The District Manager

by Matt Minor

  He pulls a pair of goggles out of what looks to be a binocular pouch. “Just grab onto my belt loop and try not to trip me,” he orders. “We got night vision, kid. We got to move it!”

  “Who are you? How do I know you’re not with them?” I ask.

  “Well, I ain’t with them. Way I see it, you got little choice, don’t think you want to stick around here and be dog food. I’m a friend. Now, let’s move.”

  Bear removes his checkered hat and thrusts it at me. “Hold this,” he demands. He pulls the goggles over his eyes and fastens it at the back, then grabs the hat from my dirty hands. “Now, get ahold of ma’ belt loop.”

  Running like this is not easy, and I’m not sure it’s entirely necessary as I can make out what’s in front of me for a few feet. But I’ve no time to experiment. This guy is the boss. It’s a bumpy ride and keeping my equilibrium is difficult. I’m tripping every other step, trying not to trip him. I just hope the bad guys with dogs don’t have night vision as well.

  Are we on some sort of trail? I feel brush against my pant leg. And snakes…At least the rustling of voices and the barking of dogs are becoming more distant.

  Apparently Bear knows where he’s going, because he signals with his arms ‘left or right’ with each curt maneuver. I can barely see it, but for a waving smudge. For an old man, this guy is in shape. As for me, my side is splitting. I’m having trouble breathing. I can barely see through the puddles of sweat in my eyes. I don’t dare try to clear them for fear of eating shit.

  I haven’t heard any more gunshots.

  “Okay, kid, we’re gonna stop.” His statement is barely audible.

  We stop. We’re both keeled over and breathing hard. After a short spell, Bear lifts up and takes off the goggles. I’m still cringing from exhaustion.

  “Jesus, kid, you’re really out of shape,” he comments.

  I rise. “My name’s Mason Dixon, not kid,” I retort. “And who the hell are you?”

  “Name’s Russell Sturnhauser. Pleased to finally meet you, Mason Dixon.” He extends his hand. We shake.

  “I recognize your name, Mr. Sturnhauser.”

  “I bet you do, and call me Rusty.”

  “Where are we, Rusty?”

  “Not far from my brother-in-law’s house, near my car, and keep it down. We ain’t outta harm’s way yet.”

  “You mean Jules Reynolds?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I guess you know he’s disappeared?”

  “Yeah, I know. Look, we got to take this conversation elsewhere.”

  I follow him back to his car where it’s hidden under a profusion of growth. I’m not sure, but it seems to be in the proximity of where I stashed my car the last time I visited the rodeo arena—the day I discovered that piece of Jules’ cap.

  “Sweet ride,” I remark as we’re getting in.

  “Thanks, she’s a classic: Gold Pontiac Firebird, same one used on the Rockford Files. You’re probably too young to remember that show, I would guess.”

  “Rockford Files. Hell yeah, I’ve seen that show—James Garner.”

  “I’m impressed, I thought people your age only liked to watch shit like that Big Bang Theory, or whatever it’s called, the one with all those wimpy nerds,” he comments as he fires the engine.

  “I dig the old school shows, too.”

  “Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I mean, only a crazy son-of-bitch with nuts as big as medicine balls would pull that stunt you just pulled tonight. Look, we gotta git!”

  Rusty puts the Pontiac in reverse and hits the gas. The tires spin a little, and for an instant, it appears we’re stuck in the mud.

  “Goddamn it, I didn’t expect to come back to an ongoing Noah’s flood. When I left Texas last, ya’ll was in a drought!”

  After spinning furiously, the tires break free. Rusty throws it in drive and guns it. We tailspin back and forth a few times before she straightens. I’m not timing him, but he probably gets up to eighty in just a few seconds. The engine rumbles like a rocket.

  The trail we’re on looks familiar, it’s the road I used when I last visited the rodeo arena. Seems Rusty and I think alike.

  Once on Bowers Highway, I’m hit with a revelation, “Shit, my fucking car! I can’t believe I forgot about my fucking car!”

