by Tom Lytes
Mr. Warchester continued to survey his farm.
He said, “Jail’s changed him. At our last visit, he seemed more philosophical and less angry to me. He told me he was finally reaping the rewards of becoming a true leader. He kept talking about ignorance and how the general population spends their time acting like sheep.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I think he found a way to productively manage his time in there,” Mr. Warchester said. “He didn’t go into details about how.”
Peggy wiped tears from underneath her sunglasses, and said, “It should have been me in there. I’m the one who should have been put in jail. I was just so scared.”
Mr. Warchester touched her lightly on the shoulder and walked back to his pick-up, but not before she said to him, “Thank you, Mr. Warchester. I still feel bad about how everything happened with Rhodes.”
Mr. Warchester turned and smiled.
“You were both so young.”
With that, he threw a leg into the cab of his one-ton pickup and slid across the vinyl seat. He roared down Route 7 toward the fields. Peggy watched him turn off the paved road and drive across the field to join one of the men on a tractor. The truck bounced up and down. Peggy remembered the field was plowed in the fall of last year, and even with the disc running over the ridges there would be bumps until months of weathering would finish flattening them. Mr. Warchester jumped from his truck and intercepted the driving tractor, passing the man a large water bottle. When Mr. Warchester drove towards the other tractor, Peggy pulled out her phone, and studied the screen shot of last week’s Snapchat communication.
The type was Times New Roman, and the message sent to her said, “Kill your brother Doyle, or you, your old boyfriend and all the Warchesters will die.”
The communication was preceded by several similar Snapchat communications. At first, she dismissed them as a sick joke. When they didn’t stop, she became alarmed, frightened. The Snapchats became more urgent, more direct, and Peggy felt like she didn’t have many options. So, Peggy did what she had to do. She wondered if she would feel bad about killing her brother. It wasn’t that she didn’t know how. She acutely knew what it was like to feel bad about actions and decisions and mourned the loss of her innocence every day. The game changer, the line in the sand that once she was pushed across, readjusted her reality, was the day things went down with Bobby Touro and her boyfriend went to jail. She visited the farm now, probably, to witness the life she used to live and the feelings she used to feel. Rhodes would be freed from prison soon. Everything that happened, including the blackmail that led her to kill her own brother, occurred in a new realm of her life where survival, and only survival, mattered.
Bobby enjoyed lunch tremendously. It wasn’t every day he rubbed elbows with the next governor. Initially he didn’t have time in his schedule for Rotary this week, and so he was squeezing minutes out of the rest of his day to make up for lost time. For this reason, he’d moved the location of his next meeting closer to the Inn, effectively eliminating travel time. He went directly from lunch to the laundromat a block and a half away, on Elm Street, to meet his driver.
“Hi, Bobby,” his driver said when he arrived. “How was lunch?”
“Lunch was good.” Bobby didn’t break his stride. “It was the salmon.”
“Oh, I wish I could have gone with you, Bobby.” The driver tried to match Bobby’s pace, joining him in the final approach to the laundromat. “You know I love the salmon.”
“Yeah,” Bobby said, grunting a little. “Did you set everything up?”
“All set, like you asked.”
Bobby pushed through the swinging glass door and walked past spinning laundry machines. He acknowledged a few of the patrons who were in various stages of washing and drying loads. About half were actively folding laundry, and the rest were hanging out. Nobody paid much mind to Bobby and his driver.
They passed through the laundromat and into the grimy back office with no windows and a metal fire door. When Bobby and the driver were in there together, it was hard to find anywhere to be without feeling too close. On the floor was a man with his feet and hands trussed up, a desk, a chair, a department store gift bag, and a filing cabinet.
“You’ve disappointed me,” Bobby said, getting right into it.
The man struggled against his restraints and made unintelligible sounds through a gag that looked uncomfortably tight.
Bobby said to the man, “I could live with you skimming once in a while. I know you need the extra money for your mother.”
The man stopped trying to speak. He froze, putting effort into opening his eyes wide.
“What?” Bobby asked as he watched fear lick at the man’s facial features. “You thought I didn’t know about your mother being sick?”
The man didn’t reply because he couldn’t with the gag, but he might not have said anything anyway. Bobby’s driver stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him.
“When you were skimming my money for your Mom it felt like charity, you know? I thought, what the hell? It’s going to a good cause. I would help any of my men if their mother became sick.”
Bobby sat down in the chair.
“But then you got cocky, or greedy, or both. The money started going to other things. A little flash, right?” Bobby picked up the man’s hand and exposed an impressive Rolex. “After the enormous fucking watch came the high-priced whore with the enormous tits. Am I right?”
The man’s valiant efforts to speak ended. He let go of a single tear, and it landed on the gray concrete floor as he went limp and all fight left him.
“Let me show you something ridiculously funny,” Bobby said.
He reached down to the department store gift bag and pulled it close to his chair. The other man could do nothing but watch intently.
