Vigilante Angels Trilogy

by Billy DeCarlo

  “She’s the best,” Micco said. “She’s kind of the leader of the people in our small community. We all go to her for help solving our problems or mediating issues with each other. We don’t have a police force. Never needed one. She’s wise, like a shaman.”

  “No police—that’s a good thing,” Tommy laughed. Real good for me, being a fugitive and all. In fact, an important criteria.

  Tommy made his way back to Tara’s stall.

  She saw him coming and smiled. “Well, well. Look at you, Just Tommy. I see you found Mrs. Park. Nice hat!”

  “Hey, you’re not supposed to recognize me in this disguise,” Tommy responded. “Who’s this Just Tommy you speak of? I’m Mr. Just Incognito.”

  They both laughed. Tara brought his box of provisions from the cooler and sat it back on the counter. She pointed at the wrapped bottle protruding from his pocket. “How the hell did you find something to drink around here?” she asked.

  “We all have our secrets, Tara,” he answered sheepishly. “Yeah, I know, I know. Save the lecture. I’m going to work on it, I promise. I just need to get settled in. Moving is stressful.”

  “I’ll hold you to that. I’m a patient woman. Listen, it’s gonna be a long haul back down that road in this heat with all this stuff. Let me give you a lift. I’ll use Micco’s truck. It’s community property, more or less. He leaves the keys in it for anyone who needs it.”

  “You kidding?” he answered. “I’m a Marine vet. This is nothing compared to all the crap we had to carry through the jungle back in ‘Nam. Although that was pretty long ago.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know you’re a tough guy. You have it written all over you. But you don’t strike me as a dumb tough guy.”

  He hesitated, thinking he’d already broken his vow to not get to know anyone or provide information about his past, and not wanting to disclose his location. He relied on his instinct to trust her. I’ll have her drop me at a decoy location nearby. “I guess so. Hard to turn down a ride from a pretty lady, especially in this heat.”

  “Joe,” she called to the man in the next stall. “I’m gonna give this guy a lift. Can you watch my booth for a few minutes?” She led Tommy to the pickup, and he climbed in with his package and Whitey.

  They drove with the windows down, the deep blue ocean speckled with white-crested waves on their left. Whitey sat on Tommy’s lap, tongue out, head in the window, with the wind blowing back his ears. Tara was humming along with the CD that was playing. Tommy glanced over at her, enjoying her attractive profile. I guess we’re about the same age.

  He thought about how he’d tried to make love to Nurse Carmen and failed. Humiliating. I’m not going through that again. Besides, I came here to die, not fall in love.

  “I do some surfing, you should join me sometime,” she said, breaking the silence.

  “Ha. Thanks, but if one wave hit me I’d break apart like those toy crash-up cars they used to sell. Remember? The ones that you would run into the wall and they’d break into a bunch of pieces?”

  “I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit, Just Tommy. Think strong, and you’ll be strong. The mind sends signals to the body. That’s why positivity is so important. Anyway, maybe just come out to get in some beach time and watch. You could save me if a shark comes. You seem like the heroic type.”

  “I used to be, Tara,” he said. “Used to be, in another life. This is good enough,” he said to her, pointing to the side of the road.

  She scanned ahead. “You sure?” she asked. “I don’t see a driveway.”

  “It’s close enough. I’m a bit set back from the road.”

  “Alright. I catch your drift, man of mystery. I respect that. You sure you’re okay with this load?”

  “Sure am,” Tommy responded. “I’m gonna make one of those Alaskan sleds, but with wheels. Whitey here will be my sled dog.” He realized he’d given himself an alias, but had forgotten about the dog. Hopefully it won’t matter.

  She laughed, and he loved its musical, genuine quality. They smiled at one another as he closed the truck door.

  “Don’t be a stranger, Just Tommy,” she called to him as she pulled away.

  5 The Interview

  Brenda sat at the far end of a long conference table, across from Brand, who was holding court. The seats were filled with older, snow-haired white men in expensive business suits. She was the only woman.

