The Supremacy License

by Alan Lee

  “Sure, Marcus, I know what that means. Nature hates a vacuum.”

  Manny, leaning against his car, smiled. He kept thumbing back the hammer on his revolver and carefully releasing it. Diego flinched at each click.

  “I know what it means too, Diego,” said Marcus Morgan. “So does the marshal. He knows if I go then someone else shows up. Someone worse. Cause I hate violence and I hate heroin. So me and the marshal, we cut a deal. I keep my shit buttoned up, I keep heroin and meth and crack off the street, me and him got no trouble. You follow?”

  “Yeah, I follow. Marcus, I swear, man I didn’t—”

  “You didn’t what? You didn’t follow orders, that’s what.” Marcus picked up the bag again. Pinched the edges and tugged it open, then upended the bag. The gray powder, thousands worth, dumped onto Diego’s face. He coughed and rubbed at his eyes. Marcus stood with the grunt all men his age make. He dusted his hands. “Milo running heroin too?”

  Manny said, “Didn’t find any. He had a couple girls I let go.”

  “Appreciate you not acing Diego or taking him downtown.”

  Diego stood with damaged pride, his cramped muscles relenting slowly. “I don’t get it, man. Cocaine, heroin, what’s the got’damn difference?”

  “Way I see it, amigo,” said Manny. “We can’t stop it all. Some stuff’s gonna get in. But crack and meth and heroin, those destroy cities. Those kill people slow, rotting the city from the inside. I like it here. Roanoke’s a good city. So we let in the coke, keep out the rest. It’s the best I can do.”

  “We could make a lot more scratch,” said Diego. “Other cities doing it.”

  Manny kept spinning the gun, catching sunlight each rotation. “Then move there. I don’t like you anyway.”

  “Put the gun away. Can’t shoot me. You a cop.”

  Manny grabbed the handle, halting the spin. The barrel pointed at Diego. He spun it again. “Might be surprised. Cops shoot people. Besides, I’m not a good one.”

  “So you on the take?”

  He caught the grip again and said, “Pow.” Spun it some more around his pointer finger. “On the take? No. Keep this in mind. The best police, like me, don’t play by rules. Write that down.”

  “Best police.” Diego snorted. “Big time lawman.”

  “Lawman in pursuit of life and liberty and girls. Like a true American.”

  “You a true damn spic, what you are.”

  Marcus Morgan shook his head. Took a step back.

  Manny said, “I’m a damn spic who loves this country. And hates guys who make it worse.’

  “You love this country,” repeated Diego with a laugh. “This country’s a shit hole, ask me.”

  Manny’s revolver flashed as he snatched the grip again. He fanned his left thumb, pointer finger, and middle finger across the hammer in one smooth motion. Each finger grabbed the hammer, tugged it back, and dropped it. Three fingers, three gunshots, so quick it sounded like an automatic burst. He practiced it at the range weekly, like an old west gunslinger.

  The first bullet hit Diego in the hip. The second in the chest. The third in the forehead. He staggered backwards and fell, screaming.

  One, two, three rounds fired, thought Manny. And three remaining in the cylinder. He always counted.

  Marcus growled, “Marshal, what the hell? Neighbors call the cops.”

  Manny spun the gun and holstered it. “I’m the cops. And I don’t like disparaging comments about my country.”

  Diego kept screaming, rolling across the gravel.

  The two guys at the warehouse waited on Marcus to tell them what to do. Shoot the marshal? Run?

  “I say that right? Disparaging?” asked Manny.

  “Sounds like a word August taught you.”

  “Hey,” said Manny, loud enough to get Diego’s attention. “Ay! You notice you ain’t dead, pana?”

  Diego’s noises changed to groans and he pawed at his forehead.

  Marcus smiled. “You’re right. Why the hell he’s still alive?”

  “Shot him with wax bullets. I told you, some guys need force, not warnings. Don’t talk bad about my country.”

  “Wax bullets? That a thing?”

