The Redeemers

by T. J. Martinell

  Kruger folded the paper slowly and bowed his head. The men did the same. Though his eyes were closed, Carl’s mind actively swirled conflicting thoughts. Norton had given no indication he was ill before he had died. Not even a cough or a stumble in his walk. He had arrived to his last day at work with the same vigor and enthusiasm as the first. It was as though he had decided that night he no longer wished to live, and his heart had complied with his wish.

  Carl would never know, but the abruptness of it all troubled him. All the affection he had for Norton was now threatened by overwhelming anger. He felt entitled to have a chance to say goodbye. He had imagined Norton slowly dying in his bed from some incurable disease or cancer, offering them plenty of time to speak their peace. He would have told Norton what he had meant to him. And he had hoped Norton would say the same.

  Now, he’d never know.

  That wasn’t entirely true. Norton had treated him like a son. He just hadn’t spoken the words.

  Kruger addressed the men. “Is there anyone who has a thought or word to say?”

  It was totally silent. The men glanced around, but no one got up or indicated by their demeanor they intended to do so. None of them thought of it as a sign of disrespect for Norton or a lack of appreciation. In the years they had worked together, Norton’s meaning to them had not come up. They had spoken of his work and accomplishments, but not what they thought of him personally.

  To all except Carl, Norton he had been a bit of an enigma.

  He got up gradually from the pew and approached the casket. Facing the small collection of men, he cleared his throat. His mouth felt dry, his tongue like sandpaper. He kept his hands in his pockets; he didn’t want anyone to see how much they trembled. He wasn’t afraid of what they would think, how he would come off to them.

  He finally mustered the courage to put hand on the casket. Then his words stumbled out from his lips. “The only thing I can think to say is that we all knew Norton well. I thought of where I was before I came here and where I’d be if he hadn’t started this whole thing. I’m sure you are, too.”

  Heads nodded.

  “Then let’s leave it at that,” he added. “I don’t think he would have wanted a long sermon about his qualities. He wouldn’t want us to wallow and mourn. He’d want us to stick together and keep this thing going…as long as we can.”

  Shaking his head, he stepped down and sat in his former spot in the pew. The room was silent once more. Tom nudged him, offering a small grin. “It was good.”

  “Thanks.”

  When it was evident no one else would try to follow up Carl, Kruger returned to the front and gave a short prayer. As soon as “amen” was uttered the men were up, placing their hats back on their heads as they headed for the door.

  Carl joined them at the front door, accepting a cigarette from Duong. All the men stood on the steps outside the church and smoked their preferred brand as they chatted about everything and anything, except Norton. None of them wanted to dwell on his departure.

  That would come later.

  ***

  Duong had a special table reserved at the library that night. It was in a closed-off section with its own room, but a wall-length window offered a full view of the performance stage. The men piled into the room and found a full stein of ale awaiting each of them. They settled into their seats until the last man had arrived. Carl and Tom were at the end of the table beside Duong. He stood up and prepared to speak, but the revelry outside the room promised to drown out his voice. Smiling ironically, he raised his stein and wordlessly proposed a toast.

  The men stood up and copied him, drinking hastily. The symbolic gesture of reverence was carried out in a solemn manner. Aside from Duong’s short grin, there were no smiles, no laughs, no cheers.

  Carl preferred it that way, scowling as he looked out the window at the crowds swarming the library. What had once been a sanctuary, a place for men such as himself, Tom, Duong, and Fred to come and drink and get away from the world had been invaded. The new clientele was not rude or hostile, but like all the other newcomers, comprised of peoples whom Carl could not relate to in any manner.

  He surveyed the table. One of the men was Derek, whom he did not know well. They had never worked together. But when they looked each other and the mutual scar on their hands, the feeling between them was akin to the bond among blood brothers. They understood and could understand and that was preferable to anything else.

  He scanned the rest of the table, comforted that there were still a handful of men remaining among the old breed. But how long would that last? How long before Derek was gunned down by the ISA? Or Tom. The thought of losing his closest friend made him grimace and pour another round of ale down his throat.

  Duong passed out a large wooden box of imported cigars along with his lighter. Smoke billowed from the table as they puffed on them until they couldn’t see the man across from them. After their paused conversations renewed Duong leaned over to Carl and spoke softly.

  “I have something to discuss with you,” he said, gesturing toward the window. They got up and went over to it. Duong checked to see if they were being watched; the smoke shrouded their actions.

  “I don’t want you to be worried about the newspaper,” Duong said. “Before he died, Norton had a process for the editorial board to select a new owner.”

  “I’m not worried about that, per se,” Carl said.

  “What are you concerned about?”

  Carl glanced back at the table. “We’re a dying species, my friend.”

  “It was bound to happen.”

  “It didn’t have to happen like this.”

  “Well, it did. And as a member of the editorial board I’m going to ensure the process is carried out exactly as Norton prescribed.”

  “That’s a lot of fancy talk.”

  Duong flicked ash off his cigar, a solemn gaze as he stared beyond the glass. “This is when we are most vulnerable. Other newspapers might want to try to muscle in on our territory. Norton helped keep the peace.”

