by Matt Rass
The two men nodded and stood to leave.
“I’ll follow the cop brother and see where he leads us,” Carl said.
The congressman eyed the gun hanging from Carl’s shoulder holster and spoke directly to the big, cold man. “Whatever it takes.”
The big man nodded and pushed his chair back to its spot, trying to line up the chair’s indentation with the lines in the plush red rug. Bradley watched over him like a son patiently waiting for his elderly mother.
“You mind staying behind, Brad?” Frank asked.
“Sure, no problem,” he said as he sat back down.
Carl felt very alone walking to the door, at first unsure to close it behind him or not.
“That’s fine, Carl,” the congressman said. “You can close the door behind you.”
Carl nodded and was about to close the door when the kids bumbled past him. Carl nodded and smiled at Barbara, awkwardly putting on, then removing his cowboy hat.
“Hello Carl,” she said.
“Barbara.”
“Frank’s sister is flying in tomorrow. Do you think you could drive me to the airport to pick her up?”
“Sure,” he said, brightening. “What time?”
“I believe it’s eleven a.m., but I’ll have to double-check. Does Frank have a number I can text you at?”
“He has my cell number, but here, let me give you my card.”
“Oh, how contemporary of you, Carl. But I guess people just exchange numbers instead of writing them down, nowadays, right?”
“I can give you my number?”
“Sorry, I don’t have my phone on me. You look good, though,” she said, laughingly placing her hand on his arm.
He clumsily stepped aside so she could collect the kids running toward her, the eldest clutching a single twenty-dollar bill.
“He only gave us one,” Nathaniel whined.
“He said we have to share it,” his brother Nicholas complained.
Carl smiled, nodded, and walked past the small huddle. He stopped to watch as Barbara closed the office door and led the children into the kitchen, promising them another twenty. He looked at the spot Barbara had touched him and half hoped she had left some kind of trace, but there was nothing there. He opened the front door and sighed. He hated children. It had probably been the second reason Barbara had chosen Frank over him—not having any wealth being the first—but Carl didn’t regret it. From his experience kids rarely turned out any good. Look at Alex, he thought. The great Silver hope. Even he turned out to be a dud.
Back in his office, the congressman opened his humidor and removed a Montecristo. As he clipped the end of the cigar, he said, “What do you call a virgin on a waterbed?”
“Oh gawd, congressman,” Bradley said. “What?”
The congressman lit a cedar strip and held the flame to the tip of the cigar. “A cherry-float.”
Bradley shook his head. “Incorrigible,” he said.
The congressman puffed on his cigar. “Seriously though… I wanted to talk to you about this blackmail thing. I think it’s time to promote our friend at the sheriff’s department.”
“Whaddaya mean, ‘promote’?”
“I’m thinking of a more permanent solution to our problem. I can’t afford to keep paying for this.”
Brad chewed on the idea for a moment. “You don’t think this invites another problem into an already crowded situation?”
“I thought of that, and that’s why I’ve been sitting on it all this time. But I’m going crazy here. I can’t sleep. I’m scared to answer my phone. I’m stuck waiting for the other shoe to drop. We need to take care of this thing once and for all.”
“Why not Carl?”
“No. Something about him has changed. He’s gotten soft. You see him”—Frank pointed at Carl’s vacant seat—“he sits there and pretends to listen, but his mind is somewhere else. I think he’s starting the Alzheimers. And he’s the one who told me to pay the blackmail in the first place. He said they’d settle for one single payment; now look where we are. The old Carl woulda cracked skulls looking for these guys.”
“And you think this new guy can find the blackmailer for you?”
“Yes, goddammit!”
“Okay,” Brad said. “I’ll talk to him personally. But you gotta promise no more teenagers until after the election.”
“The election is four months away.”
“And it could all be for nothing if you continue like this.”
“Well, what the hell do you do to kill the urge?”
Bradley stared blankly at him.
“Forget it. Thanks anyway, for taking care of this whole mess.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Bradley said. “Let’s focus on raising more money by selling your assets.”
“Seventy-five thousand dollars,” the congressman said. “Stolen by some two-bit black hustler.”
CB & THE VAN
Carl descended the marble steps of Frank’s gaudy mansion and used his key fob to open the electronic locks of the Lincoln Town Car parked behind Bradley’s BMW and the congressman’s Mercedes.
Across the cul-de-sac’s bed of multicolored flowers separating one side of the street from the other, Carl stared suspiciously at a parked, brand new white, unmarked utility van. He had seen the same van once before parked in the exact same spot a couple of days ago and it was about as conspicuous as a fart in an elevator.
He removed his cellphone from the inside of his jacket pocket with his right hand, opened the door of his Town Car with his left.
Once seated inside he used his cellphone to dial Mike Silver and waited for the young idiot to answer.
“CB,” Mike said, panting into the phone, “what’s up?”
“You wanna try that again?” Carl asked.
“Try what?”
“Not answering your phone like I’m some punk calling to see how your night went.”