  “Make’em myself. They hurt but he’ll live. When I carry the Glock, I keep wax in the revolver.” He nodded his head to the side and led Marcus down the gravel lot, away from prying ears. “Weird question for you.”

  “Aight.”

  “Heard about a fortress in the hills, south of here. In the mountains. Good hiding place for well connected fugitives. You know it?”

  “Yeah, I know it.”

  Manny took off his aviators and nodded to himself. Cleaned the lenses on his jacket. “Hard to get in?”

  Marcus chuckled. “Impossible, without a got’damn army. Know what’s good for you, you won’t try.”

  “Who’s there now?”

  “Got no idea. I’ve only been once. The District Kings don’t handle the property. Just rent it now and then.”

  “From who?”

  Marcus shrugged. “One of those underworld groups providing resources to rich gangsters. You know, in the grand scheme of things, marshal, me and you pretty small fish. Guys who rent that place? They ain’t small fish. Follow?”

  “Yeah. I follow,” said Manny with a grin. His day kept getting better.

  5

  That night, the men sat on the front porch digesting half-pound hamburgers and kale salad. Two citronella candles crackled, glazing the scene with a cheery glow and keeping mosquitos at bay. Mackenzie and his father Timothy sat in rocking chairs on either side of a chess board, glaring at the battlefield. Manny lounged nearby in his own rocking chair; the toddler Kix leaned into the crook at his elbow, asleep. The porch’s fan kept a steady stream of warm air breezing by.

  Ice tinkled in Manny’s glass as he took a sip of his margarita and lowered it. “Are you satisfied with your charcoal hootery?”

  Mackenzie August asked, “Are you trying to say charcuterie?”

  “That is what I said.”

  “Burgers were elite, Manny, thank you,” said Timothy. His chin rested on his fist. He released a resigned sigh and moved his pawn, afterwards returning to his glass of scotch.

  Mackenzie hmm’ed over the move. “Agreed. You are the Rachel Ray of your ilk.”

  “What I am,” said Manny, “is a modest Latino in need of some advice. Got a situation.”

  “Lay it on us. Our discernment is nonpareil.”

  “I was presented with an opportunity. To join a black ops team. A part-time gig, working with them occasionally. I’d still be with the marshals.”

  Mackenzie sipped his own margarita, eyes fixed on the board. “Doing what?”

  “Chasing fugitives. The kind requiring precision instead of, ah, overwhelming force. The kind of guy who doesn’t make the top ten lists because politicians would rather not know.”

  “Very black ops.”

  “Yes.”

  “You die, not many people know why,” said Mackenzie.

  “Right.”

  “Means they see you as a valuable yet expendable resource.”

  “Valuable, expendable, and sharply dressed,” said Manny.

  “You’d be good at it.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Go for it. Because I am a professionally trained inspector, I detected you getting a little antsy.”

  Manny frowned. “I am a badass. I do not get antsy.”

  “You’re bored. The routine’s got you down. Too many prisoner transports. You like the structure the gig provides, along with intermittent autonomy, but now you’re antsy. You need more. You’re trying to become the American gentleman, but also you’re an action junkie. You’re not a meek man. You weren’t dealt meek cards. Sometimes, gotta let the freak flag fly.”

  “You had me until the end. Freak flag. One of those weird things white people say.”

  “Only us elite honkies.”

  Kix made a sighing noise and shifted on Mann
y’s arm.

  “That’s it?” asked Timothy. “That’s the extent of your questioning? You don’t want to know who offered the dangerous gig? Which branch of the military? Or is it justice department? When he’d start? If there’s a stipend?”

  Mackenzie moved his knight, a dashing and triumphant move in his eyes. “If he wanted us to know, he’d have told us.”

  “Do you want to do this, Manny? Are you dissatisfied with your current position?”

  Manny shifted in the rocking chair, leaning back and adjusting Kix so he slept on his chest, using his shoulder as a pillow. Manny patted the toddler’s back absently. “I am not well educated like you, señor August. Nor intuitive and patient like Mack. I can’t do what you do. What I do well is fight. This would be a greater challenge. And…maybe I’m antsy.”

