by Leo Sullivan
As he now instructed her, his countenance was compelling. This was the man-child that intrigued her the most, his eyes now dark obsidian pools of robust determination. “Sasha, you are going to walk out of here with complete confidence. I want you to smile and speak first to any police that looks at you. We are leaving out this hospital and there’s nobody who can stop us! You understand?”
She nodded her head and wheeled him into the hallway. It looked as if all hell had broken loose, police running all over the place. Freddy felt Sasha stutter step before she continued down the corridor. Freddy bowed his head, feigning sleep with his face partially concealed by his shoulder. If there was such a thing as Lady Luck, he sure needed her now. They strolled along with ease, and Freddy could feel the sway of her strut. A pretty black girl and a one-legged man asleep in a wheelchair. He peered furtively ahead and counted twelve police officers at full attention, alert and waiting near the entrance.
Sasha headed right for them with so much bounce in her step that he feared she might be overdoing it. He was right. She was shaking her derriere with too much moxie, as if she was a supermodel on the runway. All eyes were on them, or so it felt, as he heard her continuous monotones of “Hello” and “Good morning officer.” Freddy curse under his breath. And then it happened, an officer barked, “Hey, you!”
Sasha froze in her tracks. The police officer rushed right up to them. Freddy could not see him, but he listened, bracing himself. “Ma’am, let me help you with that door,” the officer said.
“Why thank you, how sweet of you,” Sasha said coquettishly and wiggled her butt right out the door, putting on a show.
Outside, a mellow breeze made Freddy conscious of the perspiration that had formed on his brow. The bright sun beamed down on them as Sasha walked briskly across the bumpy, worn out concrete. Marilyn had told him she would have a yellow cab waiting. Freddy squinted his eyes, and to his utter amazement, there were four yellow cabs parked side by side. Time was of the essence as he considered the dilemma.
“Which one?” Sasha panted.
With no time to think, he acted purely on instinct, motivated by fear, answering, “The one at the end.” She opened the door and to Freddy’s relief, inside the cab he saw a suitcase and two shopping bags of clothes with the tags still on them. As she helped him into the cab, he stood up and looked warily back at the hospital entrance. Sweating profusely, he looked weaker than ever, just that short journey having depleted the last remnants of his meager strength. As he stood to his full height, looking back at the hospital lobby, his face slackened into a trance-like expression and the world seemed to stand still for that infinite moment in time when their eyes locked, the hunter and the hunted.
Detective Fermen raced back down the main elevator only to find the most hated scumbag in the world slipping from his very grasp. He stood in the lobby as if hypnotized, looking through the picture window, and like a mirage shimmering in the heat of a distant sun, Freddy Thugstin smiled at him. “That’s him! That’s him!” Freddy ducked into the cab. “That’s him!” Fermen shrieked, frantically pointing a finger at the cab as it pulled out into traffic. Another yellow cab followed suit as all the police rushed out the door at exactly the same time in a pandemoniac parody of the Keystone Cops.
******
In a plush, palatial mansion a red telephone sat perched inside an open-top, polished walnut case mounted on a silver tray, ensconced in a clear transparent cover. It chimed softly, flashing with a scarlet urgency. James the butler awakened from his nod. He ambled over to the phone, the bright red light splashing across his immaculate black and white attire. Picking up the tray, he proceeded down the long majestic hallway, his gait labored and slow, riddled with decades of loyal subservience, victim of Time’s inevitable geriatric imperatives. Softly he knocked on the heavy oak door of the master library without waiting for a response, he entered with phone posed on gloved hands and approached the figure sitting at the desk. Their eyes exchanged foreboding glances. The red phone could only mean one thing; emergency. Only three people in the world had possession of the special access code. James placed the phone on the desk, nodded his head and left the room.
The man stared at the phone, spasmodic flashes of crimson illuminating his face as he reached for it. “Hello,” he said.
