“Fair enough,” Brian said. “But only if you promise me the same courtesy.”
“Sure.” I stood up and shook Brian’s hand. “I appreciate that. Truly I do. Things are getting a might dicey. Are you trying to get out?”
“Not really. I guess I enjoy my job too much. I’ve always wanted to work undercover.”
“Yeah, I suppose that could be exciting and dangerous.”
“Anyway, good luck, Sir.” Brian turned around and walked out.
I was not sure what he meant by the “good luck” part. I quickly closed my door and took a deep breath. How long before one of Brian’s staff personnel disclosed my disloyalty? It would take only one minor remark by a disgruntled worker to get me into serious trouble. I was sure I had been already identified as a possible dissenter. Sooner or later, they would come for me. I began humming the tune I had heard earlier on the radio: “Whatcha gonna do when they come for you?” I could not afford to wait to find out.
Chapter 18
There was only one conceivable way to escape our predicament. We had to soar out of town like a bat strapped to a Trident missile. I knew how to fly small personal airplanes. The main problem was locating an aircraft that could carry a band of deserting misfits to safety. Earlier, Nick had generously offered us a ride, but that deal was only redeemable if he was still in town. I attempted to phone him, but his line was disconnected. Not good.
That evening, Sarah and I took a trip to Nick’s restaurant, expecting a pad-locked door with boarded-up windows. Instead, we found the parking lot jammed with expensive cars. Inside, the waiting list was long and overwhelmed with droves of hungry patrons eager to get inside.
Sarah stood next to me as we waited behind a wall of patrons in the foyer, trying to get the attention of Nick or the maître d’. She appeared confused by the crowded conditions. We could barely breathe. She turned to me with a puzzled look. “You said everything would be closed. What’s going on?”
“Well, it should be,” I shrugged with a slight smile on my lips. I was often amused when confronted by exceptions to conventional rules. In this case, my wrong hunch led to a long wait before an open booth became available. That was perfectly fine with me. Great entertainment soon came our way. A black man in a white tuxedo sang up a storm to Casablanca’s classic “Knock on Wood”—one of my favorites. The packed crowd went wild, singing along as if they did not have a care in the world. Even the more grim-faced military officers, all dressed up in their formal uniforms, joined the merriment. It was great fun, especially since Nick had done such a wonderful job re-creating the early 1940’s atmosphere of the Vichy cafe in Morocco. It was so authentic that I almost expected to see Nazi officers drag away some of the shadier characters.
Sarah had always accused me of making snap judgments with little evidence. After scanning the large room, I found much to presume. The café was overflowing with THEM—government officials, civil servants, and black-shirted officers. Two young city attorneys were cooing in one booth; three high-ranking Battalion Chiefs were drunk and loud; a cluster of Senior Civil Engineers chomped down on thick steaks as if the food shortage was nothing but a myth. A cadre of army captains clustered together and sang Garyowens Irish tune in the corner, toasting to General Custer. I spotted someone from the Recorder’s office writing a note on the wall—very tacky. The Director of Parks and Recreation hid his dog under the table while a pool of city secretaries ogled a cluster of muscular Deputy Fire Marshals who took delight in showing off their physical fitness. Several assistants to the City Treasurer were counting piles of greenbacks, while a Human Resources officer and a Planning Manager were lip-locked outside the restroom.
As I stretched my neck and looked around, I finally located the elusive Nick. He was having a grand old time conversing with Mayor Quinn, accompanied by three well-armed bodyguards. I figured that Jack must be lurking around somewhere in the crowd, but I failed to spot him.
I saw Nick leave the mayor and pushed through the crowds in my direction. This was my chance. I had to capture more than his attention. I grabbed Nick’s arm as he sailed past our table. I reeled him in like a fish on a hook. He landed next to me and seemed pleasantly surprised.
“Spencer!” Nick’s face brightened. “Good to see you.”
“What’s happen here?”
“Oh, you mean my scores of guests?”
I nodded.
