The Illegal

by Lawrence Hill

  Giving Hitchcock extra room was clearly not working. And now there were other people in his way. Anton used his bulk cautiously, wedging himself between minor race officials, pushing them aside without knocking them off balance. The world was teeming with stubborn little people, and the trick was to apply enough force to move them without tipping them over.

  “Mr. Hitchcock—”

  “I’m managing a marathon here, six hundred volunteers at last count, so it will have to wait.”

  Hitchcock kept his eyes fixed ahead. Anton double-checked, but there was nothing to see or watch over there—just the empty, cordoned-off corridor through which the marathoners would run to cross the finish line.

  Mitch Hitchcock barely cleared five-seven. Anton could have placed his chin on Hitchcock’s head. In Anton’s experience, the shorter, the testier. Little people were like little dogs. Anton took hold of the race director’s elbow. It wasn’t much bigger than a turkey bone. Anton squeezed just hard enough to get the man’s attention.

  Hitchcock yanked his arm back. “Shall I call security?”

  “Just one moment.”

  “You’re Anton Hamm.”

  “And you’re Mitch Hitchcock.”

  “You may have thirty seconds. Starting now. What is it?”

  “The guy who’s about to win? He’s one of mine.”

  “He’s registered as Roger Bannister,” Hitchcock said, “and there’s no indication he’s with you.”

  “He is. The cheque comes to me, as usual in these cases.”

  “Look, Mr. Hamm, I set the rules, I let them be known, and I do not divert from them. Unless he’s preregistered as one of yours, I can’t do that.”

  “His real name is Keita Ali.”

  “Well, we agree on one thing—Roger Bannister is a stretch,” Hitchcock said. “If you’re going to make up a pseudonym, what’s wrong with Bob Jones?”

  “His name is Keita Ali,” Anton repeated, “and he’s from Zantoroland. He’s mine. The cheque is mine.”

  “The cheque is his. My race, my rules.”

  Anton breathed in deeply. Reflect, they said in anger management. Breathe and reflect. That thing you want to do? If you let the instinct control you, will the consequences help you or hurt you in the long run? Count to ten. Reflect. The anger-management people had talked about pros and cons. Anton tallied up the cons. He took the runners in his stable to marathons and other road races around the world, and it would not do to be charged with assault. He got off the last time with a conditional discharge and an undertaking to do community service, which he had done, and to take anger-management classes, which he had done too. So Anton breathed and once more tallied the cons and took a few steps back to restore the safety zone around Hitchcock.

  It was not the best time for Anton to pursue compensation for his considerable expenses. The thin young Zantorolander with the ridiculous name Roger Bannister on his race bib crossed the finish line and slowed to a stop.

  Anton looked at the clock. His runaway protégé had just broken the course record and there was no other runner in sight. Hitchcock hurried off.

  Two of Anton’s other protégés from Zantoroland were running the Buttersby Marathon. Neither was doing well. They would not end up on the medal podium, and they would not earn any prize money—money that would normally go almost entirely to him, as their running agent. He had sunk thousands of dollars into flying them to Freedom State, putting them up, feeding them—and he wasn’t even going to break even.

  On top of that, the Tax Agency for Freedom State was on his case. Letters here, letters there, discrepancy this, discrepancy that, and the most recent and annoying missive said that he had to report to the TAFS main office in Clarkson for a pre-audit meeting tomorrow. If he failed to show up, he would be subjected to a full and complete audit. Anton’s papers were a mess. For years, he had dashed off his tax returns. One day, he’d have to hire an accountant to straighten out his records. But right now, he had the most annoying, ball-breaking tax agency in the world taking up his valuable time. What kind of country privatized its own tax agency? TAFS was a for-profit corporation operating at arm’s length from the government, and the pursuit of a citizen’s taxes had become the pursuit of its profits. When you caught their attention, they came after you like hornets.

