Springsummer 6. Mindy Updates Carlisle

Springsummer

6. Mindy Updates Carlisle

Mindy Watkins lay prone on her queen sized bed basking in the glow of Carlisle's slow but efficient love. She fluffed the pillow that was adorned in a liner that celebrated the original cast of “Crime and Justice.” “This was a wonderful evening, Carlisle.”

“It sure is ending nicely,” Carlisle purred. He was wearing only his plush purple St. Martin robe. A man of many interests, Carlisle busied himself in the carriage house kitchenette refining a herbal tea recipe. Carlisle had started with the Kurt Saxon base of skullcap, chamomile, valerian and hops and had personalized it over the years. He added minute doses of cayenne, ginger and sugar to the blended sludge. Sometimes he ate the freshly-blended concoction with a spoon but tonight he was steeping the oven-dried mixture to make an aromatic tea.

“Your brew doesn't have that medicinal herby smell. It actually smells pleasant tonight,” Mindy Watkins commented on the formula.

“I might have found the ingredient that could upgrade all herbal tea,” Carlisle responded.

Mindy crossed her arms and waited. After a playful silence, she spoke. “Oh excuse me. Did I miss my cue to say 'whatsoever might that secret ingredient be, Sir Carlisle?'”

“You did indeed miss your cue. You need to study your lines a little closer, my love.”

Mindy repeated the question with even more dramatic flourish. “Tea,” Carlisle answered. Old fashion commercial grade pekoe tea.”

“Doesn't tea contain caffeine?”

“Yes, and minute doses of caffeine promotes a more restful sleep.” This was followed by a sort of scientific lecture as to the mechanics by which caffeine can induce relaxation.

This is the man Mindy Watkins had fallen in love with. Smart but never smug. An active mind that always challenged itself and playfully challenged everyone around him. Still, Mindy Watkins no longer enjoyed sleeping with her husband.

A couple years back, Carlisle had started expelling flatus in the deeper clutches of slumber. His snoring had gotten worse and his skin no longer felt sweet. It didn't smell bad, it just didn't smell like it used to. Sleep was a solitary pursuit and Mindy Watkins had grown to appreciate that fact. She enjoyed her one night a week with her husband but one night was plenty.

Mindy cleared her throat which Carlisle recognized as a change for the serious. “I want to bring you up to date on things before we drift off to sleep. We got the right inmate on the table, this Duncan fella. Unfortunately, he hasn't responded just yet. Dr. Wu suspects brain damage that might interfere with his receiving and processing microwaved signals.”

“Well that's too bad. But the good news is that the checks cleared for all six members of the Nelson family who are seeking political offices.”

“How many of them do you think will win?”

“None.”

“Not even the brother...”

“Not even the brother who holds an incumbent office.”

“I want to be a political consultant in my next life.”

“It's the perfect profession, My batting average is smaller than my hat size and every year my business grows.” Carlisle handed Mindy a “Crime and Justice” mug that featured the original cast of the first spin-off and he placed his “Crime and Justice: Animal Patrol” Season Three on his nightstand and crawled in next to his wife. The kissed gently and then reviewed their perfect evening together.

It was so rare when the entire family could do things together. Carlisle and Mindy could juggle their schedules but the kids had fewer options. On this evening Sarah would perform with her bassoon quartet and everyone else would dress up and enjoy the show.

Sarah had turned 15 two days earlier and there wasn't much of a celebration. Mary and Elizabeth both had golf matches and Jason had a competitive debate as his high school team had moved on to the Regionals. There was a late nigh “Happy Birthday” with a few gifts and some ice cream and cake but it was all so obligatory. A weary epilog to a busy day.

The bassoon concert was not called a recital because a recital was something people were expected to attend whereas a concert was something people wanted to attend. The audience might include more than faculty and relatives. Sarah attended the newly founded William Faulkner Academy. Her music teacher, Louis Armstrong Mason, had done a masterful job of rendering a bassoon quartet accessible to a general audience. He reworked some Vivaldi, some pop, some Coltrane and some Clifton Chenier to fit his group. Of course, he gave each performer multiple solos to satisfy even the most fickle relative.

Sarah was the youngest and most talented of the foursome and Mr. Mason had stated that she had an excellent chance of winning a scholarship. This information was given to Carlisle shortly before the start of the concert and brought a big smile to his face. “Now if we can get someone to pay for her wedding,” he said with some sincerity.

Shortly after Jason turned 13, he started accompanying his father at various civic functions—County Council meetings, planning boards and the like. Sometimes father and son would play “Who said what?” on the drive home and Jason had become adept at remembering verbatim patter. Carlisle insisted that his children learn Gregg shorthand and Jason had become proficient at it. He would proudly read back transcripts of School Board meetings and include coughs and yawns.

One night at an annual county library board meeting as the assembled awaited the commencement of proceedings Carlisle turned to his son and whispered, “You can sit there like a dipshit adolescent or you can work the room.” Carlisle had already made introductions to the gentle patrons and Jason had seen his father break ice at every function he attended. On this night, Jason's time had arrived.