  “Stinson!” Brand yelled. “Damn it, I told you not to let my glass sit empty.”

  His executive assistant jumped nervously and darted to a crystal decanter on a nearby stand, using it to fill Brand’s glass.

  Brenda considered holding her tongue, but decided to speak up. “Sir, we’ve got a lot to cover. Maybe take it easy on that stuff for a bit.”

  “Keep your place, Brenda,” he snarled. “If I didn’t know how much these old bastards appreciate the eye candy, I’d boot you out of this meeting right now.”

  She felt her face flush with embarrassment and anger. She considered quitting as campaign manager once again, but her stubborn nature prevailed, as always. I hate you, you filthy drunk fucker, but I need this win for my career. The campaign manager for a miracle win, if we can pull it off.

  “Alright,” Brand addressed the group. “This started as more or less a publicity stunt, free advertising for my businesses, and to fuck with those idiot Democrats. None of us realized that there’s a real appetite for change out there and that the public would rise up and love me.” He paused, as if wanting the words to linger with the group.

  “Now,” he continued, “things have changed. We actually have a shot at this. Imagine that! All of you, the top business leaders in the country, have a huge opportunity. If we get in, we can do so much: slash corporate and personal tax rates in the highest brackets, kill all of the damn environmental regulations that cut into our profits. Not to mention shipping out all of the immigrants coming in who don’t even speak English, and get rid of these damn entitlement programs that have half the country sucking on the teat of the government. That’s where all our fucking tax money goes.”

  Brenda listened and thought about her sister, who had been born handicapped and relied on assistance, unable to function normally throughout her life. And her brother, who at his lowest point had nothing, but was rescued by government-sponsored clinics that helped him beat his addiction.

  “Except we all know that with the loopholes we have now, we don’t pay much in corporate or personal taxes,” one of the oldest of the group said. The others laughed uproariously, and Brand joined them, holding up his tumbler in salute.

  Brenda glanced up from her notepad at the man who had spoken. Like Brand, his cheeks and nose were a ruddy red, covered by burst blood vessels. Another alcoholic heart attack waiting to happen, she thought.

  “Damn right,” Brand said. “Thanks to the past Republican administration. But if we fuck this up, and the Democrats win, you can kiss all that goodbye. They’ll shitcan the whole works. It’ll be handout after handout, and people will get lazy and not want to work.”

  The group murmured in agreement.

  You all got everything handed to you, born with silver spoons in your mouths, and you still worked, Brenda thought.

  Brand continued. “So, we have to soldier on and escalate our strategy. We’ll keep the churches in our pocket with our anti-queer talking points: AIDS, gay marriage, etc. We keep the middle class in our pocket by continuing to tell them that we’ll cut their taxes and that we’ll create all kinds of jobs with the tax breaks we’re giving ourselves.

  “We keep the old people on board with the anti-immigrant spiel—maintain the fear factor. They’re all convinced immigrants are pouring over the border with backpacks full of drugs, aiming to rape and pillage them. We keep those goddamn hillbillies onboard, too. What the hell do they call themselves? Brand Boys?”

  “Brand Brigade,” Brenda interjected.

  “Right, Brand Brigade. Now that’s a scary bunch of dumb redneck
s. But they’re my dumb rednecks. Which reminds me—Brenda, at the last rally that fat bastard in overalls bear-hugged me. The crowd loved it, but he smelled to holy hell. Don’t let that happen again.”

  “You have to stop breaking protocol and going into the crowd, sir,” she reminded him.

  He ignored her. “Where was I? Right—the hillbillies. We keep up the military talk, strong America, kick-ass, U-S-A chanting and how we’re going to drain the swamp of these corrupt politicians because we’re outsiders. In their jaundiced eyes, we’re businessmen—respectable, successful men of action. That keeps them onboard. Somehow, they associate our money with brains, even though I know that’s not the case with many of you,” he said with a smirk.

  “And what about after we win?” another man asked. “How are we going to follow through on all of those promises?”