  To make matters worse, business was tough. In the last year, Anton had brought fifteen Zanfricans—a catch-all term for people from Zantoroland or Africa—to race in America, Europe and Freedom State. He had covered all their expenses—flights, hotels, meals, clothes, passports, visas and race entry fees. Only two runners had won races with respectable payouts. Yes, he was disappointed when one of his runners dropped out or got injured or didn’t run as fast as Anton had anticipated. But Keita Ali was the first runner to take off on him. Then the kid had the gall to enter a race by himself and collect his own winnings. Ten thousand bucks, Anton figured he was owed, and ten thousand bucks he would get from that cheating sonofabitch.

  Just as his disappointing other protégés were finishing seventh and ninth in the Buttersby Marathon, someone tapped Anton on the shoulder.

  He was a copper-toned black man. Medium build. Definitely not a runner. Dark shades. Baseball cap. In his thirties. Wearing running gear: track pants, running shoes that looked straight out of the shoebox, a big fat running watch and a zippered nylon jacket. About five-ten. Next to Anton, the man was tiny.

  “Hey,” the man in the track suit said.

  Anton was in a suit. Dressed for success. Anton figured the fellow had a brother or a wife in the marathon and had come out to watch. Maybe he recognized Anton. Maybe he knew Anton had won two Olympic gold medals.

  “It’s Anton Hamm, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Anton forced a smile.

  “I’m Saunders, and I have a proposition for you.”

  “Make it quick. I have to meet my athletes.”

  “Is sixty thousand a year quick enough for you?”

  Anton stared. Saunders stood there calmly, unblinking. Anton raised his eyebrows.

  “We can offer you sixty thousand a year for services that will not compromise your marathon agency work. Indeed, they would complement it. Sixty thousand, plus bonuses for good results, and expenses for one or two of your regular trips to Zantoroland.”

  “We?” Anton said.

  “My associates and I.”

  “You have associates?” Anton said.

  “People of influence. People who can make your life easy—or make it hell.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Anton asked. He had a mind to take this fellow by the collar and give him a good shaking.

  Saunders stood his ground, that calm, stupid grin on his face. For a short man, he seemed unreasonably confident, which Anton found disconcerting.

  “I am offering you something that you do not wish to refuse.”

  “I don’t like puzzles, so spit it out,” Anton said.

  “You travel three or four times a year to Zantoroland,” Saunders said.

  “That’s my business,” Anton said.

  “Your last tax statement indicated expenses over $150,000 and that you finished the year with a loss.”

  “For a little fellow, you’re doing a damn good job of getting up in my face,” Anton said.

  “Consider what you would like more,” Saunders said. “Sixty thousand in cash for a minimum amount of work, or having the Tax Agency audit you and your travel expenses.” He stepped back and put his hand in his pocket.

  “How do I know you’re legit?” Anton said.

  “You declared most of your expenses as travel. You also listed a business expense called ‘wardrobe.’” Saunders studied Anton’s suit. “Really, Mr. Hamm. You should know better.”

  “You half-pint prick,” said Anton. “How do you know this shit?”

  “Mr. Hamm, calm yourself. You have been called to a pre-audit tax meeting with TAFS tomorrow. If you do not hear me out, tomorrow’s meeting will lead to a full audit.”
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  Anton drummed his fingers on his hips.

  “Meet me at nine thirty tomorrow morning in the café in the All Saints Hotel on Brunswick Street in Clarkson. You will be in the area because your meeting with TAFS is just around the corner. At noon, correct? I know that they are not yet asking for a full audit, and I trust that you will not give them reason to do so. Let me make this clear. If you do not show up at 9:30 a.m., with a far better attitude, then you will experience the direct consequences two and a half hours later. In the tax office. Good day, Mr. Hamm.”

  WHEN HE CROSSED THE FINISH LINE, KEITA ALI RAISED HIS arms for the cameras. He felt an almost insatiable desire to lie down in tall green grasses and never get up again, and he fought to silence all the body parts in revolt: the blistered toe, the ache on the right side of his groin, the vibrating hamstring, the stinging hernia and the tantrum-ing heart. At least his body had cooperated this time. It had allowed him to finish a race, with no shakes, nausea or feeling that he might faint. Still, there was something inside him. Some feeling of discomfort. It was stirring now, waking like an angry baby.