  “Maybe it’s like what Jefferson said; a little revolution now and then is a healthy thing.”

  “I like the idea. But it’s probably not what you had in mind.”

  Carl cocked his head slightly. “How so?”

  “I’m submitting a proposal to the editorial board tomorrow. I want to extend our coverage to Bellevue.”

  Carl downplayed his reaction. No newspaper had dared venture outside of Seattle. Holding onto their turf there was difficult enough. It had always been a future possibility, but something never attempted.

  “You think they will accept it?” Carl asked.

  “I’ve built up a small coalition of supporters, meaning two other board members. A little persuasion can win over the rest. The actual proposal is rather modest; we send stringers to Bellevue to build contacts and develop stories. Only later do we consider adding safe houses on the other side of the lake.”

  “But why go into Bellevue?”

  “Because there is an untapped market there, plenty of people who will risk buying our paper if we write about things they want to read. We need to be aggressive. We need to show we’re still strong and ambitious. Norton was a visionary. We must prove we still have that spirit. It will send the appropriate message to other newspapers that we’re strong enough to tackle this challenge, so we can deal with them if they cause trouble.”

  “The proposal would add to the newspaper’s profits, while also serving as a deterrent?”

  Duong grinned. “Precisely.”

  “What does this have to do with me?”

  “I want you to be one of the stringers we send out.”

  Carl took a puff on his cigar and set it down on the windowpane. As the bitter taste settled in his mouth he turned from Duong to watch the band on the performance stage. He wasn’t listening to the music. He simply had no idea what to say.

  “You’re originally from Bellevue, aren’t you?” Duong asked.

 
; “Yes.”

  “I figured it might interest you. It’s a chance to go visit your hometown. You haven’t been there since, have you?”

  “No.”

  Duong picked up on Carl’s distant tone. “I’ll let you know when the board gives it the go-ahead, but I thought I’d give you first rights to the position in case you wanted it.”

  “Thanks. Appreciate it.”

  Heading back to the table, Duong mingled with the others. Sitting by himself, Tom had noticed their conversation earlier but had waited until it was over. He joined Carl by the window with his stein in hand. “Up for another round?”

  “No. I’m driving tonight.”

  “I always drive.”

  “Not tonight.”

  “You doing alright?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I figured that means you’re not going to tell me what Duong just said.”

  “You figured right. Nothing bad or secretive. Just something I got to think over by myself.”

  A tap on Carl’s shoulder revealed Derek standing behind him, a deck of cards in hand. “Care to take a stab at poker, Texas hold ‘em style? Heard you were pretty good.”

  “Why not?”

  Derek had intentionally downplayed his reputation. His nickname as a “killer” could have easily applied to the way he cleaned up after a few rounds of cards. Three years ago, he had taken up a penchant for poker. The earnings he took in on weekends was more than what he earned during the whole week. A lot of it was counting the cards correctly, plus a little bit of intuition. Some said he was just plain lucky, but he didn’t believe in luck anymore.

  Tom joined them as half of the men gathered at the table. The rest stood and drank as they intently watched. Every player was obviously experienced. Privately, Carl had a no-gambling policy with friends and associates. Gambling always involved losers, and perpetual losers were prone to resentment.

  But tonight was different.

  First time around went to Derek. Carl emptied his stein and casually pushed it aside as he shoved a matching bet into the prize pool. Outside the room he caught the faint sound of a female singer. She sounded just like Kaylyn.

  He jerked his head anxiously and peered through the window and the crowds. The woman on the stage looked like her, but it wasn’t her. Their demeanors were too different.

  “Hey, Casanova,” Tom said, tapping the table. “You can teach her private lessons afterwards.”

  Everyone chuckled. Carl’s smirk hid a dissatisfaction that was unknown even to Tom. Before, he would have done just that; walked right up on stage or after her routine and somehow charmed her into back to his place. He certainly didn’t have difficulty attracting women. However, he was growing cynical of it. The women were fine, but the foreknowledge that it was destined to be for naught made it hard for him to develop any passion.

  Another community was plunked down, for a total of five. The last one was a king of hearts. Wonderful. Still nothing. It meant he had the king and queen of hearts. A true pair.

  Tom checked, as did Derek.

  “It’s your call,” he told Carl.

  Carl stared hard at the king of hearts. Grabbing a chunk of coins from his pile, he pushed it into the prize pool. To any amateur poker player, it would have been interpreted as a blatant ploy to intimidate the others into folding, yet Carl did so with such dismissal that it left Tom and Derek utterly convinced he had found himself with a strong hand. They looked at one another, shrugged, then folded.

  “Figures you’d win,” Derek said as he pushed the prize pool toward Carl. “I guess that is the opening round, so we’ll see if your luck stays with you.”

  He went to collect the cards from the players and motioned to Carl to give up his. The queen of hearts stayed in his hand.

  “He’ll need that,” Tom said facetiously. “Unless it’s your trump card somehow.”