  Brand stared at him, and the group waited in anticipation. “Who the hell cares? After we win, we do whatever the hell we want.”

  The group treated Brand to another round of laughter.

  “If we keep our standing with those groups until election day, we’re in. President Brand—can you believe that?” he said proudly, waiting for the group to salute him.

  They did, with a round of applause. The stereotypes revolted Brenda, who thought about how challenging it had been to raise her kids on her own, watching the executives she’d worked for throughout her career shower themselves with excessive compensation out of corporate profits while denying her and other mid- and low-level workers pay raises and bonuses.

  She looked around at these men whom she knew to the last one had been born into entitled families, never having to struggle or want for anything. She felt the urge to get up and scream at them, but then thought of her kids, and how they depended on her and her career for their chance at a better life. Hopefully, a better life than I had.

  “Brenda! Pay attention, damn it,” Brand shouted, startling her back to the reality of what was happening in the room.

  “Can you go see what’s holding up the refreshments? The guys here haven’t had a chance to watch you walk across the room in a while.” He looked at the group. Most of them knew it was wrong to laugh at the comment and did not, although some couldn’t resist doing so to please him

  “Back to my point,” Brand continued. The country wants someone tough. That’s me, folks. And don’t forget one thing—as President I’ll have full pardon powers. So those of you who are currently under SEC investigation for your ‘financial creativeness,’ and those who haven’t been caught yet...” He paused for their uncomfortable laughter. “That means it’s open season. I’m very forgiving in these matters.”

  She got up in disgust, wishing they all knew about how he had dodged the draft with his father’s political donations. How he couldn’t tolerate even the smallest amount of pain or discomfort. How he was completely and secretly owned by the bourbon he consumed throughout the day and night. He’s a functional drunk right now, but sooner or later it’ll cost him dearly.

  “To get to the closer,” Brand said, “this is where you men come in. We need to step up the war chest. Bigger donations. We need more ads, more rallies, more visibility. We’re still behind in the polls. The rest of the Republicans take us seriously now, and they’re fighting back. Let’s finish strong, win this nomination and the presidency, and then I’ll take care of each and every one of you. You can take it to the bank, so to speak.”

  She wondered how anyone in the room could actually believe him, given that he’d just laid out a plan to deceive the entire country. She knew he would do the same to them. She wished the men knew just how much of their donations he was secretly laundering into his own private accounts. She thought of the absurdity of the fact that he had just insulted their intelligence, then asked for money, and gotten away with it.

  Am I really going to be a part of unleashing this horrible man on our country? How will I feel about myself for the rest of my life? How will history judge me?

  6 Beach Bum

  The warm sand felt good on Tommy’s feet. He buried them in it and then lifted them back out, feeling the grains run between his toes as if he were a human hourglass.

  The sound of the waves crashing and rushing to the shoreline, accompanied by the backing group of seagulls, the feel of the ocean breeze, the sun on his damaged body, and the tangy salt air all made him feel alive again.

  It brought him back to the many years he’d spent on the beach as a kid. Coney Island. He closed his eyes and laid back on his green wool military blanket to imagine it, using the power of his mind to play the memories back. It was easy, because the background sound was still the same. He saw his mother, fussing over them all. His father presided over them in his beach chair, wearing Bermuda shorts, a white wifebeater, black socks and shoes, drinking beer after beer from a dented green metal Coleman cooler. He imagined the sound of the lifeguards’ whistles and the smell of suntan lotion.

  He remembered the continuous stream of gleeful noise from the boardwalk that had been nearby. The swoosh and rush of the coaster and screams of its occupants. The joyful calliope sound of the carousel, and the smiles on the children riding its painted horses. The incredible, delectable sight, smell, and taste of the lightly greased hot dogs spinning slowly on steel rollers, and funnel cakes dusted with a snow-cropping of powdered sugar.

  He wished he could open his eyes and find himself back then. So many things I would do differently. The thoughts made him happy, in fact euphoric, a rare thing for him these past years. His thoughts slid to the years when he’d recreated those childhood memories with his own little family—him, Margie, and Bobby at the same beach, enjoying the same things. Amazingly, it had changed little during the time between his own childhood and his son’s.