“Well, I’ve made an agreement with important people. Now I’m the only legal joint in town.” Nick’s face beamed as he smiled with a wry twist of his lips.
“Great for you.”
“I just hope I don’t run out of supplies.”
“A little low?”
“I had to make certain arrangements to prevent the unthinkable.”
“So, you don’t need to abandon ship?”
“Why would I? I’m doing so well right here. It’s a gold mine and I tripled my prices.”
“Well, Sarah and I are thinking about taking a little trip. Maybe Riverside. However, the mayor thinks he cannot spare my absence. But my department also requires additional supplies. I was wondering if I could borrow your Piper.”
Nick mulled over the idea for a moment. He glanced around to see who might be listening to our conversation. He leaned over and planted his hands planted firmly on our table. He whispered, “I use the Piper to bring in my food and liquor supplies. I cannot afford to have it out of operation. You understand?”
“You could just take us out on the next run,” I almost pleaded.
“I don’t think the mayor would want me to help someone escape, especially a man of your distinguished position. He’s very sensitive about defectors.”
“We’re not defecting. Just doing some business,” Sarah lied. “We won’t cause any trouble.”
“It’s not like I’m flush with options,” Nick said.
“Funny. We have the same dilemma,” I said.
“I’m sorry, Spence, and Madame. We did not have this conversation.” Nick bowed. “Adieu.”
I should have expected Nick’s sudden change of heart. He had always been a wheeler-dealer; boasting that if he was stuck with a lemon, he would find a way to sell it as a prune.
“What now?” Sarah asked.
“I’m not sure. We could just steal it,” I whispered and moved closer to her. “I mean borrow it.”
“That’s unethical and it might ruin Nick,” Sarah fired back. “It’s not that bad here.”
“How bad does it have to get?”
Sarah shrugged with a sidelong grin. “You know… bad bad.”
I paused to think. I had studied history, and I could recognize the going-off-the-deep-end warning signs. The Jews in Nazi Germany had years to escape the authorities before the hammer slammed down on their heads. Most Jews decided that things could not get any worse. Therefore, they stayed, and indeed things went from worse to unthinkable. They paid the ultimate price. I am sure Rant would agree with my little synopsis. I believed we had now reached that tipping point. For me, I figured that our Final Solution moment was only days away. I was sure that Jack Fish Eyes was ready to go after any real or imaginary enemies. He had something special in store besides flaunting a dead boiled frog. I knew that worse could easily slip into much worse, maybe deadly.
“But you can’t know what will happen. Nobody does,” Sarah insisted with a slight shudder.
“But we do,” I insisted. “There’s nothing to prevent our city leaders from getting completely out of control. They have dismantled the brakes. They can now speed ahead without any impediments. That’s because they believe they are infallible.”
“We could start a recall petition,” Sarah suggested.
“But nobody is willing to do anything to stop this madness. Most people are either too scared to dissent or too loyal to Mayor Quinn to consider him a threat. There is no middle ground. There is no handbrake, no balance between extremes. We’re tumbling down a steep hill and everybody thinks it’s a joy ride.”
“The real kicker is that if nobody does anything, then I suppose we deserve what we get.”
“I suppose we all should have done something earlier,” Sarah said. “I guess we are all at fault.”
I tried to put that disturbing thought out of my mind. I was not the right person to fix our problems. I had no real leadership experience. I had not signed on to fight City Hall all by myself. That was somebody else’s job. My job description did not require me to rescue Hemet or the world. My job description had narrowly defined duties, and godly savior was not one of them.
Sarah poked me in the leg under the table and whispered, “That man over there is staring at us. Over near the potted palm.”
I slowly turned and sneaked a glimpse of the mystery man through the corner of my eye. He resembled Brian, my faithless spymaster who was probably instructed to spy on me. He kept peeking from behind his open menu, playing games. He gave a curious expression that suggested both disgust and pity.
Sarah kicked me again. “I think he wants to talk to you after Nick leaves the dining room.”