“So, I was given this Black and Decker tree trimming saw for my birthday. It was two years ago, from my Aunt Alison.” Bobby had the orange and black tool completely free from the bag and showed the other man how the tool functioned. “It’s called the ‘Gator’ because these two chains, like two miniature chainsaws, open and close like an alligator’s mouth. That’s how you’re supposed to trim a tree, putting the branch right in there.”
Bobby shook his head incredulously.
“Do you see how that works?” Bobby asked. He answered his own question. “Yeah, so we had this storm last March. You probably remember with all the limbs down and everything. My yard was a mess. So, it’s Sunday and on account of wanting fresh air I take this tool outside and I get excited to use it. I’m gonna cut up all kinds of branches and shit.”
Bobby paused as he plugged the tool into the light socket by the desk.
“The thing is, it’s electric,” Bobby was waving the tool over his head as he spoke. “I’m way out in my yard with this thing and it won’t work because it’s like half a mile from my house. Do you get what I’m saying? It’s electric and it’s gotta plug in.”
Bobby hit the trigger and both saws started to circulate. He pulled a lever and the two saws snapped open and shut like an alligator’s mouth.
“I was so pissed that I called the toll-free number for Black and Decker to ask them why they made such a pansy-wuss cutting thing,” Bobby said as he looked at it. “I guarantee you that my Aunt Alison would not have bought me this thing if she knew it was electric. Do you know what I mean?”
The man was trying to squirm away again, but there was nowhere to go in the small room. Bobby put his foot on the man’s ribs to hold him in place as he stood above him.
“It pays to have an open mind. I will never forget what that nice lady from Black and Decker said when I complained. She told me, ‘That tool works very well on soft woods that might need cutting. Maybe a little closer to your home.’ I told her my home is surrounded by hardwoods. You know what she said? She told me, ‘You will b
e surprised how useful that tool can be in the right situation. And maybe if it’s not for you, then maybe try it with a friend.’”
Bobby leaned over and looked the man right in the eye.
“When she said that, I had no idea what she meant. But over time I’ve come to understand that my perspective was wrong. Standing here, with you in the room, and thinking about you, my old friend, I know this is the right situation. You are just the friend I want to use it with.”
Bobby pushed the lever and held it down until the chains revved. He leaned over and sank the alligator-like apparatus of the saw into some of the soft, fleshy parts of the man.
After ten minutes of revving and chomping, Bobby was done.
“Got the hang of that thing by the end,” Bobby said to his driver on the way out of the office. He handed the bloodied Black and Decker tool to him as he wiped his hands with a small white towel. “Bring him back to his neighborhood. Drop him outside our place over there. Make sure we clean up really good here.”
The driver looked past Bobby and into the office. He paused a beat before he swallowed and looked away, “Yes, boss. No problem.”
The driver followed Bobby out to the front and gave directions to some of Bobby’s guys. When he was done, three men came into the laundry with cleaning supplies and trash bags. Two went into the office and closed the door. Bobby was out by the car, and the driver only joined him once he was sure the clean-up was underway and progressing smoothly.
Carson was the last to leave the lunch, and he figured the “mantle count” would be high following the meeting. It turned out there were a lot of Rotarians that wanted their picture with him, which was a usual post dessert activity for Carson at events like this. He was on message and preaching to the faithful, and he always sealed the deal with pictures at the end.
Carson checked his watch and approached the front desk. The young girl from before snapped her gum and looked at him appreciatively.
“Can I help you, Mr. Miller?”
Carson leaned over the counter and rested an elbow against it. He leaned in close and smiled, showing most of his teeth.
“Why thank you,” he said with sincerity, like he would forever be in her debt. “I so appreciate you asking me that.”
“It’s my pleasure,” the girl gushed back. “It was nothing.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Carson said as he kept up the huge smile assault. “I have another meeting, but it’s in a hotel room. Did somebody leave a key for me?”
“Let me check, sir.” She clacked at the keyboard a dozen times before noticing a note scrawled on a scrap of paper in front of her. “Yes, let me get you the key. It will be room 422, and the other party is already here. It looks like they picked up a key before my shift.”
“Well, thanks for the great information,” he said as she handed him the plastic key to room 422.
Carson tucked it into his breast pocket. He turned from the desk and continued through the lobby and into the elevator. He was as ready as he would ever be for what had to be done. The accolades from the Rotary lunch were about to be countered by a wealthy donor who would likely berate him about some angle in governing that Carson didn’t care about but was vital to the donor. Afterwards, a promise of money would be made, and Rube would adjust Carson’s platform appropriately. Then in a month, there’d be a dinner.
Carson looked at his watch. He was right on time, and when he was out of the rustic elevator, a brass plaque directed him down the hall and to the right. The carpet was festive.
“Looks like a paisley tie juxtaposed with a plate of noodles,” Carson remarked.
When Carson let himself into the room, he did a double-take to be sure he entered the right place. The person waiting for him was a woman in a flattering dress, strategically cut low and high in places that accentuated taut muscles and fantastic curves.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, in retreat. “I must be in the wrong room.”