“I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour Senator Williams,” the former Attorney General of the United States apologized, “but this is a matter of some importance. Sir, as you are aware, we have been waiting for your decision for quite some time now.”
“Yes, yes,” the Senator said hesitantly while searching his mind for an excuse to stall for more time.
“The time is ripe, Senator,” the voice on the other end continued, “for our confidential sources in the House have learned that President Clancy is about to have impeachment proceedings filed against him.” Senator Williams bolted straight up in his seat. Daniel Steel now had his full attention. “Now is the time to move. Such an opportunity comes only once in a man’s life, but only if you act decisively. Everything is in ord—“
The Senator cut him off. “What about the rest of the Senate?” he asked. He heard the muffled sounds of a hand being held over the receiver before Daniel Steel returned.
“Senator, the rest of Congress is unimportant for they have no influence on the process. Sir, you recognize as well as we do that it is time for a change, that this scandal cannot continue to taint the highest office in the land. Your repudiation of the Democrats and coming over to the GOP will rock the foundations of the American political bureaucracy when you announce your intent to run for the Presidency. It is unconscionable that Clancy should ignore our instructions and announce that he will seek a second term.” Steel’s voice quivered with excitement as he tried to convince Williams to make a decision. “Senator Williams, you know our financial resources are limitless and that with your announcement, your power will no longer derive solely from your legislative seat, but instead you will have the collective power of corporate America behind you. Our control of the media alone will ensure your election.”
The silence of contemplation was short-lived as Williams heard his own voice begin of its own volition to spout that meaningless rhetoric that had gotten him elected to a Democratic seat in the United States Senate for the state of Illinois. “Our great nation can no longer abide the shame and degeneracy that this scurrilous mountebank has brought to America’s highest office. He holds our freedom hostage with his obscene despotic rule, and I, as of today, fully intend to dethrone him!”
The phone exploded with raucous applause. The Senator snatched it from his ear and looked into it, saying, “Steel! What the hell is going on here?”
“Senator,” the voice chuckled amiably, “I put you on the speaker. I’m calling from the Table.” The Table was the codename of a secret society of wealthy antebellum families consisting of influential leaders in law, education, banking, and industry; a sort of clandestine American plutocracy.
“Hi Bob,” greeted Arthur Schenectady, CEO of Time-Life Inc., and the controlling shareholder in a dozen other major corporations.
United States Supreme Court Justice R. Philip Whelan also expressed his enthusiasm. “We knew you’d come around, Williams,” On and on, each member of the Table expressed his support.
Senator Bob Williams recognized each and every voice, for they were his friends and his peers, men he had known all his life. For members were not recruited into the Table, but rather were born into it, the power being passed from father to son in a long succession that extended back to the very birth of the Republic. A smile creased the Senator’s thin lips as he envisioned these men in the hidden location where generations of wealthy men had plotted, conspired, and ultimately changed the very course of history.
The Table first came into its own with the assassination of Abraham Lincoln in 1865, when they sacrificed the life of John Wilkes Boothe over the “forty acres and a mule” reparations that Lincoln had promised a subculture
of people thought to be inferior. People whom Lincoln had already found to be only three-fifths human.
Now, over a century later, the scions of power stood in their forefathers’ shoes mapping a course that would once again change history. From the price of oil on the world market, to the curriculum taught in grade schools, this small group of men controlled the destiny of the masses.
Williams knew that now that the ball was in motion, there would be no turning back. He listened attentively to Steel. “Tomorrow morning we’re sending over a speech writer named Suzy Weaver. She worked for Nixon and she’s very good. We’ll let you get to know each other and by the end of the week, you will hold a press conference wherein you will announce your party change and intent to run. As you well know, Senator, this will create a media frenzy, so make sure there are no skeletons in your closet.”
The group discussed tactics and strategy and the conversation ended with the members’ collective oath of allegiance to a One-World Order dominated by the Table and the United States. Senator Williams sat back, feeling the stiffness of his spine uncoil. He extracted a Cuban cigar from a gold-leafed humidor while he contemplated his nemesis, President Andrew C. Clancy.