I had no reason to parley with Brian. Since he had taken charge of DED surveillance and security, I knew that his assigned duties had gone beyond the original purpose of spying on feeble opponents. I knew he was watching me. I was already on his list of usual suspects, so why was he making eye contact with me?
After Nick departed the room, Brian made his move. He strolled over to me, glaring in one direction but walking in another. He slid into the booth next to me, acting as if I was a complete stranger. His eyes never left sight of Mayor Quinn and his guests.
“Sir,” Brian spoke softly, still refusing to face me. “You should not be here.”
“Why not?”
“Nick Gillis is on our list of potential agitators and subversives. You should steer clear of him.”
“Nick?”
“Sorry, I forgot to mention that I’m also working with the IAD. We’re investigating Nick and some of his restaurant clients.”
“What’s the IAD?” I snapped. The city had created so many departments, branches, and sub-agencies that I could not keep track of all of them.
“The Internal Affairs Department,” Brian said. “Do you know we have almost as many employees as you do at the DED? Of course, that is a secret. Anyway, you need to depart immediately. This place might get a little too exciting for your own good.”
I got the distinct feeling that someone was going to raid Nick’s Café and close it down—just like in the Casablanca movie. Yet, Nick had neither gambling nor any other illegal activities. No stolen passports, just ordinary food, and wine, if one could find a live waiter. What could they possibly cite for the raid? Of course, in the movie, the authorities had no valid reason to shut down Rick’s café either.
At this exact moment, I realized that Brian was wearing a snappy black uniform with a German Iron Cross medal pinned to his right chest. His shirt was adorned with golden collar patches of oak leaves and a sliver skull-crossbones insignia clasped to his shirt pocket. I was particularly impressed with his calf-high jackboots. The troubling part was that Brian looked like an officer from the Waffen-SS.
I pointed to his Iron Cross medal. “What is that?”
Brian looked down at his uniform. “Oh,… that silly little thing.” He smiled. “Just a little black cross representing my division.”
“Division?”
“Yes, we’ve been organized into paramilitary units.”
My jaw dropped. “You’re in the military?”
“No, I’m just a volunteer in an auxiliary role. Nothing impressive.”
I eyed Sarah. She also gave a worried glance, tightening her lips and scrunching up her eyebrows.
After silently drawing in my breath, I leaned back. I nodded to Brian and thanked him for the tip.
Brian stood and bowed slightly and warned us not to stay too long. He turned and went back to his table.
I leaned back and sighed. Poor Nick. Poor Brian. They were all victims of treacherous circumstances. I got up, took Sarah by the hand, and slowly retreated to the door. It seemed that nobody was above suspicion, just like the trapped foreigners in French Morocco during World War II.
Outside in the dark, we ran straight into a wall of black-uniformed men impatiently waiting for a signal. They were armed to the teeth, carrying automatic rifles, handguns, grenades, and metal batons. We moved out of the way and rushed to our car. Surprisingly, they let us through. It was obvious they were trolling for bigger fish, not small-fries like us. At least not yet.
* * * * *
On the way home that evening, I noticed throngs of people hiding behind bushes, parked cars, and turned-over trash containers lying in the middle of the street. Some were peeking from behind mountains of trash that stretched almost across the entire street, blocking traffic. Other streets were lit up with flaming trash dumpsters, roaring out of control and flaring up like rockets.
What got my attention was the creepy shadow people. They were slipping out of the dark alleys and vacant lots like vampires on the prowl. Most appeared to be carrying an assortment of weapons and gas masks. At first, I thought they were commando squads of young military men or SWAT teams planning to raid the home of suspected agitators. Upon closer examination, I could make out figures of old men in outdated military uniforms, young women in slacks, and black-garbed teenagers with nail-studded baseball bats. Many were swinging pipes or poles into the air. Some had rifles.
One firebrand was dragging a small cannon behind him on a child’s red wagon. Many of the older women toted hatchets, knives, and shovels while the children clutched BB guns, squirrel rifles, and gasoline bombs, all with the determination of an invading U.S. Marine assault force. They were everywhere; hundreds of them, all heading straight to City Hall. The shadow people were both outmatched and outgunned. It would be a massacre.
