The Arrival

by J W Brazier

  “Yes, sir, just hold tight.”

  Angela had worked for Mayor Archer several years as his private secretary. Angela, for the most part, kept her questionable conduct under control, but with Ben Archer’s troubled reelection campaign in full swing, her frayed edges were starting to unravel.

  Feeling a little befuddled, Angela placed Stanley on hold, pushed away from her desk, and almost fell over backward. She stubbed her toe on the fax machine stand as she tried to recover. Forgetting her Pentecostal upbringing, she cursed with each limp toward Ben’s office.

  Angela soon burst into Ben’s smoke-filled room, sat down in the first cushioned chair in her path, and kicked off her shoe. Seated in his office chair with his feet propped up on the desk corner, Ben puffed on a long cigar with the telephone pressed to his ear. His tight shirt collar and tie made his hog-jowl face look like an inflated balloon, his skin splotchy from lack of blood flow.

  “Pick up the other line, Ben. That damn weasel, Stanley Jones, is on his cell phone,” Angela said while massaging her sore toe.

  Ben dropped his feet off his desk. “Got to go, man. Call me later.” He pressed the button for the other line’s blinking light. “Stanley, where in the blue blazes you been, boy?”

  “Ben, I’ll be brief. I’m about thirty minutes from town, and I’ll fill you in on my visit with the governor when I get there.”

  Ben tried to manage a smile to hide his concerns, but he had a bad feeling about this, given Stanley’s tone of voice.

  “How is Governor Clayton?” Ben asked.

  “Not a happy camper, Ben. The polls show that we’re about to lose this election, my friend, and if we do, then you can count on my leaving the state. I don’t want to be around when the manure hits the fan.”

  Ben almost dropped the long cigar hanging in the corner of his lips. Three points behind wasn’t enough of a concern, let alone for the governor.

  Stanley started to speak again, but his voice garbled and ended with, “We—.” His cell phone had apparently lost its signal. Ben placed his telephone back in its cradle. His blank stare worried Angela. Her tender toe now soothed, she slipped her shoe on, stood up, and walked to the very front of Ben’s desk.

  “Are you alright, Ben? You look awful. Can I get you anything?”

  Ben heard her, but didn’t bother to respond or look at her, his thoughts consumed with scheming through his immediate options. Finally, he looked up at her.

  “Get out, Angie! I’ve got to think!” he shouted.

  “Are you sure, honey?”

  Ben lifted his head, his expression looking like he’d just eaten a lemon.“Don’t ever call me that in this office again! You know better. Someone might overhear you. Get out now!”

  Angela didn’t waste a moment. She spun around and almost ran out of the office. Ben picked up the telephone and punched in a phone number.

  “Damned do-gooders, always a problem. Time to get serious.”

  *

  White River Police Chief George Farnsworth sat at his desk, fingertips on the computer keyboard. He stopped typing at the sound of his cell phone vibrating atop his desk calendar. He minimized several computer browser windows of research on Mayor Archer’s challenger, then he picked up his cell phone and looked at the private number.

  He sighed. Wonder what he wants now.

  “Good morning, Mayor. What—”

  “Hell no, it’s not a good morning, Farnsworth! Shut up and listen. Get over here as fast as you can. We have a serious problems with this Austin character.”

  The “We” in Mayor Archer’s statement gave George pause. “I don’t understand, Ben. He’s—”

  “You will soon. Now move your tail! We’ve got to get our act together and shut this guy down. Seems the polls are showing something we haven’t counted on.”

  “I’m on my way, Ben.”

  George saved his research and closed down his computer, then grabbed his hat and strode out of his office. Ten minutes later, he guided his new cruiser into an assigned space in the new municipal building’s parking lot.

  As he turned off the engine and then got out, George thought about how he had proven his loyalty during Ben Archer’s three unchallenged consecutive terms. He wondered if the urgent meeting might simply be about Ben wanting to know more about his challenger. Maybe to get a better sense of the opposition’s strategy and citizen reactions, George guessed. From what he’d seen and heard during several of Joshua’s campaign speeches, Austin was a charismatic personality—and a genuine threat.

  What am I going to do if Ben loses the election? George thought.