The President was inextricably embroiled in the Sandry Blaylock scandal. Geraldo Rivera, a reporter famous for his unconventional investigative style, claimed he had found a paper trail of fraud and deceit that ran deep into the rustic south of Alabama. Approximately fifteen years ago, a young girl by the name of Sandra Blaylock worked for the then Governor Clancy as an intern in her senior year of high school as part of an honorary meritocracy scholarship program, the successful completion of which would have sent her on to Yale. President Clancy was being accused of having fathered a child by her during that time. A black woman of 33 years, Sandra Blaylock now lived in moderate comfort and her son attended private schools. The media offered literally millions for the story of her and her handsome mulatto son, but she refused to even be interviewed. Inspite of this scandal, President Clancy let it be know that he fully intended to run for reelection.
“Yes, indeed, the people need a man of integrity and strong moral fiber,” Williams mused aloud as he affectionately caressed Socrates, feeling slightly aroused by the animal's hairless body. “Make sure there are no skeletons in your closet.” These words resonated hauntingly in the back of his mind as he now tried to sweep his mental crevasses clean of any incriminating evidence. He considered his affinity for exotic geishas and voluptuous black women, but his thoughts settled on the real hard evidence in his safe; the fraudulent deeds to land that he had swindled from the poor and ignorant, and especially the pictorial record of his perverse sexual exploits. Yes, he would need to get rid of those relics or at least find a better, more removed location to store them, especially the jewels.
The story of those jewels provenance dated back over 2000 years. It was that the rubies and the large diamonds were originally part of the Royal Scepter with which Cleopatra ruled Egypt. With the Roman invasion of Egypt under Julius Caesar in 47 B.C., Cleopatra hid the scepter in the Great Library of Alexandria where it remained unseen for over 400 years. When Christian soldiers, acting under the edict of the Roman Emperor Theodosius, destroyed the library in 391 A.D., the scepter made its way to Ethiopia in the possession of a wounded Christian soldier who took sanctuary and died at a monastery in Aksum. The jewels were removed from the scepter and became the property of the early Ethiopian Orthodox Church, where they remained secreted as holy relics, along with the Ark of the Covenant, in the main Coptic cathedral for the next 1500 years. In 1931, they somehow fell into the hands of Emperor Haile Selassie, Lion of Judah, Elect of God, who sold them to feed his starving people. The Senator'’ father was the buyer and had paid $2.7 million.
The face of Geraldo Rivera flashed across the screen of Williams’ mind as Steel’s voice said, “Make sure there are no skeletons in your closet.” He stood up quickly, Socrates yipping in protest, and walked briskly down the corridor. He ascended the sprawling stairs, arriving at the top winded, and then stepped the few paces to the Michaelangelo portrait to the side and was about to spin the combination when he noticed that the door was ajar.
Bob threw the door open and groped frantically inside, retrieving a few old documents. Everything else was gone! A sharp pain shot through his chest and beads of perspiration burst forth on his shining bald pate as he dropped Socrates and the papers, grabbing his chest with his hands and shrieking, “James! James!” as he slouched sideways into the wall and slid down it, crumbling to the floor.
“Make sure there are no skeletons in your closet.” The words reverberated in his head as the magnitude of his light dragged him down into the quicksand of his indiscretions. The jewels… the pictures of his lascivious escapades… the documentation of all his fraudulent real estate deals! Senator Bob Williams had somehow been robbed of his skeletons.
Confused, Williams opened his eyes to find his entire staff, all fourteen maids and cooks, standing there gawking at him. James waved his way through the crowd wondering what all the commotion was about. He saw his boss sprawled on the floor, one hand pressed to his chest, mumbling to himself.
James bellowed at the staff. “You are to return to your assigned areas at once!” Slowly they dispersed, casting parting glances back over their shoulders. Bob was now holding his head in his hands, crestfallen. “Sir, may I be of some service?” James asked.