Mike took a couple of beats to respond. “Sorry, Carl. I just finished my workout. But my night went well, thank you very much. How was yours?”
Carl rolled his eyes and shook his head. The kid was hopeless.
“Did our friend at the precinct get back to you about the white utility van?”
“Yes sir, he said a couple of Feds arrived in town the day before yesterday.”
“He doesn’t know what for?”
“No sir.”
“Okay,” Carl said and ended the call. He started the Town Car, checked his mirrors and backed cautiously into the street.
The utility van, beyond the decorative island separating the two sides of the street, lurched away from the curb and sped away.
Carl put his Town Car in drive, but his foot remained on the brake. His hands twisted around the Town Car’s steering wheel like a boa constrictor, and his upper false teeth audibly ground against his thin, natural bottoms until a molar finally cracked. He didn’t wince. He merely reached into his mouth with his fat, sausage-like fingers and pulled the weak tooth out. With his gold and black Masonic pinky ring-adorned little finger he held down the button to lower his automatic window and dropped the offending tooth out. He tongued the hole in his gum and was angered that now he’d have to go fill it with something. Anything. And then go see a dentist.
ALEX AND CHRISTMAS
The door to the diner dinged open and standing under the broken air conditioner, poised above like a cartoon anvil threatening to crush him, was thirty-year-old, Alex Silver. For a small-town on the shores of Lake Michigan, his All-American good looks were straight out of a Hollywood movie. His face was cut as straight as a trophy. Not a blemish on him apart from the barely visible scar at his golden blond hairline from an 85-mph fastball thrown at him in college.
The twenty-year-old waitresses unconsciously touched their phones in their back pockets as they thought about reporting the sighting to their friends. He was just that adorable.
Alex nodded at the nearest girl and she swooned inside with enough butterflies to make herse
lf puke. His eyes were a crisp, cool blue and it made no sense that he wasn’t either a famous actor or athlete but simply Benson Bridge’s city attorney. Even the Asian man who was old enough to be the father of the two waitresses, and had been sitting patiently in the corner for the past half-hour waiting for Alex to arrive, felt the physical weight of being in the company of such an attractive man—and Alex was still at the far side of the room. But the broken air conditioner didn’t help. The heat was unbearable. So was the excessive amount of coffee he had drunk, turning his bowels into a thin soup.
Alex approached his booth and cautiously asked, “Mr. Christmas?”
“Yes,” Mr. Christmas croaked. “Please, take a seat.”
Alex was apprehensive as he took the seat and looked nervously about the small diner, his back to the other patrons.
“Alex,” Mr. Christmas, his throat suddenly full of knuckles, began. “Here’s my i.d.” He pushed his newspaper across the tabletop to Alex who lifted the top page. Under the newsprint was an FBI identification. Alex read it and pushed the paper back.
“Forgive me,” Alex said. “But how did you get the last name Christmas?”
The FBI Special Agent was used to this. People questioning the authenticity of such a last name when he was so obviously of South Asian descent.
“It’s my family name,” he answered.
Alex cocked his head. “Are you adopted?”
Christmas looked unblinkingly at the young, good-looking white boy, born into money and limitless opportunity and said, “Yes, I was adopted.”
“I don’t mean any offense,” Alex said. “It’s just, you know…”
“Can we get started now?” Christmas asked, attempting to quell his anger at the obtrusive question.
“Are you recording this?”
“No. This is all preliminary. Off the record.”
The waitress approached the table with fresh coffee. “Can I take your order?” she asked Alex, who looked to Christmas.
“Please,” Christmas said. “If you want. I only need ten, fifteen minutes of your time.”
Alex picked up the menu as the waitress poured his coffee and then turned to Christmas’s cup. He put his hand on top of it and shook his head. “No thanks,” he said and looked directly at Alex and said, “I’ve had enough.” Alex’s eyes went from him to the menu and Christmas watched as the younger man read, or appeared to read, the menu. His eyes jumping to each of the photographs pictured inside.
“What would you suggest?” Alex asked the waitress.
The girl blushed, but was confident in her reply. “We all go for the French toast or the pancakes with maple syrup.”
“Then that’s what I’ll have.” Alex winked. “An order of both, please. French toast and pancakes.” He handed her the menu and she sprung to it, turning on the balls of her feet and springing toward the kitchen.
Christmas watched Alex’s eyes trace along the young woman’s legs and ass.
“You’re dyslexic,” Christmas said.
Alex was visibly startled by the comment. He turned to the special agent. “How do you know that?”
“It’s an observation.”
“From before or just now?”
“Just now. I could tell you weren’t reading the menu, and just asking the girl for a recommendation is a bit of a tell.”
“It’s a diner,” Alex whispered. “I don’t expect to see anything but eggs and pancakes on the menu.”
“That’s true. But how did you ever make it through law school?”
“Girlfriends,” Alex replied. “So how does this work?”
Christmas sipped his melting ice water and felt the coolness come back to him. This was his game and he was here to play Alex Silver, city attorney, not the other way around.