  To take his mind off his discomfort, Keita played with numbers. 42.2 kilometres. Or 26 miles, 385 yards. Either way, running like this was as close as he could get to dying, without going over the edge. 2:09:36. Two thousand dollars for first place and another two thousand for beating 2:10. The money would keep him going for months. He should have felt relief. Instead, he looked over one shoulder. And the other. No sign of trouble. Nobody looking for him. Perhaps he was safe.

  There were hands to shake, photos to pose for and promises of a prize ceremony in two hours. He paid an urgent visit to the portable toilet. In Freedom State, one did not piss behind bushes. In this country, they made one portable toilet available for every twenty runners. So there were 150 portable toilets lined up in a seemingly endless row, and Keita got to them first. Coming out, he could still feel his slamming heart. Without even raising index and middle fingers to his jugular, he knew it was going at about 150 beats per minute. In another minute, he’d be down to 120. Within a day, if nobody chased him and he had no cause to run, he’d return to his resting pulse: 38 beats a minute.

  He hated running a single additional step after finishing a race, but he did what he had been trained to do, breaking into a slow jog back out in the direction of the oncoming runners, although none were approaching yet. He ran just outside the fence sealing off the race route, south on a street named Avenue Road. Was it named merely to confuse people who had no business being in the country? Back in Zantoroland, anyone proposing such a street name would be laughed out of the room. Keita could imagine the chuckles: Yes, of course, and let’s name another one Boulevard Road.

  The second-place finisher came into view. The one named Smart. He had a choppy gait; his right knee turned in when he ran. Had to be a decent fellow. He was the one who had told the name-caller to back off.

  “Way to go,” Keita said, and the man acknowledged him with a nod as he ran painfully toward the finish.

  Smart was coming in at a shade over 2:14. In Zantoroland one-legged runners could hop that fast.

  Heading south along Avenue Road, Keita jogged for a minute and turned. By the time he got back, the third runner was finishing in 2:17. There was still no sight of the name-caller.

  With the exception of a handful of runners, the five thousand joggers were all still pushing through the marathon, cheered on by marching bands and rock bands and thousands of spectators, pitching like enthusiastic penguins toward the finish line. Recreational joggers in Freedom State carried their life possessions. And the farther back they were in the race, the more they carried. Baseball caps. Water bottles, digital cameras, key chains laden with keys, iPods. Wallet-sized watches with GPS systems. They did this willingly. They found this entertaining in Freedom State.

  Keita had chosen a good country in which to hide. It had many cities and a good transportation system. It had one of the best hospital networks in the world. Unless he was hit by a bus, struck by lightning or caught and deported, he had a greater statistical likelihood of staying alive here than where he had come from. That was as much as he could reasonably desire. And there was another benefit to living in this country: after a marathon, they gave out bagfuls of food and offered a free massage.

  Keita headed to the food area to collect bagels, bananas, apples and energy bars. He shoved them in a bag. Later, he’d be hungry. This food could last for days. Keita gulped down two bottles of water and one sports drink, but his lips were cracking and still he felt thirsty. His hamstring cramped suddenly, just like it had in the Boston Marathon. What was wrong with him? Was he just nervous? There was no sign of anyone looking for him. No sign of Anton Hamm. He should eat something. Maybe it would make him feel better. He found a firm banana. It made him think of home. It made him think of women on their way to market, carrying platters of bananas on their heads. He and Charity used to try to balance trays on their heads and see how far they could go. Not far. Especially not on bumpy terrain. Charity . . . Still no word from her. Perhaps she had gone travelling somewhere and was simply out of touch by email and phone. If that was the case, Keita hoped desperately that she would return home soon, or at least contact him.