“Yes, James,” Bob replied, “We have a major problem. A theft has taken place. I’ve been robbed.”
“Robbed!?” James repeated, his thick gray eyebrows knotted in consternation. “Sir, perhaps I should summon the police.”
“No! No,” Bob said, throwing his hands up in the air as if warding off a blow. “No, we must find the culprit ourselves and employ the utmost discretion.”
James stepped forward extending his hand to help his boss to his feet. “Sir, might I inquire what happened?”
“Someone has stolen some very valuable items from my safe and I have no idea whom,” Bob said adjusting his clothes. “James, do we have any new employees?”
“No sir, the last person we hired was the Japanese gardener and that was nearly seven years ago. Of course sir, their backgrounds have been thoroughly investigated.”
“Well James, there is approximately thirty thousand dollars missing, along with some very valuable antique jewels and important documents that, if made public, could cause irreparable harm. I want each and every one of them investigated again and their families too. Make sure security understands that there can be no publicity. The firm must employ the utmost discretion. Have someone bring me the front gate logbook immediately.” With that, Bob turned, picked up a quivering Socrates, and returned to the library.
Moments later, there was a knock at the library door. “Come in,” Bob called out.
In walked an estate security officer clad in black combat Kevlar and adorned with so much law enforcement paraphernalia that he jingled with each step. As the officer handed him the logbook, Williams’ brow furrowed in apparent dismay and the officer said, “Kaventino, sir,” as if having read the Senator’s mind.
“Yes, yes, Kaventino,” Bob said, pretending to recognize the man with a wry smile. As soon as Kaventino left, Bob opened the book and studied the entries covering the past year or so. At first, nothing appeared unusual; foreign dignitaries, ambassadors, business leaders and political pundits… no one suspicious, until he came to the entry for Marilyn Fox and Freddy Thugstin.
******
In 1929 at the start of the Great Depression, Bob Williams' father, Charles Maloney Williams, transferred 8 acres of uncultivated land to the impoverished Thugstin clan, the offspring of former slaves who had once been indentured to the Williams’ family. Over more than 50 years that the land had been gradually cultivated and built into a home for the Thugstins, its value had skyrocketed as the American economy recovered. It was only a matter of time before developers and land speculators recognized the proximity of
that parcel to the expanding suburbs, but remained unsuccessful in their attempts to purchase it. It also was not long before Bob Williams realized the blunder his father had made in deeding that land to their former slaves.
Bob moved in swiftly with a cadre of cutthroat lawyers and a land deed purporting to show that land still belonged to the Williams’, in an unsuccessful attempt to finagle Tyrone Thugstin out of his home. What they had failed to anticipate was the possibility that Tyrone might still possess the original deed, which he did.
When Bob Williams and his cronies presented Tyrone Thugstin with the phony deed, he studied it closely, shaking his head in disgust. Tyrone remembered his own grandma suckling baby Bob at her breast as his wet nurse and nanny; she had practically raised Bob as her own. Now that same white man was back to try and steal his land--land that his family had built on blood, sweat, and tears.
Tyrone politely excused himself and walked to a living room closet, where he retrieved a 12-gauge shotgun. He turned and pointed it at Bob’s privates, saying, “God curse your very soul, Bob Williams, if you ever decide to come back on my land! Your Mama should have closed her legs while she was havin’ ya. Now get off’n my property!”
Approximately three months later, Tyrone Thugstin was mysteriously gunned down.
Bob’s mind worked frantically, recalling that dark, stormy night when he had enjoyed the spoils of that black woman’s luscious body. It then dawned on him; that was the last time he had gone into the safe. That young hoodlum, Thugstin, must have seen him open the safe…
There was only one thing to do, he would have to bring in some reliable outside help. Two names came to mind. One was an old associate, a real technician who specialized in espionage, kidnapping and assassination. He reached for the telephone to call his old friend Mario Guido and bring him out of retirement with an offer he couldn’t refuse.