Arriving back home, I noticed that most of the lights had been left on throughout the house. I was a first-class miser when it came to saving electricity, so this meant only one possibility: an uninvited guest. I suspected Tommy or Rant. It turned out to be another visitor even less savory.
“You’ve got to help me,” Big Al rushed up to me and whined. “I have nowhere to go.”
“But I heard that you shot Joe Maffini. Right through the heart.”
“He threatened me. It was self-defense.”
“You’re now a fugitive!” I shouted as a horrible expression assaulted my face. The gravity of my situation was just beginning to sink in with a frightening conclusion. I would now be regarded as an accomplice to murder.
I had to sit down. Why do demonic douchebags always follow me home like stray dogs? Here was a man wanted for the assassination of our most prominent city councilmember. If Big Al stayed in my house, I would be cooked, served, and consumed by the politically famished. Housing a fugitive was surely a double capital offense—that is where they execute you twice. I had only a few sensible words for my former boss: “Are you out of your fucking mind? You cannot stay here!”
“Spencer,” Sarah said, moving next to me. “He needs our help.”
“He’s a wanted assassin!” I exploded. “Christ! They’ll bust a gut to find him.”
“They’re also looking for me.” Rant stepped into the light. She must have been the sneaky culprit who allowed Big Al into my house. She was also uninvited, but unfortunately, she had a key.
“I was so worried,” Sarah hugged her half-sister. “What happened?”
“I went for redress, not revenge.” Rant explained how she and her posse had entered the civic center and were threatened with gunfire. “I departed as ordered.”
“But what about the others?” I asked, impressed that she had the self-restraint to avoid violence.
“The lo
oney fringe went ballast. They charged the police barricade,” Rant’s voice broke tearfully. I had never seen her so emotional. “They’re all dead, even Candy. It was senseless. Brutal. It was as if they had a revengeful death wish. They swarmed over the barricade, blinded with rage. They fought hand-to-hand with steak knives, ice picks, and broken bottles. It was so stupid!”
“No, it’s crazy,” I said. “They’re acting like brainless animals. Like zombies on an adrenaline rush.”
“We have to get out!” Rant paused for a moment to regain her composure. “There is an evil out there. An acidity of hate and fear. Something unseen and unnatural. Something that has infected almost everyone.” She stared at me. “And you must be one of THEM.”
“No!” Sarah came to my defense. “How can you say that? We’re both trying to get escape Hemet.”
Rant had always considered me a repugnant bureaucrat with no opinion, backbone, or moral conviction. I was just an inanimate object that happened to be in close proximity to her older half-sister.
“So even our high and mighty government employees want to flee?” Rant said cruelly.
“If you shoot us, don’t us civil servants also bleed,” I paraphrased Shakespeare. It fell flat.
“Don’t know; I never tried shooting one,” Rant poked me in the chest with her boney finger. “I always thought bureaucrats were bloodless and gutless. You know, dead on arrival.”
“Spencer has been trying to stop this,” Sarah argued. “He’s against THEM just as much as you are.”
“So, what has he done to deserve such praise?” Rant folded her arms, looking as if she might spit at me at any moment.
Rant cut me to the quick. Her remark stung like a thistle, and that was because she was correct. If future historians ever mentioned my role, they would reveal a pathetic story of a small man with hollow dreams. The chroniclers of history would depict me as the man who did nothing to prevent a catastrophe from racing to the point of no return. Nobody would ever listen to my side or know that I had acted in accordance with good bureaucratic skin-saving traditions. I had avoided conflict at all costs. Bureaucrats understood that whoever won a power struggle, the victor would still need paper-pushers to run their ill-gotten operations. We were the invincible ones. In the pecking order of life, dictators and kings were impotent and expendable. They did not rule society; the hordes of civil servants did. We were the permanent flesh of society that never died.
We Are Them Page 20