Chapter 18
Over the ensuing weeks, Righty found himself appreciating Tats more than ever. Not only had he provided him with a lucrative connection in a more valuable currency, but he had also helped reestablish order in the junkyard gang. It had not escaped Righty’s attention that not one full day had passed after Tats left for Sodorf City before Righty had to have Harold bash Chalky’s brains out in order to prevent an isolated problem from turning into a full-blown sedition.
Although he had not sensed any loyalty problems after Chalky’s elimination, and in fact he felt confident that Chalky’s removal had purchased Righty a reasonable period of peaceful governance, Tats’ presence amongst the gang gave him a peace of mind that could not be matched.
At the end of the day—boxing skills and swordsmanship skills notwithstanding—Righty was “Mr. Brass,” an outsider who had appeared out of nowhere and barely spent any time with them. They didn’t know his real name or where he lived and were too afraid to ask. Tats was David Havensford. A guy many of them had known since childhood and who was from their neighborhood. He had their respect and affection, even if they didn’t fear him.
Righty felt that with Tats there he could be reasonably sure of being apprised of any grievances amongst the gang before they blossomed into full-blown problems, but he didn’t feel completely certain of that in Tats’ absence. He considered himself lucky that Chalky had made the mistake of revealing his dissatisfaction—albeit briefly—because otherwise Righty wouldn’t have known to assign Harold the mission of snooping on him with permission to kill at his discretion.
The next discontent mighty be slyer, and without Righty even suspecting it, he could show up at the junkyard one day to face an organized mob of murderous rebels.
Yet he knew Tats yearned to become a warrior, and it was becoming increasingly hard for Righty to ignore the unparalleled opportunity that had been presented. The ranch hands were fearsomely agile with several weapons, and by living there Tats could train daily and learn a considerable amount of the fighting arts in a year or two.
But Righty needed Tats to cement the loyalty of the junkyard gang. And there was another issue. If Tats knew about the ranch, he would be privy to the details of virtually Righty’s entire enterprise. That much knowledge was dangerous to put into one man’s head, as capture and torture could extricate it even if disloyalty could not. Thus, he maintained silence on this opportunity and decided he would do so until that ranch was merely one amongst several.
Righty visited his plants daily with the diligence of a mother towards her child, and when the barren land was first pierced from underneath with thousands of tiny green spears, he nearly wept with joy. If not every day, at least every several days or so there was a notable difference in their size.
Determined to rule out the possibility it was his imagination, he began measuring them, and sure enough the plants were growing fast. He decided to be frank with the ranchers, given the devotion they also showed to the incipient crop, that he had so far only produced seedless plants with his efforts, and he promised $50,000 falons to the first person who found a plant that produced seeds.
In spite of the fact he was now making more than $200,000 per day—thanks to the weekly trip to Rucifus, who paid with velurs—every day he was becoming more and more stressed about his inability to meet his customers’ demands. Rucifus was starting to insist Righty come twice per week and that she thought it would only be a matter of time before she would be needing several times the quantity in each shipment.
Tats was having to work very hard to convince the junkyard gang that Righty was on the verge of a breakthrough, but he reminded Righty every day that the retailers were growing frustrated with the small amounts being moved.
Righty was tempted when the plants first started sprouting bulbs to start picking them right away, but he felt it would be more prudent to wait until they were ripe. He wasn’t sure if the quality would be the same otherwise.
Then, finally, it happened. About two months after he had first planted them, he found that the bulbs were as big as the ones in the garden by his house, maybe more so.
He was so elated he consciously attempted to control himself, the way a person struck with an attack of the giggles in a serious situation might pinch his finger to avoid making an utter fool of himself. But it was of no use.
“WOOOO!!!” he yelled and then began dancing a strange dance he had never seen or heard of before. Fortunately, the ranch hands were out of sight and shouting distance, so he had his moment of ecstatic insanity without being witnessed by anyone other than his birds. After several minutes of undignified, yet understandable, jubilee, he collapsed happily onto his back, tears of joy and laughter streaming down his face.
He stared up at the sky and wondered how he could have ever been so lucky. Although he was now lying flat on the ground, he felt dizzy, as if he were going to fall over. He feared that at any moment he might wake up.
Richie, you’re gonna be late for work at the lumberyard.
What time is it, babe?
Almost 5.
And then he would rise from bed, head pounding from the hangover from the twenty beers he had the night before, and all of his soul tortured by the miserable prospects of what lay before him that day, the next day, the next week, the next month, and the next year until his back or legs gave out and he sat around the porch in dirty rags for the rest of his rotten life while Janie kept their family from starving through some menial job—but one that required literacy, something a big numbskull, almost champion like him didn’t have.
