jon L. Lewis were gone. Every sign, every banner was focused on calling for the repeal of the CCIA, but there was also a new pile of signs under a tarp near the pump house. Avellanos went over to examine the new signs, but as soon as he lifted the tarp to get a better look, he heard an angry voice.

  "Hey. You. What are you doing?"

  Avellanos turned around to notice a man in his early 20s. He had blond hair, blue eyes, and the manic quality of someone who kept himself awake by some sort of artificial substance. There was something deeply unsettling him, but Avellanos did his best to appear confident and friendly.

  "Martin J. Ruiz," he said, extending his hand.

  "What are you doing?" the young man said, not accepting the proffered handshake.

  "Just looking at the signs."

  "Those signs are none of your business, cop. Or are you with the press?"

  "Neither."

  "Well you ask before you look at those signs."

  "No problem," Avellanos said, moving away from the signs. "What's your name?"

  "Jeff Dawson."

  "I'm Martin J. Ruiz, but call me John. That's what the J stands for."

  "You told me that 10 seconds ago moron. I'd rather know why you're snooping around. I've been watching you. What are you looking for?"

  "I've been looking for a friend of mine."

  "What does he look like?"

  "She. Her name is Cathy Chegoffgan."

  "Kind of a blond skank? I know her. She thinks she's better than you. She's a fucking know it all. But she's really white trash. You know how you can tell? Her teeth are crooked."

  "Have you seen her?"

  "You on the other hand," Dawson said, ignoring the question, "come from money. You're an aristocrat. You've had some nice expensive dental work. So, aristocrat, what are you doing chasing after a little white trash skank like Cathy Chegoffgan?"

  "Are you trying to provoke me?"

  "I'm trying to warn you. You should watch out for her. She works for the illuminati."

  "She works for the what?"

  "Look at her eyes. She's a lizard girl, a space alien, probably even a Rothschild, but Dan's got the hots for her so he won't let me kill her."

  Avellanos laughed.

  "Are you insane?"

  Apparently concluding that he was, Avellanos stepped back, turned around, and started to walk away, but Jeff Dawson lunged at him, and grabbed him violently by the arm.

  "Stay away from that Illuminati whore."

  Seemingly out of nowhere, Dan Sedgwick came up behind Jeff Dawson and restrained him, wrapping one arm around his chest, and giving him a neck rub with his other hand.

  "Hey Jeff. Calm down."

  He held onto him for a few second then let him go.

  "This guy's snooping all around. I caught him. Watch out. I bet he's a cop."

  "I'll handle it," Sedgwick said.

  He uncovered one of the signs.

  "Save Our Water."

  "You see?" he said to Jeff Dawson. "There's nothing to worry about."

  "Just watch him," the manic young man said. "I don't trust him."

  He turned around and walked away.

  "Thank you," Avellanos said after Jeff Dawson was out of earshot, "little asshole."

  "You're not getting off to very good start are you? Why are you fighting with Jeff?"

  "Fighting with Jeff?" Are you joking?"

  "Why would I be joking?"

  "He's mentally ill, and violent."

  “He's had a few problems. What if I told you that he saw one of his friends get his head blown off on Route Irish?"

  "Route what?"

  "Route Irish, the road from the Baghdad Airport to the Green Zone. You should have known that. I wonder why you didn't."

  "I'm a little distracted right now. That crazy little man insults my girlfriend then tries to punch me in the face."

  "Your girlfriend? I'll have to ask her about you when I see her. She got out of jail last night."

  "I heard. Do you have her number? I haven't been able to get in touch with her."

  "I tried to call her, but I only got voice mail. They probably took her cell phone when they arrested her."

  "How about her address? She gave it to me a few days ago but I lost it."

  "I'm not going to give you her address. You say she's your girlfriend, but I don't know if she knows you or not."

  "You know who I am," Avellanos said. "You know who my family is."

  He seemed to realize it was a mistake almost as soon as it came out.

  "I apologize," he said, extending his hand. "That must have sounded arrogant."

  Dan Sedgwick, having drawn out John Avellanos to his satisfaction, reached out and shook the younger man's hand.

  "That's OK," he said. "You're probably just stressed about Catalinelli. What a fucking nightmare that must have been. Give me your number. If she shows up I'll give you a call."