Despite the fatherly tutelage, Jason was not a mingle prodigy. At Spelling Bee, Science Fair or Talent Night, people seemed confused if not annoyed at the child with the extended hand. But flesh was pressed and skills were honed. He assisted his father in file keeping and printed up some business cards that read:

Jason Watkins

Political Consultant

The cards listed Jason's personal email address, his MyFace account, his personal phone number and his father's business website. Following his father's advice, Jason only handed out cards to people who requested contact information but he did flex that policy a bit with teenage girls.

Tonight was the night it all seemed to jell. Flanked my Mindy and Mary on one side and Missy and Elizabeth and Jason on the other side, Carlisle craned his neck and shot his son the look. Jason sprung to his feet and got to work. Why this night when a child no longer looked childish?

The newly-constructed performance hall was impressive by almost any standard. Varnished wood with serrated walls and jagged ceilings and plush burgundy curtains and comfy burgundy seats. A perfect backdrop fro the wizard's apprentice to work his crafted magic. In his blue suit and white shirt , diagonal-striped robin egg over lemon tie and his thick tufts of dark hair, Jason looked the part of a young man with an enviable future.

Jason found his way to the first row on the audience's right. There, he struck up a conversation with a stately brunette in a full length indigo gown who would later be revealed as a 22 year old grad student intern. Mindy pressed Carlisle's left hand and Missy squeezed his right. Then the lights were dimmed and Jason seated himself in the front row next to the intern.

Petite Mary and chubby Elizabeth were dispatched to slip in front of the stage and snap photos of their poised brother. Each time Sarah performed a solo the intern touched Jason on his shoulder and pointed to the stage. The sisters would be perfectly positioned to capture each episode of contact with their phone cams.

After the show the sisters joined the adults where they had been seated as Sarah loaded up her instrument and Jason did his wrap-up schmooze. He introduced himself to Mr. Mason and complimented him on bringing out the best in his younger sister. Sarah would confer with the other performers backstage and watch glimpses of the show that had already been posted online. She would catch up to her family in the locker-lined hallway where she would study Jason's craftsmanship. They would be the last civilians to leave, escorted out the door by the custodian, Hank Hankins, who chuckled at Jason's witticisms as he locked the door behind them.

In the van, Carlisle waited on Jason's announcement before turning the key. “Sarah, your hard work and perseverance have paid dividends. I will never have your talent but I am so very proud to be your brother. I thank you for inviting me to your performance.”

Carlisle and the twins purred with pride. They savored the lone moment of silence and finally the driver said, “Does anyone have anything else to say?” Elizabeth congratulated her older sister and the grown-ups scoffed at her awkward verbiage.

Then Mary said something cute and everyone but Elizabeth laughed. The ignition ignited and “Crime and Justice” was piped through the screens for the ride home. The perfect evening.

Mindy's eyes were growing heavy. Carlisle was already snoring. The tea had done its trick. She knew she was headed for a sleep so restful and so pleasing and so refreshing but she wanted to hold on to the evening. The perfect evening.

SpringSummer 4 Khalid Is Warned

SpringSummer

4 Khalid Is Warned

Khalid Christopher had slept for roughly an hour when he got a call from his brother, Ahmed. “Call me back on this number from an untraceable.”

Khalid climbed out of bed and transcribed the number into a mini notebook that he kept in the nightstand drawer. He said “Give me a couple,” to his brother and ended the call. Khalid dug into a satchel hidden in the bottom dresser drawer and removed one of the three disposable phones.

Groggily Khalid Christopher stumbled into the TV room and fell onto the loveseat. He powered up the throwaway and secured pad and pen. A proprietary jingle and the phone was ready to go.

Ahmed picked up on the first ring and apologized for calling so late, yes he was aware of the time change, this is important. And Khalid meekly responded,"Yes” and Ahmed proceeded with the purpose of the call. The Organizers could find themselves in a civil war. A faction of the South led by Rabi Dog had decided to break away from the California mother ship.

That explains why Rabi Dog would do something so brazen as to Rob an Organizer bank. That explains why he he had gone missing. It explained a lot of things. Ahmed also warned his brother about T Rex.”Act normal. Don't let anyone know you got your heads up. There is only one man you can trust, Pharaoh.

Khalid was familiar with Pharaoh. He was a squat, dark-skinned guy originally from Sacramento. He was now second in command in Mississippi. “Pharaoh's on our side but he's playing Blunder and T Rex for the time being. Pharaoh will introduce you to everyone you can trust. In the meantime, act like nothing's wrong. “You keep this together and you might be back in the Officer's Club. I'll be in touch."

Khalid knew he would not be going back to sleep. Too much to think about. He realized he would be a target being Ahmed's brother. It might happen sooner or it might happen later. The rebels were probably still too disarrayed to clean house.

Khalid turned off the lights and sat near the room's only window and stared into darkness outside. All in all it was good news. Yes, there would be bloodshed but Rabi Dog would pay for what he had done in those narcs who buffaloed his love would pay-- one way or another-- and Khalid would once more be able to buy nice things for Kathy.