“Oh, why would you say that Carson?” the woman asked, looking disappointed and bored at the same time. “Relax, you’re right on time.”
Still a few seconds away from adjusting his expectations, Carson said, “I’m here to meet San. Is he here?”
“I’m San.” The woman approached him now with her arm outstretched to shake hands. The gesture opened the top of her dress another inch. “It’s short for Santrelle Simonson.”
“Oh,” Carson said, and then recovering some, he flashed a smile before continuing. “Of course, it’s my mistake. Sorry San, pleased to meet you in person.”
Santrelle looked at Carson as if he was insignificant. She stared and waited as discomfort spread over Carson’s face.
“I called this meeting to kick-start my Super Pac,” Santrelle said. “Perhaps you’re aware of the sale of my cosmetics company? I like your message and want to put my money to work. I’m willing to commit fifty million dollars towards your election efforts, and towards your national candidacy. If you end up being nominated for president, I will make two-hundred million dollars available to further that goal.”
“Wow,” Carson was staggered by a mention of the presidency. He’d always discussed the possibility with Rube, and there’d been a mention in the New York Times, but this was the first time it came from a donor. And Santrelle was throwing huge numbers at him. Rube had not given him the indication that this meeting would be so intense, or profitable. Was it too good to be true? “Thank you, first of all. I mean that. We will do good work for this great country, and supporters like you make our goals possible—”
“There will be a few conditions,” Santrelle said, interrupting him. “One: You will never say anything like your last three sentences to me, ever again. I don’t have time to listen to that crap. Two: My Super Pac will fund a program that will do for the country what you have described in numerous campaign stops. It will sort out the undesirables by tracking their online interactions with the world. If they prove to be no good, the program will find them guilty and work to eliminate them.”
Carson interrupted to clarify, “You said eliminate. How, exactly?”
“However it decides.”
“So,” Carson asked, “using force?”
“When appropriate, yes,” Santrelle said as she looked far enough out the window for her dress to rise on the back of her leg. She turned around quickly enough to see Carson looking and walked over to him. “We will use the criteria you define in your speeches. Together we will clean up the cultural dumpster that America has become. The program is called Clean. It will work discreetly until we want to make a public announcement; it will be impossible to find or trace. Clean will function completely separately from you or I, but we will monitor its progress.”
“Something like that exists?” Carson asked.
“I need a yes or no on this right now.” Santrelle reached out and groped between his legs just long enough to assess his level of desire and make it obvious that she could do what she wanted with him. “In or out?”
“In,” Carson said with a poker face. He shuffled his feet.
“Good.” Santrelle smiled and brought her hand to Carson’s cheek. “I have a computer expert who will contact you about the Clean program and provide a login for you to check its daily progress. As I said, you will interact with it, observationally. I will fund its operation. For now, the program will work in the shadows and won’t connect back to me, or connect back to you either, unless you decide to tell America about its existence. Okay?”
“Okay,” Carson said. “How can you be sure that no one will know?”
“They won’t know,” Santrelle said as she put her palms up and smiled. “Simple.”
Carson nodded slowly and looked to be thinking about that.
“There is a third condition,” Santrelle said. “Starting right now, when we meet, you’ll give me your phone, keys and wallet. I’ll pat you dow
n if I think it’s necessary.”
“Whaa….” Carson said, obviously surprised by the third condition.
“It’s for our security.” And to further explain, she said, “There won’t be any recordings, or problems.”
“Oh, right,” Carson said feeling a little better.
Santrelle was gone thirty seconds later, leaving Carson alone in room 422 of the Blanford Inn. For a tested, seasoned candidate, he was rarely left surprised, but the encounter with Santrelle left him wondering if the meeting really happened. He smiled, and laughed, and tried not to overthink such an incredible development.
Vickie ducked into the bathroom in the lobby and changed into sweatpants and a boxy t-shirt. Santrelle disappeared, for now, when the make-up came off and she put the push-up bra into her bag. Phoning Vortmit, who she needed to call Leonard, came next.
“Leonard, everything worked. He bought it.”
“Perfect,” he said. “There is no doubt? He suspects nothing?”
“He probably expects to get laid, and definitely expects millions of dollars to pump through his campaign. That’s it.”
Vortmit hung up without responding.
Vickie leaned over the sink and stared at her reflection. She pulled off being Santrelle Simonson. She fooled Carson Miller. It was one thing to think she could, hope she could, and a whole other to do it unscripted, by the seat of her pants.
She thought back to when it started a few days ago, at what seemed like a routine audition.
The casting director provided her agent few details prior to her arrival, but Vickie auditioned for enough television and stage parts to know when people in the room appreciated her work. Dressed a little edgier, and much sexier than they expected, she did her best to act authoritative to land the mysterious job, to be sure. A six-figure paycheck convinced her to ignore the unusual secrecy surrounding the part and she jumped in with abandon, embracing the haughty attitude they requested.
When she’d finished the audition, Vickie picked a good angle to show her attractive figure and held it. The metal folding chair with scratches all over the paint pushed back as the casting director stood.