  Avellanos took a notepad and a pen out of his messenger bag and wrote down his number.

  "Thanks," he said, handing him the slip of paper. "I guess I'd better go home and get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow."

  "I'll see you tomorrow," Sedgwick said, "and don't worry about Jeff. He's a troubled young man but he's harmless. Cathy knows how to deal with him. She just listens to him until he talks himself out. Then she laughs at him."

  "Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

  Chapter 14 - Bad cop Bad Cop

  Cathy Chegoffgan woke up with a hangover, realizing she had slept through the morning, well into the afternoon. She pulled on her jeans and flannel shirt. Perhaps she could still catch Martin Ruiz at home before he left. She picked up the copy of Romeo and Juliet to check the address, 667 Cemetery Hill Drive. An old book mark fell out onto the floor.

  "John Avellanos," someone had carelessly written on the bookmark, "Introduction to Literary Theory."

  "Call me John," she said. "Of course."

  She put on her shoes, put the book under her arm, and scooped her keys up off the window sill. She heard a knock. She walked over to the door, and looked out of the peephole. The worried look was replaced by one of relief. She opened the door to reveal a short man with greasy black hair combed over his skull to hide his baldness, her probation officer.

  "Lenny. I thought you were the landlord. You scared the hell out of me."

  "I'm really sorry Cathy," he said, shaking his head. "I was totally against this."

  Cathy Chegoffgan looked up to see a man in his late 20s. He was tall, lanky, and nattily dressed in a Ralph Lauren jacket and cardigan, a Burberry tie, and J. Crew pants. He had wavy, medium length brown hair parted on the side and Warby Parker Whiskey Tortoise frame eyeglasses. He had a pair of Ralph Lauren shoes. Something about him seemed to cheer her up. She suppressed a grin in the corner of her mouth.

  "So Lenny, is this your boyfriend?"

  The man reached into the breast pocket of his sport jacket. She could see he was wearing a 9mm automatic in a chest holster. He showed her a badge.

  "Detective Lieutenant Peter Muffley," he said, flourishing the badge in front of her face, holding it in place for effect. "Poison Springs Metro Police, Special Terrorism Division, temporarily attached to the Northwest Mid Atlantic Fusion Center."

  "I didn't know Poison Springs had a special te
rrorism division."

  "This is serious Cathy," Lenny said.

  Muffley, who was carrying a pair of bags, put them both on the table near the kitchen.

  "Take off your coat," he said. "We're going to be here awhile." I brought coffee and donuts. You know what they say about cops and donuts?"

  "Pernicious stereotype," she said, sitting down when he pointed to a chair. "I've never seen Lenny eating donuts."

  "Probation officers don't eat donuts," Muffley said. "Cops in fact are very fond of them."

  "Your boyfriend's depressed," she said to Muffley. "I just turned 21, so no more probation, no more community service, and above all," she added, picking a corner off one of the donuts Muffley had put out on the table, and holding it up. "No more spying. I'm a free woman."

  Lenny looked at her, shaking his head in a sorrowful manner.

  "That's what we've come to talk about," he said.

  "OK. Talk."

  Muffley pointed to the pint of beer.

  "Sam Smith's organic, chocolate stout," he said, "good choice. But if you just turned 21, that means you were only 20 when you drank it. That's a crime."

  "So arrest me."

  "We've got more serious things to talk about than underage drinking."

  "Like what?"

  "I'm going to review your history," Muffley said. "If at any time I make a mistake, correct me."

  "Go ahead."

  "Your father's name was Robert Chegoffgan. He was a substitute school teacher. He died ten years ago the day after he found out he had gotten a permanent position at Poison Springs Regional High School."

  "Fuck you."

  Muffley smiled, enjoying the hint of fear he detected in her voice.

  "Apparently he was a firearms enthusiast like everybody else in this miserable little hick city. So to celebrate his new job, he and a few friends went up to the West Hill Coal Breaker to shoot a few beer cans. Sadly, Mr. Chegoffgan also brought along his 10-year-old daughter, far too young to handle a 9mm semi-automatic. There was a ricochet. The little girl's bullet must have hit a rock, or a piece of metal, or something. We're not exactly sure, but we do know where it ended up, lodged squarely in Robert Chegoffgan's brain. He died instantly."