  Timothy finished his scotch, stood, and went inside. Through the open window they heard the sound of a single ice cube dropping into his glass, then a splash of liquor. He returned and swirled it. “You two have a code, don’t you. Some reason to continue the work you do, which requires violence. You chose vocations which are hard and threaten your life. It’s a code soft men like me can never understand.”

  “Not really a code,” said Mackenzie. “I enjoy bringing order out of chaos and doing the things most people can’t, which requires wading into the world of hurt. Same reason you’re able to stare down a meeting full of squabbling teachers and get everyone going the same direction. Your job sounds scarier than mine.”

  Manny nodded. “I don’t have much in this world. Don’t need much. But what I have? I have this family and I have my country. And if my country asks me to bleed, I do.”

  Timothy asked, “It’s that simple? I intend no offense but sometimes I look at our country and I think, what the hell is going on?”

  “Sometimes I think that too. But my code is very simple. I do what I think makes America better.”

  “That’s highly subjective.”

  “Use smaller words, señor. Don’t forget, I was born a humble Argentinian.”

  “I thought it was Puerto Rican?”

  “It’s both. The hell does subjective mean?”

  Mackenzie grinned at Manny’s many layers. “He means, what makes America better isn’t black and white. It’s a gray area.”

  “I thrive in gray areas,” said Manny. “But for me, it’s a black and white issue.”

  “Which political party do you align with?” asked Timothy.

  “You know the guy in the White House right now? I like him. You know the guy in the White House a few years ago? I liked him too. The guy who wins it next? Or girl? I already like that person. Black and white.”

  Timothy scratched at his jaw. A well educated and erudite man, a constant consumer of non-fiction literature, a man making his living in academia, who prided himself on his political positions, found himself befuddled and humbled by the blind patriotism. Somehow the shallow loyalty struck him as deeply profound.

  Timothy leaned forward and pushed over his king. “I surrender. My situation is hopeless."

  “Pick up your king, old man,” said Mackenzie. “A resilient and resourceful opponent could still squirm free.”

  “Ah, but your father sees things you don’t, son.”

  “Such as?”

  Timothy pointed across the lawn, where a woman was passing under the street light. “My date approaches.”

  Sheriff Stackhouse came up their walk. Her natural gate and hourglass figure made it look like a runway. Timothy rose to greet her on the steps and take her satchel.

  With a husky sigh, she said, “I never get tired of this sight. I swear, this family of burly and beautiful men should have its own television show. I’d binge watch it.”

  Manny muttered, “Weird stuff for your mom to say, amigo.”

  “Not my mom. She’s only dating my dad,” said Mackenzie. “In my mind, they haven’t even gotten past holding hands.”

  Timothy asked her, “Long day? I’ll mix you a cocktail.”

  She kissed him. “You can do more than that, babe. Take me upstairs and get my mind off this wretched world. Maybe twice.”

  “Ugh,” said Mackenzie. “Not what a son wants to hear.”

  “Estas loco, hombre. That’s exactly what a son should hear about his father, you dummy.”

  The sheriff smiled at the two men in their rocking chairs as Timothy held the screen door for her. Despite themselves, they both sat up a little straighter. “Gentlemen. Wish I could stay to chat, but…I have more important matters on my mind.”

  She and Timothy went inside and sounds of affectionate laughter drifted out through the window.

  “Gross,” said Mackenzie.

  “Not gross. It’s magical.”

  “Perhaps you’re unfamiliar with the definition of magical.”

  Manny smiled. It was a good one. “One day, when you are fifty-five or whatever, I hope someone like Stackhouse is pulling you upstairs by your tie.”

  “Me too. But I won’t subject Kix to it.” Mackenzie stood and took his son out of Manny’s arms. Kix sighed but didn’t wake. “I’ll come back and beat you in chess.”

  “Maybe next time.” Manny waggled his cell phone. “Need to make a call.”

  “Accepting the assignment?”

  “Sí.”

  “You’re one of the most dangerous men in America. It speaks well of this black ops group that they recognize it. I got your back. Always,” said Mackenzie.