  “I didn’t. I know a back way to get where you parked ‘er.”

  “How do you know where she’s parked?”

  “Kid…”

  “Mason.”

  “Mason, I’ve been shadowing your every move pretty much all month. And goddamn, as if I hadn’t ruined my baby enough parking back in those woods. Now I’ve got to do it again.”

  “Why would you bring such a badass ride to a gunfight like this?”

  “The plates: if anyone runs ‘em it will bring up a corporation in my daughter’s married name. I’ve got a side business back in Alabama—a hobby really. I buy and restore classic cars. Mainly seventies muscle cars. It’s a passion of mine. This here Pontiac was the only one in the garage that I thought could handle the full trip. She’s completely brand new under the hood.”

  “Sounds unreal,” I remark.

  “Purrs like a cat, a big fucking cat,” Rusty adds, pressing the gas.

  We turn off down one of many unmarked trails. Rusty makes a few sporadic turns and before I know it, my car appears. He kills the engine and the headlights.

  “Alright, get in—and follow me. Do not go back the way you came in.”

  “You think it’s safe?” I ask, getting cold feet.

  “I don’t know. But we can’t leave your car here. I’m just hoping they haven’t already found it and run your plates. You got a gun, so use it if you have to. These people you’re messing with…I don’t think you understand how brutal they are. What they might lack in smarts they make up for with sheer unadulterated savage will.”

  “Who are…?”

  “Go, kid. Now! We can talk about this once we’re outta here for real!”

  “It’s Mason.”

  I lurch out of the Firebird and take off in a sprint towards the Expedition. I follow Rusty out of the thicket without incident.

  Rusty hits his turn signal and veers into a gas station when we get back near the main interstate, where the burbs start cropping up.

  He’s pumping gas when I appear from the store with a bag of chips. Why are people looking at me strangely?

  “Nice make-up job,” he says as I approach the pumps.

  Shit, I forgot I’ve got camo makeup smeared all over my face. I pull some paper towels out of the squeegee station and start scraping it off.

  “You need to keep one thing in mind above all else, kid,” Rusty addresses me as I finish wiping.

  “Mason.”

  “Mason, you need to keep one thing in mind above all else.”

  “What’s that?” I ask, popping open the bag of chips.

  “Always assume someone is following you.”

  “Why, because of tonight?”

  “Of course, because of tonight, but in general, even before tonight.”

  “I discovered a surveillance room in the adobe. Do you think they could recognize me?”

  “Not unless you walk around looking like a goddamned zombie all the time.”

  “Why should I be worried about before tonight?”

  “What do you say we go get some dinner and a few drinks somewhere? You game? We can talk there—where ever there is.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Shit, you’re right. It’s damn near eleven. Any bars around here?”

  “Yeah, I know a few places.”

  “Has anyone told you, you look like Bear Bryant?” I ask Rusty after we order our drinks. We’re sitting at a table in the back of a patron derelict, local sport’s bar. Neon nonsense throbs around us. A jukebox plays bad modern country music.

  “What do you think?” he asks sarcastically.

  “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe it’s like these Texan’s that trav
el outside the state. They don’t get duded up until they’re across the state line or ‘cross the big water.’”

  “Hell, I’m impressed—and you’re right. I only dress up like the ‘Bear’ when I leave Alabama. The man’s a personal hero of mine.”

  “So why did you leave Alabama?” I inquire after the waitress delivers our drinks.

  “I had to get Ella, Jules’ wife, to the hospital. She called my wife—her sister—and explained what had happened and I knew I had to get out here, no matter the danger.”

  “The danger that got Jules—if that’s what happened to him.”

  “Kid…

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “I mean Mason,” he corrects himself with a stained tooth, wrinkled grin, “there’s a lot more here than meets the eye. But yes, partly because of what happened to Jules. And let me say, I think he’s probably dead.”

  “I know. Me too. Do you think the dogs got him?”