  Joshua had shed a spotlight on Mayor Archer’s inept mishandling of city revenues, including George’s new fleet of patrol cars. George wasn’t worried for himself, as the city council had authorized the purchase. But raising city sales tax to nine percent to pay for my cars? That was a mistake, he mused.

  George had warned Ben and the council that brushing aside a subsequently outraged public would cost them votes. The city’s cumulative debts and deficits had now reached unsustainable levels. White River teetered on the brink of bankruptcy.

  Now frowning at the thought of it all, George attacked the sidewalk in long strides, to the point of almost running. Meeting with the Ben wasn’t an issue; dealing with his deceitful private secretary, Ms. Newberry, was always the unavoidable chafe. Ben and Angela’s adulterous affair had long fueled gossip among city employees. George often wondered if Mrs. Archer knew of Ben’s significant other. He opened the door and walked inside.

  “Good morning, Chief,” Angela said. “Well now, look at you. I always did like a man in uniform.”

  George managed a smile. “Good morning, Angela. Ben’s expecting me. Can I go right in, or is he on the phone?”

  “He’s waiting for you, George, but I’d tread light. Stanley called a little while ago. I think the news was all bad for Ben’s reelection chances. His mood is awful, and he’s snapping at everyone, including me. Watch this, I’ll prove it.” Angela pushed the telephone’s speaker button and rang Ben’s office.“Ben, Chief Farnsworth is here to see you.”

  “Get him in here, Angie!” Ben growled.

  George swallowed and braced himself for the bad news.

  “See what I mean?” Angie said.

  George nodded.

  “Good luck, Chief.”

  George flashed a halfhearted smile and headed into the mayor’s office. Lifeless cigar smoke drifted in layers above Ben’s desk, despite the building’s prohibition against smoking. The mayor’s ashtray overflowed with burnt cigars stubs—so Ben’s nerves had to be about shot. Room exhaust vents, though, hadn’t kept pace with him.

  Ben eyed George, then motioned toward a chair in front of his desk.

  “What have you got for me, George? And it better be good news.”

  George sat, then said, “I’m still digging, but with what info I have, he’s squeaky clean. My men can’t find anything on him. There’s isn’t a police record anywhere. He had exemplary military service with unquestionable combat commendations. He’s stable with his finances, with an almost perfect FICA credit score.”

  Ben stubbed out his cigar and lit up a new one. “When this guy first announced he’d run for my job, I sensed he was trouble. Independent do-gooders are always waving the flag, mudding up the water. His fiscal conservative crap is a successful strategy, I give him that, and it’s rallied voters. George, we’ve gotta stop Austin. He’s a thorn in my side.”

  George eyed Ben, reading between the lines of what the mayor was saying. “Ben, should we be concerned with the election?”

  “Concerned? Well, maybe, but in truth, yes. I’m afraid Stanley Jones is right. He says I’m sinking in the polls—and fast. Our independent conservative Mr. Austin appears to have struck a chord with moderate liberals, Republicans, Jews, and Christians. Even lazy backseat independents are with him. They seldom get off their backside to vote, but only complain about the results after the elections. Now, Aus
tin’s got them fired up, and they’re like roaches coming out of the woodwork.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  A sneer crossed Ben’s fat face. George saw in Ben’s eyes that familiar, devious twinkle. Ben already had a plan.

  “Be ready to shift gears, George, if I lose this election. I won’t stay down long. Trust me. White River hasn’t seen the last of Ben Archer.”

  Chapter 11

  From the highway, Dean Cohen could see a flash of vibrant colors in the nostalgic neon advertising Pearlette’s Restaurant. He turned left off the road into the mini-mall’s open parking area and took note of available exits. Extra precautions had become an automatic thought process with Dean, something his boss had taught him. He secured a spot near the restaurant that offered a fast, unobstructed escape to the highway. After using the rearview mirror to tame a few loose ends of his wavy black hair, Dean exited the car.

  A cowbell jingled above the door, announcing his arrival. With only a brief glance around the place, Dean saw six customers: two paying at the cash register, two sitting at the counter, and two in a booth. Business must be slow, he thought as he ambled through the dining area. He picked a booth against a back wall with a clear view of the front door and parking lot.