For a moment, the prospect of this nightmare being the case caused him to close his eyes. Surely, he was dreaming. Bitter tears of despair trickled down his face. He would kill himself if he were dreaming. Yes, he most certainly would. Not one more day at the lumberyard.
He counted down from ten very slowly in his mind, and when he got to zero he opened his eyes gingerly. The sun was warm and pleasant but not overbearing. The weather warm but not brutal. He stood up. A sea of tall green plants so tightly packed no space between them could be perceived stared at him like the at-attention faces of an army of soldiers awaiting their general’s orders.
You are my soldiers, he thought to himself, and with you at my side, nothing can stop me.
He got on his horse and rode over to where the ranch hands were and whistled loudly. He informed him there was going to be a party tonight like never recorded before in the annals of history and to not even think about working past 4 p.m. He then gave each man $10,000 a piece for the work they had done watching over the plants on occasion and told them the prize for finding a seed-producing plant had gone up to $100,000.
He then handed one of them $2,000 and told them to get a cookout ready by 6 p.m. and to kill the fattest cow.
It was only 1 p.m., but what the heck—he wasn’t waiting until 9 p.m. tonight to let Tats know the good news. He got out a couple of scales that he had had on hand waiting for this very moment and got thirty pounds together. He then jumped on Harold’s back and flew to Sivingdel.
He was elated when he found Tats at home and even more so when Tats told him how lucky he was because he was moving into a new home the next day. According to Tats’ description, it was a mansion in one of the finest neighborhoods of the city.
Righty hugged him and congratulated him warmly but also suggested he make sure to wear attire that would enable him to blend in with his new affluent surroundings. Tats pointed to a box and invited Right to open it. It was filled with fine, tailored suits.
“You’re one step ahead,” Righty said laughing.
Tats then informed Righty that while he was the first of the gang to move out of the junkyard he wouldn’t be the last and that in fact most of the gang was already getting pretty close to purchasing a house individually, and those that weren’t able to afford that yet were talking about pooling their money together to do so.
“We might have to find a new meeting spot, Mr. Brass,�
�� Tats said.
“You’re probably right, Tats, and it’s likely long overdue. We’re as predictable as a bridge club, and yet we’re all criminals. We’ll talk more about that soon.”
Tats’ eyes nearly bulged out of his head when he saw the thirty pounds Righty had brought.
“We can move that tonight. We might even be able to move the same amount tomorrow. We’ll see. There’s been a lot of unmet demand lately. Can you provide this much and more on a regular basis?” Tats asked, his voice wavering slightly, as if he feared a negative answer.
Righty nodded slowly with a smile on his face.
Tats started counting out $600,000 falons, but Righty stopped him at $500,000.
“I’ll give you a discount due to the size.”
Tats thanked him ecstatically.
Tats gave Righty his new address, and they agreed to meet the next day at 2 p.m. They also agreed that it would probably be better not to have regular meetings with the whole gang at once, since that made them easier to spot. Righty also suggested to Tats that he consider not sharing his address with anyone except perhaps to his next in command and maybe not even with him.
“You’re becoming a major player now, Tats. That means people are going to be envious of you. Privacy and anonymity are your two of your best protections.”
Tats nodded with a serious look on his face and told him he was going to strongly consider it.
That night, as Righty celebrated with his men, he felt like a general enjoying leisure time with his troops.
And that night, as he made sweet love to his wife, he felt like king of the world.
Chapter 19
“GO!!” shouted Chief Rulgers, head of the National Drug Police. “This is a Level 3 drill!!”
Ten men moved forward to storm into the small house. It was built without a roof because the NDP had a very important guest today. None other than Senator Hutherton, who insisted on witnessing every last detail of the agents’ training drills. And they could properly be called agents too because the cut had been last week. Thirty highly qualified men had been let go, most of whom were soldiers and thus returned to the Seleganian Army.
Seventy men had remained and were sworn in the following day in a private ceremony witnessed only by the president and a few select senators. They were the best of the best. The remnant of both the brutal interview cuts and the even-more brutal training-based cuts. So close were many of those cut to meeting the necessary mark that many of them were congratulated personally by Senator Hutherton for their heroic exertions and told that they would be more than welcome to apply again if the NDP received more funding.
Hutherton’s gut had proved its acuteness when Frederick Manhausen and Robert Machendale rose to the top of the pile, Freddie just slightly excelling the latter, as this had been Hutherton’s private prediction after conducting the interviews. President Beldenshire had remained so pleased with Hutherton’s sponsorship of The Safer Streets Act that he had spoken to Chief Rulgers and made sure he was aware that he was to defer to Hutherton privately, without exception, in all instructions regarding the NDP, although Rulgers was to publicly report directly only to the attorney general.