“First, let me tell you, that we’re not looking to bring down your uncle, Frank,” Christmas began. “This is a case of using a small fish to catch a big fish, so we can catch an even bigger fish. Understand?”
Alex nodded. “So I’m the small fish?”
“A minnow,” Christmas said. Payback for the younger man outting him as being adopted. “No offence, but this is federal,” he continued. “And our pond is pretty big.”
“And what do you have on me that’s gonna force me to cooperate?”
“Video and voice recorded conversations illegally bundling fraudulent donations for your uncle’s campaign. Straw donors…”
“But you don’t have him?”
“We wouldn’t need to speak with you if we did, so no. But we know your uncle and we know your family, and we aren’t going to believe for a second that this is something you decided to do on your own. So let’s cut the bullshit. You wear a wire and get him to admit to knowingly participating in the fraudulent donations; using the names of people who had no idea they were donating any money to anybody. And then we use him to be the FBI’s bait for the even bigger fish.”
“Who’s the even bigger fish?”
“Not your concern.”
“Someone from Michigan?”
“Can’t say.”
“You know this is going to destroy my family.”
“You’re a business family. I’m sure it’ll work out in the end.”
“What guarantee can you give me that you won’t prosecute me or my uncle?”
“None. But if your uncle agrees to be an informant there is a better than likely chance he doesn’t face charges.”
“But he’ll have to testify in open court?”
“It’s a possibility, but if we keep going up river with what he gives us, who’s to say how big the fish get. He could find himself quite like you: safe in your little pond.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then I hand over our evidence to Michigan’s Attorney General and he will most likely prosecute you for voter fraud, opening up the possibility of further investigation into your uncle’s political office. Your family has deep roots in this city. You have other uncles and cousins that have successful businesses in town. All that will be looked at. And you and me know most of them don’t pass the smell test. If it was me, I wouldn’t put all that at risk. You have potential in your career, Alex. We know your uncle is hanging all his hopes on you. This could be a turning point for you. You’ll see, you don’t have to be crooked to make it to Washington, despite what you see in the White House.”
“And when do you want this all to go down?”
“I understand your uncle’s holding a family reunion.”
“My mother’s coming to town. You don’t expect me to wear a fucking wire with my mother in the same room?”
“What better time?”
Alex sighed and Christmas caught him looking down at the waitress’ ass.
“Do you want to follow your uncle into a crooked, ugly world?” Christmas asked. “Or do you want to spend the best years of your political life building toward something positive?”
Alex nodded to himself.
“We’re all given a choice to make. Don’t let someone else make it for you. Family or not.”
“Thanks for the lesson,” Alex said, standing.
“I’ll need your answer now,” Christmas said.
“I’ll give it to you this afternoon.”
Alex smiled at the young waitress and headed for the exit.
“But your breakfast?” she said.
“Put it on his tab,” Alex said, pushing the door open.
Catching the door on the other side was the buzzcut military dude from the Welcome Tavern. Alex tried to find familiarity in the man’s face—they were both attractive, fit men—but didn’t recognize him after all. “Excuse me,” Alex said.
“After you,” the other man said.
Alex started down the sidewalk and looked hesitantly back over his shoulder toward the mystery man still standing at the open door watching him.
Special Agent Lance Hauer took the seat left vacant by Alex Silver just in time to accept the latter’s breakfast order.
&
nbsp; “Yummy, pancakes and french toast,” he said. “Thank you.”
“So?” Special Agent Christmas said.
Lance unwrapped the diner cutlery and started with the french toast. “Do you remember when they used to call these Freedom toast?”
“And Freedom fries,” Christmas said, “yes.”
“When did they stop doing that?”
“I dunno. Did you find out anything new?”
“Another morning pow-wow at the congressman’s mansion with his old buddy, Bradley and Carl Barron.”
“The lawyer and the fixer?”
The Special Agent chewed on his food and said, “Carl Barron is a former sheriff of this town, and our source says, the man our congressman used to “clean up” the undesirables in his district on his path to that very congress seat.”
“Any proof?”
Lance shook his head and raised his hand to the waitress, “Can I have a glass of water please?”
“And this is the first time we’re hearing and seeing the former sheriff?” Christmas asked.
“Could be they’re getting ready for another clean-up?”
“Explains why the junkie agreed to contact us.”
“Was the source right about the city attorney?”
“Deputy city attorney,” Christmas corrected him. “Yes, she was. He’s playing hard to get, but he’ll come around. I get the feeling he’s not as loyal to his family as they are to themselves.”
The two men stopped their conversation as the waitress approached with a jug of water and a glass. She set the glass down and filled it. “Is there anything else I can get you fellas?” she asked.
“Just the bill, please,” Christmas said.
“Will that be one bill or two?”
“One,” Christmas said, removing his wallet and extracting his credit card.
“Thank you,” Lance said and drank from his glass.
“I’ll be right back with your bill.”
Both Special Agents nodded their thanks again.
“Did you hear about Tony Silver’s strip club?” Lance asked.
“No, whattabout it?”
“I’m gonna hit the head and then I’ll drive you over.”