  Dean considered his first impressions of his surroundings. The eatery exuded a wholesome and clean atmosphere. A small, tasteful bouquet of flowers decorated every table and booth. The owners are genuine professionals, he mused.

  He looked left and saw a medium-built black lady wearing a white uniform and a bright yellow apron as she approached his table. He could detect the delicate aroma of her soothing lavender perfume as she came near. Her alluring eyes and warm smile welcomed him into her domain. He wondered if she might be Pearlette, the owner.

  “Good morning, young man. What would you like to drink while you’re looking at the selections?” she asked as she laid the red-jacketed menu on the table.

  “You must be Pearlette.”

  With a curious glance into Dean’s vibrant blue eyes, she took a step back with both hands firm on her hips and her honeyed voice crooned, “Umm-hum, and you must be new around here, hon. Are you a bill collector or with the IRS?”

  Slow down, Cohen. You’re in Arkansas, not New York, he chided himself.

  “Oh no, neither. I apologize. I guessed you were Pearlette, because a gas station attendant in Bald Knob named Frank described you perfectly. He gave me directions to here and said, ‘Pearlette’s is the best darn eatin’ place in Independence County.’”

  Pearlette smiled. “Mmm-hmm, Frank is a rascal, but a sweet old man.”

  Responding to her warmth, Dean seized the opportunity to introduce himself. “I’m a reporter from New York. My name’s Dean Cohen. I’m meeting with someone here in a bit, but wanted to grab a bite before she arrives. Am I too late to order breakfast?”

  “Oh not at all, hon. You can get breakfast anytime at Pearlette’s. My husband Gus keeps a pan of hot biscuits ready.”

  “Great! I’ve always wanted to try real country ham, with redeye gravy.”

  “You want biscuits and hash browns?”

  “Oh yes, with two eggs over-easy.”

  Dean folded the menu as Pearlette scribbled his order on a pad.

  “Now, hon, you still haven’t said what you want to drink?”

  Handing her the menu, Dean said, “Coffee is fine—black, please.”

  Pearlette shuffled off toward the kitchen, humming a tune. Dean could hear her calling out his order and relaying Frank’s praise to her husband. She soon disappeared behind a double swinging door. Within seconds, the whiff of smoked country ham sizzling on the grill and fresh biscuits escaped and drifted out of the kitchen. A few moments later, Pearlette reappeared with a pot of coffee and filled the mug in front of him.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “You’re welcome, hon,” she said, then left humming again.

  A glance at the wall clock above the counter showed that Dean was a half-hour early for his ten o’clock meeting with Deborah Holland. Glenn hadn’t supplied a picture of Dr. Holland, so Dean would be at a disadvantage in recognizing her.

  Glenn’s brief physical description of what he remembered about her, including height and age, would be Dean’s only clues. He pulled his notebook out of his jacket pocket and went back over the short list of questions for Dr. Holland, which he’d prepared on the flight down—questions that would help Dean clarify some information from the packet she’d sent Glenn.

  The cowbell above the main door jingled, and Dean lifted his eyes from his notebook, wondering if Dr. Holland had arrived early. From what he saw, she hadn’t. A young woman stopped at the counter to chat with Pearlette like they were old friends, but the woman was too young. Dr. Holland would be a much older woman. To his surprise, Dean let his eyes linger on the young woman longer than he knew he should. Her movements, though, were so graceful, her features flawless. He found it difficult to tear his eyes away and get back to business.

  “Wow, she’s beautiful,” he mumbled.

  Finally, he pulled his eyes back down to his notebook. Stay focused, Dean. You’re on the job here.

  Immersed again in his notes, he didn’t even notice when the beautiful young woman he’d been admiring began to walk toward his table.

  *

  Dean sighed and thumbed through pages of his notebook. He couldn’t remember the full context of some of his half-finished sentences from his cold notes. Fully absorbed and focused on deciphering his meaningless doodles, Dean nearly jumped when he heard a voice speaking to him.

  “Are you Mr. Cohen—Dean Cohen, of Global News Daily?”

  He looked up. It was her—the young lady. “Uh … Ah, yes. Uh, yes … Sorry. Yes, I am. I mean, I’m Dean, and you are?” he said, then began to fumble his way out of the booth.

  She grinned at him, then motioned for him to stay put. “I’m Ann,” she said and sat down just as Pearlette came to the table.