  He tipped up the brown paper bag that held his bottle of wine and drained the last of it. He felt drowsy and disoriented from the alcohol, and regretted that it was dampening his enjoyment of the otherwise relaxing day.

  The memory of little Bobby began to turn his mood sour. It brought him to his own failing as a parent—his refusal to acknowledge or accept Bobby’s homosexuality until too late. Until just before he died. He thought back in anger at the corrupt cop who had caused Bobby’s death. He gratified himself by replaying his gruesome execution of Detective Carson, before leaving to come to the Keys to run out his last days and die alone.

  His peace was interrupted by a family nearby. They’d been enjoying the beach as well, adding to the typical noise of kids squealing from the scary waves and cool water, and as such, they had blended into the day. They were packing up to leave, and the kids weren’t on board with the plan. The oldest was complaining loudly, and the youngest was sitting in the sand crying.

  Tommy noticed the beer cans littering their area, and that both of the parents appeared to be intoxicated, stumbling around haphazardly while trying to pack up towels, blankets, and beach toys. The father struggled with the umbrella, attempting to close it while facing against the wind, resulting in it fighting back against his efforts.

  These can’t be locals. Must be rogue tourists. Tommy struggled to his feet. “Need help?” he asked, walking toward them. The man didn’t answer, continuing his battle against the umbrella.

  “Here, turn around facing this way,” Tommy motioned to him.

  The family stopped what they were doing to watch, and the man glared at him as he spun in the direction Tommy indicated. A gust of wind snapped the umbrella closed and pinched his fingers.

  “Motherfucker!” he exclaimed. “Mind your own fucking business, pal. Now look what you did,” he said to Tommy.

  “Excuse me, I don’t think you should talk that way in front of the kids,” Tommy said.

  “You should mind your business, mister,” the wife chimed in weakly, slurring, as if afraid not to defend her husband.

  “Okay, okay. Just trying to help is all. Forget it,” Tommy said.

  His apology apparently wasn’t good enough for the man.
He dropped the umbrella, shaking his hand out, and approached Tommy menacingly. He came forward as far as his beer gut would allow, until their noses were inches from one another.

  “Let it go,” Tommy urged him in a low voice. “Your kids are watching. Let it go for your children.”

  “Screw you, old-timer,” the man leered. “You embarrassed me in front of them.”

  “Kick his ass, Dad,” the older boy urged.

  Jesus Christ, Tommy thought. “C’mon, buddy. It’s a beautiful day. Let’s all go about our business here.” He worried about his recent lack of strength and cursed the disorientation that the bottle of wine had brought him.

  “Go ahead, Dad,” the boy called again. “Fuck him up.”

  “You shush,” his mother admonished him without taking her eyes off the men, looking hopeful that there would be an altercation.

  The man smiled and grabbed Tommy’s shirt.

  Tommy stepped to the side and grabbed the man’s wrist in his own iron grip. He twisted the man’s arm behind him, turning him to face his family and forcing him down to his knees. He gave a final shove, and the man face-planted in the sand.

  Tommy walked back toward his blanket and watched warily as the man got up. The man faced him and shouted, “You’re lucky you’re old. I just can’t kick an old man’s ass. Got to teach my boys here about respecting elders. Lucky for you, grandpa.”

  “You’re a drunk,” Tommy replied. “Both of you. You should be ashamed, as parents.”

  The woman stepped forward this time. “What the hell are you talking about? I’ve been watching you sit there and drink from that paper bag all day, you damn wino.”

  Tommy’s addled mind slipped back a little. “I don’t drink...” he started to say, before remembering. Now I do. She’s right—I’m no different from them. How did I come to this?

  “Let’s get out of here. This sumbitch is crazy,” the father said. They began to move down the beach, leaving behind the beer cans and other trash.

  “Hey,” Tommy called out. “What about your trash?”