  “God, I hope not. All I know is he obviously barked up the wrong tree. What concerns me now, other than Ella’s survival and finding Jules—if he’s alive—is the roots of this wrong tree that Jules barked up. No puns intended.”

  “Man, you’re kind of cold aren’t you? Talking about kin like that.”

  “Not cold, but hard.” Rusty grabs his bottle of beer and takes a huge swig. I imitate with a grimaced sip of my Jack and Coke, which is light on Coke. He continues, “Ever heard of Harry Spencer, Representative Harry Spencer?” He wipes the foam from his lips.

  “Isn’t he the Rep. before last in House District 100?”

  “That’s right. He was the Rep. for House District 100, two cycles ago. He got beat by that rock-n-roll reprobate, J.D. Dothan.”

  “Dothan’s considered a sort of hero in certain quarters; for foiling that whole secessionist scheme.”

  “He had almost nothing to do with blowing that open. He just takes the credit for it because he almost died.” I take another sip of my drink. “So what about Harry Spencer?”

  “Mason, I’m a private investigator, former Alabama State Trooper and Marine MP, which is where I met Jules, by the way. I owe my marriage to that man, and would do anything for him— that’s why I’m here. But I digress. Harry Spencer hired me a couple of years ago because he was not just beaten by Dothan, but humiliated. That race destroyed his life.”

  “Shit yeah, Spencer was the pervert who fucked underage whores and died…well…kind of…sick really…”

  “Kind of what?” Rusty clearly does not appreciate my commentary, and actually rises a little from his chair. But he takes a gulp of his beer—killing it—and returns to his normal position. “I’m actually glad you made that comment, come to think of it. Because that leads into what I think is actually going on here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Harry didn’t just die, he was murdered. And yes, I know what you were going to say, that it was kind of in a fucked-up way. Harry died, as I presume you already know, from auto-erotic asphyxiation. But it wasn’t voluntary, it was executed.”

  “By whom?”

  I don’t know, but I suspect the same people running this crime ring in Wagoneer County. I can’t prove that…yet.”

  “But….”

  “But wait, let me finish. I’ll probably answer whatever your question is. Harry was murdered because he had direct knowledge of the secessionist plot. By hiring me, I discover that Reed Jackson, one of the two legislative kingpins in that plot, had been behind his defeat at the hands of Dothan. Are you following me?”

  “Yeah, but I need another Jack and Coke,” I answer as I signal the waitress.

  “And I’ll take another beer. Hell, bring me a pitcher, if ya’ would, Miss,” Rusty chimes in after me. “Can I continue?” he asks after she leaves for the bar to fetch our drinks.

  “Continue.” This man is used to giving orders.

  “Harry, though he never told me he was going to do this… Harry penned those letters, blowing open the whole school bus bombing and its purpose. Reed Jackson and Ron Martinez had to have him knocked off. Not that they had knowledge of the letters—at the time—but because I’m certain that Harry, being the emotional fool that he was, threatened Reed. And, when I think back on our conversations, Harry dropped hints at all of this. After Harry was killed, and he was killed in a way that was in character, I knew I had to get the hell out of Texas, at least.”

  “Why?” I inquire as the waitress returns with our respective beverages and leaves quickly.

  “Harry was my client. We had correspondence. Harry would have had that correspondence most likely in his possession. And even if there was a chance he didn’t, I couldn’t risk it. So I left Texas.”

  “Well, this crime ring that you speak of, they wouldn’t be limited to Texas necessarily.”

  “That’s right. But they would have been searching for a phantom if they sought me out anywhere else.”

  “What do you mean?” My sips are getting bigger.

  “Because I practiced under the name of ‘Rusty Stern,’ a nickname I acquired in the troopers because I was such a hard ass.” He laughs his gumbo laugh, and then carries on, “But that working name only exists in the Lone Star State. I moved my wife and me back to Alabama from Houston, and resumed a life under my birth name: Russell Sturnhauser.”

  What strikes me most about this man is how he can weave in and out of colloquialisms into literate speech. This man is no dummy.

  We finish our food and drinks and he pays the tab. Then we get up to leave.