  “I know.”

  Left alone on the front porch, Manny finished his margarita and eyed the slip of paper with the telephone number. He dialed it and a woman’s voice answered, “Yes?”

  “I’m in.”

  “You see the car?” As the woman’s voice spoke, an electric car hummed quietly into view and stopped in front of their house. “Get in.”

  Manny whistled. “Spooky trick.”

  The line disconnected.

  The car was a Tesla. As he approached, the rear door unlocked. He shifted his weight slightly, testing the reassuring weight of the gun on his belt, opened the door, and slid in. The car ghosted forward without a sound. There was no driver.

  “Ay dios mio,” said Manny. “Spooky as hell.”

  A voice came over the speakers. “Relax, Deputy Martinez. It’s a short trip. See you in five minutes.”

  6

  The Tesla turned onto a dark street downtown. Kirk Avenue was laid with charming brick, the sidewalks lined with young hedge maples. At a nondescript door the car stopped. The FBI’s Roanoke office. Manny’s door unlocked and he got out.

  The stern green-eyed woman from earlier met him and shook his hand again, a touch more firmly now. She said, “You’re sure?”

  “I’m in."

  “My name is Weaver. SSA in the FBI’s Criminal Investigation Division, Violent Crimes Unit. Follow me.” She led him through the dark office, satisfying two points of biometric security measures. In the back, they found buzz cut waiting.

  He said, “Deputy, glad to have you. Name’s Douglas, Director of Special Operations for the DEA.” He slid a neat stack of papers Manny’s way. “Sign these and we’ll proceed.”

  Manny held up a hand. “I have a stipulation. Shouldn’t cause any trouble. I get a codename?”

  Special Agent Weaver nodded. “Yes, as do the others. In my files you’ll be known as—”

  “Sinatra.”

  Her eyebrow rose slightly. “You’re kidding.”

  “My stipulation. I want to be Sinatra.”

  Douglas’s face turned downward with displeasure. “Good hell, Martinez, this is national security, not a joke. The time we spent—”

  Manny crossed his arms. “I make no joke, Director Douglas. And no disrespect. I want my codename to be Sinatra.”

  “As in, Frank Sinatra?”

  “My opinion, he’s one of the great Americans of the twentieth century. Hardworking, stylish, and tough. I love his music, plus white people relax around a guy named Sinatra rath
er than Martinez. A pilot gets to pick his callsign and I get to pick my codename. I choose Sinatra.”

  Douglas shared a glance with Weaver, a look conveying frustration and fear they’d wasted their time with a juvenile deputy marshal playing games. If they couldn’t trust his judgment now, granting him autonomy in the field was impossible. But Weaver nodded, confident in her selection; Manny was a man who took America more seriously than most. He was dedicated and punctilious and thorough and absolutely lethal, and at the moment he wasn’t being boyish—he was being Manny.

  “I see no issue with that,” she said.

  “Good.”

  A third individual came in. Bland looking guy, small features. He pierced a vein in Manny’s arm and filled vials with blood. He connected Manny to a machine and asked questions for thirty minutes. Some deeply personal and Manny fought to keep anger out of his voice. Douglas and Weaver watched silently, half an eye on him and half an eye on the monitor. Finally the man nodded, disconnected Manny, and left.

  Manny signed his name to a dozen weighty nondisclosure agreements. Weaver said, “Welcome aboard, Sinatra.”

  Manny winked. “Sounds good, right?”

  “Tell me, Deputy,” said Douglas, sliding photographs and newspaper clippings across the desk. Manny recognized them immediately: the national wildlife refugee standoff, spearheaded by Ammon Bundy; the disaster at Waco; the Ruby Ridge siege; the botched arrest of mobster Buster Wertz, and the collateral damage of eight civilian deaths. “What do these have in common?”

  “Embarrassment for the American government.”

  “Correct. These are situations when perhaps one or two highly skilled operational agents could have mitigated disaster. When a scalpel, instead of the hammer, could have saved time and resources and lives and, yes, embarrassment.”