Hutherton had instructed Rulgers to keep a close look out for leadership and dominant personalities and select the seven best leaders, each of whom would be part of, and lead, a unit of ten men. He further asked him to assign the most elite agents to the two most skilled leaders. This led to Manhausen leading the most elite unit in the NDP, followed by Machendale’s unit.
Hutherton did not show up to micromanage. He found Rulgers to be a kindred spirit on most matters, and Hutherton only showed up occasionally to not let his shadowy influence to be forgotten. But today Hutherton had far more specific aims than that.
Two men smashed down the door with a large battering ram, while others knocked out the windows. As the men moved throughout the house, the weight of their footsteps pulled levers causing life-size images painted onto paper to pop up rapidly. The men coolly disregarded unarmed women and children, but occasionally sliced the head off of a man with a malicious expression.
Anyone carrying a weapon of any kind was immediately cut down. Every agent had already been given a small portrait of potential targets that might be in the house, and when the initial sweep failed to yield any captured targets they began destroying the walls and floorboards in a ferocious search for hidden compartments.
Several times, this resulted in a human image quickly popping out—sometimes horizontally, other times vertically or at varied angles—all of which were quickly cut to shreds. This distinguished the drill from a Level 1 or Level 2 drill, in which even those individuals found in hidden compartments were to be individually evaluated for threat assessment. At Level 3, anyone found in a hidden compartment was to be deemed a fatal threat unless painted in an image of unequivocal terror and surrender.
Hutherton was more than pleased as he watched the surgical precision of Manhausen’s unit as it discovered and dispatched various threats with such unity that the ten men seemed to be tentacles of one body. Several minutes later, the unit had discovered all the targets planted in this particular house.
Hutherton stood and gave the men an ovation from his lofty chair with all the enthusiasm of a man who has witnessed a moving play. He then walked down the stairs and warmly congratulated each of the men in Manhausen’s unit before requesting a private audience with him.
Moments later, Hutherton was seated in Chief Rulger’s leather chair in his private office across from Manhausen.
“Do you prefer Agent Manhausen or Sergeant Manhausen?” Hutherton asked him with the sincere concern the best of hosts might employ when inquiring into the comfort of an important guest.
Freddie was elated at such a fantastic dilemma, having gone so many years without the honor of any title whatsoever, but “Agent” had a certain freshness about it that “Sergeant” never could, given his painful memories of the dishonorable conclusion of his military service.
“I would be most honored, senator, if you addressed me with either, but given the importance of my current mission, I believe ‘Agent’ might be the most fitting.”
“‘Agent’ it is then,” Hutherton said smiling. Then, he became gravely serious and slightly lowered his volume, though not quite to a whisper.
“Agent Manhausen, you’re the best agent in the NDP. In many ways, that is an objective conclusion anyone who has reviewed your record so far in the NDP would have to reach. But there is more to you than just your performance on physical and mental examinations. Something those cold instruments can never fully appraise. You have something special on the inside.”
Hutherton watched his subject carefully with the studious precision of an engineer examining a complex contraption. Manhausen’s face would have been inscrutable to anyone else, but Hutherton noticed the ever-so-slight blush that came over his face. Then, he proceeded.
“I knew that about you from the moment I interviewed you, but my confidence in you has grown exponentially over the last few months while I have observed you. You are the kind of man who can see the big picture.” Hutherton’s scrutiny intensified. “The kind of man who can focus on the end goal without getting fussy over how it is reached.”
Hutherton paused. “Would you agree with that assessment?”
“A soldier’s only end goal should be full obedience with his orders. It is the burden of politicians to debate morality.”
“Yes, Agent Manhausen, personally I agree with you, both on your conclusion and your classification of morale debates as being burdensome, which they most truly are. But you’re more than just a soldier now, Agent Manhausen. You are a leader, and I need to know if you agree that a noble aim must be achieved whatever the cost.”
Manhausen paused for a moment. He had never been high enough in the military to deem his mind worthy of moral reflection, and thus, he found the invitation to thus reflect simultaneously intriguing and terrifying.
“A l
eader who has a noble aim should seek to achieve it in the least injurious manner possible,” he began, before taking a lengthy pause, “but far too often, I believe, a noble end is not achieved due to an excessive concern about the means used.” He paused again and then said, “I think most people are far too inclined to shortchange the importance of reaching the goal, no matter what the cost.”
Hutherton was satisfied with the response. He looked at Manhausen now more carefully than ever, ready to abort the ensuing conversation at the first moment he detected the slightest qualms in Manhausen’s words, tone, or expression.
“Agent Manhausen, there is something of great importance that needs to be done very soon.”
Freddie looked at him with the excitement and determination of a zealous hound dog that sees its master readying the instruments of the hunt.
Chapter 20
DING DONG.
DING DONG.
The Republic of Selegania Boxed Set: Volumes One through Four Page 68