  Just then, a black, bald woman rolled up to him in a wheelchair. She looked his age—mid-twenties. Her arms were thick and ripped, like those of a wrestler. She had full lips, dimpled cheeks and eyes that bore right into him. A decal was stuck on the side of her chair: I dig dykes on wheels. Back home, gays and lesbians had to be secretive. If they were outed, they were killed. The woman slapped on the brakes, clicked a button on a tape recorder, whipped out a microphone on a yardstick and thrust it toward his mouth.

  “Viola Hill, the Telegram,” she said.

  “I saw you training recently,” he said. “You were in a racing chair. On Ten-Mile Inlet, in Clarkson. Early morning.”

  “So that was you,” she said. “Well, I’m with the newspaper in Clarkson.”

  He looked again at her bizarre bumper sticker.

  “Could I get your name?” she said.

  “Roger Bannister,” Keita told her. His gaze fell back on her sign.

  “Mister, you got a problem with dykes?”

  Keita hesitated. “I have no such problem,” he said slowly. “I was just wondering if you could get in trouble for outing yourself.”

  “Not here, mister. Not from the government, anyway. But thanks for the concern. Your thoughts on the race?”

  “The hill in the second half was tough,” he said.

  “I heard what that guy said to you on the hill,” the reporter said.

  “What guy?” Keita said. He didn’t want any fuss.

  “The number-one-ranked ten-thousand-metre runner in this country. Billy Deeds. He called you a nigger. Called you other things too.”

  “I didn’t hear that,” Keita said.

  “I’ve yet to meet a black person who is deaf to that word,” Viola said.

  “When you’re focused, you tune out the sounds.”

  “So why were you singing? What’s that all about?”

  “Sometimes I sing, as a way of locating my energy.”

  “So when did you know you would win?” she asked.

  “I pulled ahead on the hill at twenty-four kilometres and thought the race would be mine if my hamstrings didn’t seize up.”

  She let out a laugh that sounded like a bark, or a starting pistol. “Right,” she said, “the thing about hamstrings is that they own you. Can’t run without their say-so.”

  She knew a thing or two about running. “True enough,” he said.

  “Cramps bother you often?”

  “Usually it’s the threat of cramps.”

  “Have you checked your potassium levels?”

  He stifled a laugh. Potassium levels. Ridiculous. For a potassium count, you needed blood tests, laboratories, doctors. He had to get away from her. He knew exactly what was coming.

  “You regi
stered under the name Roger Bannister,” she said. “But what is your real name?”

  “That’s it,” he said.

  “Where are you from?”

  Keita felt a pinch in his hamstring. The reporter sitting in front of him seemed blurry. He squinted to bring her into focus. He didn’t want to faint in front of her or anyone in this country. Fainting would attract attention and trouble. And now there was something else—a deep, emphatic voice in the distance. Anton Hamm.

  “I have to go,” Keita said.

  Keita looked in every direction but did not see Hamm. He shot an apologetic look at the reporter and turned to go. It now felt more tiring to walk than it had to run during the race. The cramping flared again in his hamstring. Keita limped into a massage tent marked with a sign Athletes Only. He needed to be alone. He needed to lie down. He needed to escape the inevitable questions.

  Inside the massage tent, a young woman smiled at him.

  “Could we close these?” he said.

  “Sure,” she said, drawing the curtains fully around them. “Massage today?”

  “Definitely,” he said.

  The therapist had red hair and brown eyes. She shook his hand firmly.

  “I’m Paula,” she said, then she stepped out of the curtains to allow him a moment of privacy. He slipped out of his shirt and socks, climbed onto the massage table and lay face down, letting his brow and cheekbones sink into the doughnut-shaped face rest. It was heated. So were the cotton sheets under his belly. The warmth soothed his ribcage and seeped through his body.

  Paula returned, placed one hand on the small of his back and began to slide the heel of the other palm along his hamstring while covering the other half of his backside with a heating pad.

  “Problems today?” Paula’s hands pressed down firmly on his neck, back, buttocks, hamstrings, calves and feet. In an instant, she located a knot in his left hamstring and placed some weight on it.

  Keita tried to breathe through the pain. “I’m tired all over,” he said, “but you’ve already found one sore spot.”