  “So where do we go from here?” I ask him as we loiter out in the nearly empty parking lot, by the Pontiac.

  “Well, we don’t do anything. My advice to you is to forget this and go about your day-to-day business. This ain’t worth dyin’ over.”

  “But this is my daily business. I don’t know if I can just turn a blind eye like the rest of these elected fucks.”

  “Why, Mason, is it that you want to get killed? Jules wasn’t kin. I have an obligation to family to try and figure out what happened to him. You have an obligation to your family, whoever that might be…an obligation to stay alive.”

  “Why don’t you think the police or anyone seemed to be able to help?” I ask Rusty, changing the subject.

  “Fear. The cops are afraid. They want to go home at night too, you know. See their babies grow up. Since there’s not been any public outcry, the politicians aren’t worried. Why should the cops open up a can of worms that’s probably a barrel of snakes? I saw it with Harry’s death. No one really wanted to get to the bottom of it, so they didn’t.”

  “Cowards.”

  “Mason, sometimes being a coward is the smartest move. People forget heroes. Hell, people shun heroes. It ain’t worth it.”

  “So you think the people behind Harry’s death…”

  “Not just Harry’s death,” Rusty interrupts, “several others as well. Remember a terrorist attack preceded all of this. They only scratched the belly; never got into the guts of it all.”

  “And you will?”

  “I’m going to help my sister-in-law. Then, if I can, I’m going to find out who killed my brother-in-law. It’s that simple.”

  “But it’s not.”

  “Mason, I think you’ve had too much to drink. Maybe it was a mistake to come to a bar. Are you well enough to drive? Can you make it home?”

  “Now you sound like a cop.”

  “I am. Always. Once an officer of the law, always an officer of the law.” He almost gloats as he manually unlocks his car door. He rolls down the window after sinking into the leather seat.

  “So I guess this is it; we can’t work together on this?”

  “Go home. You’re way out of your league.” With this, he fires up the Pontiac. “Hell, I am too.”

  “One last thing,” I ask as Rusty starts backing up.

  “What’s that?”

  “Was that Jules’ ladder?”

  “Yeah, yeah it was. It’s gone now. Came in handy I
guess. Saved your ass, kid!”

  Rusty drives off and leaves me standing like a jilted date.

  The right thing to do is go home, but the adrenaline is pumping through my veins. I remember I have a bottle of cheap Kentucky Bourbon at the D.O.

  I decide to brave the haunted bank.

  I kill what’s was left in that bottle, and then I go home.

  At home I take a shot of Jack.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE NIGHT AFTER AND BEYOND

  The popcorn ceiling looks like a lunar photo from the glory years of NASA as it rotates above my bed. I dump a foot to the floor to stabilize myself. The urinal-like overhead light that I haven’t the motor function to rise and switch off is like a whore inviting me into a public bathroom stall.

  I’m what you call spinning nauseous drunk.

  I’m trying hard to hang on.

  I really fucked up tonight. What was I thinking?

  Keith is passed out as usual. And as usual, the pipe is sitting in plain sight and the creased bag sitting near it is nearly empty.

  I decided to take a couple of hits.

  I feel like I’m floating on Apollo 13.

  I forgot to call Brenna. Fuck.

  It’s too late to now…

  Maybe I should try jacking off. It might help me focus on something other than getting sick.

  I start to undress. I only get as far as loosening my belt. No go. Whiskey dick is whiskey dick, no matter if you’ve got a disappointed naked woman before you or Rosy—it’s all the same in that regard.

  I feel like I’m going to puke. I lean over the bed and…

  I’m fishing through the laundry basket, trying to get ready for work. Keith comes in and interrupts my search for a missing sock.

  “Mason, did you smoke the rest of my weed?”

  “Uh…yeah, sorry.”

  “Well, we’re gonna need some more.”

  “Are you sure?” I give up on my search and just grab any sock.

  “What do you mean? You said yourself that it’s helping me.”

  “That was before you turned into a total stoner, dude.”