  The singer had stated a new song. It sounded like the one Kaylyn had crooned one night at the Fighting Sailor. He recalled the scene well; the bar doors open to clear out the cigarette smoke, the smell of dankness and ale in the air. Kaylyn was rocking back and forth on the bar counter, a smile complementing her calm voice. They had all left in a large crowd, Kaylyn tucked underneath his arm as he wondered if it would ever end.

  He flicked the card toward Derek as he rose and grabbed his hat, along with his stein.

  “I think my luck has run out,” he said flatly as he left. He waved to the men and gave them a requisite good night. No one seemed offended by the abrupt departure.

  In the regular part of the library, Carl refilled his stein at the tap by the bar. Foam rolled down the glass and across his chin as he drank while making his way through the crowd up to the railing that separated the upper section of the library from the lower tables near the stage. He consumed the ale aggressively with his gaze fixed on the girl.

  A thud reverberated under Carl’s feet. He looked down, seeing his empty stein. Blinking, he realized he had finished it already. How many had he had that night?

  He stumbled away from the railing and headed for the front door. Along the way, Tom appeared by his side.

  “Need help?” he asked.”

  “Help to do what?”

  “Find the right direction.”

  Carl stopped and looked at the door in front of them. It was the wrong one.

  “Lost?” Tom joked.

  “No, just tired.”

  “I’m sure. I think I’ll be driving tonight.”

  With Tom’s hand guiding him, they reached the entrance and stepped outside. He buttoned up his coat and readjusted his hat. Despite the numbness he felt in his face, the air was bitterly cold. It was hardly past September and the autumn weather was turning harsh.

  They were walking past a group of men when one of them called out to Carl. He stopped and turned. “Yeah?”

  Out of the group emerged a tall man. His arrogant stance marked him as their self-appointed leader. He had a half-consumed bottle of liquor in his hand. The darkness made it hard to make out anything else about him.

  “You Carl Farrington?” he demanded.

  “Yeah.”

  The man crept closer, tossing the liquor bottle aside as he rolled his shoulders. Another step brought him into the light from the library entrance. Carl was taken aback by how young he appeared, hardly more than a teenager. His arrogance posture matched his cocky expression.

  “I heard ‘bout ya,” he slurred. “I heard ya was called “Killer Carl” back in the day.”

  “It’s still that day.”

  The young man, or boy, sized Carl up and chuckled to his friends. “This is the guy we’re told we need to live up to! This guy!” The others laughed perfunctorily.

  “Something funny?” Carl asked.

  “Yeah. Ya look pretty soft for a guy everyone kept tellin’ us we’d never live up to.”

  Tom stepped in front of Carl, eying the young boy sternly. “It’s best this ends. And by that, I mean it would be best for you to end this chitchat.”

  “Why?” the boy exclaimed. “His name is all we’ve heard since we joined the Cascadian.”

  “You’re with us?” Carl asked.

  “Yeah, dumbass. Who else ya think it is?”

  “Then why the hostility?”

  The boy walked up to Carl, speaking to him over Tom’s shoulder. His glazed eyes wandered as his lips moved slowly. “Because during our training ya name was all we heard. Some asshole told us we needed to do it like “Killer Carl” did. We needed to shoot better, writer better, think better. ‘That’s not how Carl would do it.’ I hated you for it.”

  “Sorry, but that ain’t got nothing to do with me,” Carl replied.

  “It has everything to do with ya. Ya were like a demon haunting us. Everything we did, you was always there to show us we were never good enough.”

  “This ain’t the time or the place, gents,” Tom insisted. He turned to the boy’s friends. “You best take him home.”

  “I
ain’t goin’ nowhere!” the boy screamed. He gestured at those around him. None of them moved. They seemed eager for things to escalate.

  “They don’t want to go nowhere,” the boy said. “They want to see me show how much of a fraud ya friend is here!”

  Carl glared. The accusation sobered him up.

  “Ya heard me,” the boy said. “Ya a fraud and a fake. It’s all a show. Look at ya! Ya don’t look like nothin’. Ya weak and pathetic. It’s all bullshit they told us ‘bout ya, just to get us to do what they told us!”

  Fuming, Carl’s body stiffened. Tom tried to calm him down, but Carl pushed him out of the way. Shaking his head, Tom ordered the boy to get lost.

  “You’re a fool,” he said.

  “Tell that to ya friend, after I’m done with him.”

  That appeared to be the end of it. Carl and Tom were heading off when he looked down and saw a shadow on his right. He knew exactly what it meant, but his senses were too dull. He couldn’t react fast enough. Turning to protect himself, he brought a bent arm up to the side of his face to catch the blow.

  It was too late. The boy was young, his muscles undeveloped and untested. But the surprise blow to the side of his head knocked Carl off his feet. He smacked against the pavement and rolled to the side to get away and clear some distance between the two of them. The rest of the noise around them immediately died down, and all Carl could hear was the boy’s intoxicated scream as he charged, invigorated by his successful attack.

  He looked up at the boy and in an instant, his drunkenness swept away, leaving him with a clear sense of things. There was no mistaking the hateful countenance staring back at him, nor the solemn realization that behind it was rage he could never quell with words.

  The boy went for a small knife in his coat and held it in front of him like an amateur. He prepared to strike again.