  “Pardon me, sir, but, Miss Ann, I meant to ask you something at the counter. I’m taking a day off tomorrow, so can you come to my house and have lunch? Let’s visit a while away from here. I’ve missed seeing you,” Pearlette said, placing a gentle hand on Ann’s shoulder.

  Puzzled by the gorgeous woman in front of him, Dean thought she looked too young to be Deborah Holland. But then, she had called him by name.

  So how did she know my name AND know that I’d be here? he wondered.

  “Thanks, Miss Pearlette,” Ann said. “That’s kind of you, and I’d like that. So I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Pearlette caressed Ann’s shoulder. “Oh good, that’s great. I’ll be looking forward to it, baby. You want something to eat, hon?”

  Ann smiled. “No, but thanks. Just ice water with a lemon slice is fine.”

  Pearlette’s smile looked positively mischievous to Dean. And just then, she looked at Dean and pointed her pencil at him.

  “Your breakfast will be ready in a few minutes, sir. You don’t look to be in a hurry.”

  And then she walked off, humming a tune. Her implication was plain to him, but he didn’t reply and turned instead to face the mysterious, and alluring, Ann.

  The woman across from him was a natural beauty, wearing little makeup. Her inviting smile and aqua-blue eyes had him spellbound. Glistening light-brown hair hung in waves to the middle of her back. Full lips adorned her small oval face.

  She smiled, and he smiled back. He felt his ears burning, and guessed that, from his neck up, he looked the blushing color of high-gloss red.

  “Please forgive me for staring, ah, Ann, but you have me at a disadvantage,” he said. “We’ve never met, yet you know my name and knew I’d be here, so please fill in the blanks for me.”

  Ann blushed and smiled again. She leaned on the table, elbows out, fingers laced. “I can imagine you would be a bit confused, Mr. Cohen. I would too, but I can explain.”

  Ann extended her hand, and he took it. Dean felt her warm t
ouch and firm grip.

  “I’m Dr. Ann Taylor. I’m here on behalf of my mother, Dr. Deborah Taylor, the former Dr. Deborah Holland.”

  What? Dean cleared his throat. Neither Glenn nor Sally had said anything about meeting with Dr. Deborah Holland’s daughter.

  “Ah … pardon me, Mrs. … Taylor—I mean, Dr. Taylor. My editor said to expect Dr. Deborah Holland. You say Dr. Holland’s your mother. Why, may I ask, did she change her name, if I’m not imposing?”

  “You’re not imposing, Mr. Cohen. I’ll gladly explain everything, and it’s probably easiest for you to go ahead with your questions. I’ll answer everything I’m able to. Oh, and it’s Miss Taylor, not Mrs.”

  Dean nodded, feeling himself blushing again. “Okay, fine, and thank you, Miss Taylor. So … let’s get started, and before you answer, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to record our conversation? I’m embarrassed to say, my notations are horrible to decipher after they’re cold.”

  “No, Mr. Cohen, I don’t mind, not in the least,” Ann said with a shy grin.

  Dean nodded and turned on his digital recorder. “Since you’re here on behalf of your mother, I’d like to start by asking basic questions. Your mother’s specific area of work with GEM-Tech is a good start.”

  Ann eyed Dean, clearly picking up that Dean was indeed still thrown off by her presence instead of her mother’s.

  “It’s obvious, Mr. Cohen, that no one’s told you about me, have they? Or maybe they don’t know much, if they have.”

  “No, Miss Taylor. My editor said I’d be meeting with Dr. Deborah Holland. You’re a … pleasant surprise.”

  Ann smiled and looked down at her hands, which she folded flat on the table.

  Could it be that Glenn’s unaware of this new revelation? Dean wondered.

  “Miss Taylor, no disrespect intended, but why are you here instead of your mother?”

  Now Ann looked away. His question appeared painful to her.

  “I guess for the record, and since you’re recording this interview, I should start by stating my full name for you,” Ann said with a sniffle, reaching for a napkin from the table dispenser. After a quick wipe and dab of her nose and eyes, she continued. “My name is Dr. Ann Nicole Taylor. I’m the daughter of Deborah Ann Taylor, otherwise known as Dr. Deborah Ann Holland.”