Khalid lifted himself off the loveseat and bounded back to the bedroom with the floors squishing beneath his feet. He was sick of this house with its low ceilings and spongy floors and zigzag layout. He hated the mildew and he hated the memory of the robbery and the cloud that hung over this dwelling ever since.

More than anything else, Khalid hated the trash. What kind of place doesn't have a trash pickup day? And why the hell would someone build a house so far from the road? You had to pack a lunch to check your mailbox, much less bring your trash to the curb.

Khalid was of the strong opinion that serious men did not clean houses are empty trash. Cathy's head injury soften him on those subjects. He patiently waited for the toilets to get scrubbed. It could be months until she felt better. No use stacking dirty dishes in the sink all that time. They would just have to eat off paper plates until that day arrived.

The trash could not wait much longer. Khalid had wrapped their garbage in Hefty bags and threw them in the backyard. That worked well enough during the cold weather months but now it smelled and rats and mice scampered across the colossal waste pile.

Khalid had recruited an online task contractor from the Internet and paid him handsomely to carry the dozens of trash bags to the roadside where he hoped garbagemen would retrieve it. But a week passed in the nine-month accumulation of black trash bags remained where it had been piled. Khalid called the nearest municipality and got a voice-mail recording. He called more numbers and they referred him elsewhere until finally he spoke to a woman at the County Clerk's office who seem to talk in slow motion. “You gotta take it to the dump.”

What dump? How y'all get there? No I don't have a truck. Turn at the road at that place where you brother used to work? No I don't know where that is. No I don't know where that is either. Which Walmart you talkin about? I don't go to no church. A dumb sticker? Oh, a dump sticker. Where I get that? It cost how much?

Khalid called the same worker to return to putrid mass of trash bags to the backyard. A middle-aged white man with a Santa Claus beard wore no work gloves or special clothing. He just smiled and drag bag after bag to the backyard and there he somehow managed to stack them neatly.

Stealthily, Khalid put the phone satchel back in its drawer without turning on the bedroom light. He tiptoed over to Kathy and kissed her left cheek as she lay sleeping. He slipped out of the room and gently closed the door behind him. With a grin in his step he pranced out to the foyer to see his other baby.

There she was! A solid black Silent Runner motorcycle. An ad caught his eye and Khalid manged to scrape together enough cash to buy a used Silent Runner. The Silent Runner was an engineering marvel still struggling to find its marketing niche.

The Silent Runner could be used off road or on. It wasn't designed for motocross launchings and landings but it handled mud and turf and hardened sand as well as anything on two wheels. It wasn't as quick as racing bikes but the SR could top out around 100, a little higher if you tweaked the motor. But who needs to go 160 to get away from a cop only to find another cop waiting down the highway and then another and then another?

With and SR you could cut across a foot trail, a golf course, a highway median, a vacant lot, a cemetery, or a suburban lawn and leave the police cars behind. An advantage that any motorcycle had over any automobile was its off-road mobility. The SR was the most versatile two wheeled vehicle in history.

In Khalid's view anyone who fancied himself a gangster knew how to ride. Even more important than mobility was the stealth factor. Anyone can identify a car by the chrome logo and a lot of people can even give you the make and model at a glance. Most people cannot identify a street bike. They might be able to pick a chopper or a Ninja out of a lineup but good luck describing a nondescript black bike zipping by in the night. It gets even trickier if the rider puts colored tape around the wheels and gas tank and removes the tape when he gets home.

License plates are smaller on motorcycles and easier to forge. Most states track motorcycle sales differently than they track cars and trucks. You can build a car from the ground up but it is an order of magnitude easier to build a bike from scratch.

A player can hide a bike in bushes or shrubs while he takes care of business. Try doing that with a drop-top Benz. But the very best stealth feature is mandated by law in some states. Full face helmets make identification damn near impossible. A riding suit and gloves will keep skin tone a mystery.

Feeling energized, Khalid his black helmet, black gloves, black boots and black overalls out of a hallway closet. He pulled a box cutter from a kitchen drawer and squished back to the TV room. He threw his riding gear onto the loveseat and dressed in a ritualistic way. Dressed and ready to ride, he silently pushed his bike outside.

Khalid stood in the dark with his helmet and night visor on. He had not ridden in the dark for a long time and he knew he had to retrain his eyes. He crept around the backyard and removed a large black trash bag from the Hefty Wall. He Returned to the Driveway and Started the Silent Runner.

Khalid had forgotten how much fun riding at night could be. There was hardly any traffic on these back roads but there was some fog. Khalid eased the SR in a series of S-patterns watch full of debris and potholes.

At 1.2 miles from his house, Khalid spotted a primary school he often drove by. The entrances to the parking lot were sealed off by lock and chain suspended for metal posts. This might keep a car or truck out but Khalid darted his bike between a steel pole and a line of trees and seconds later he was on the playground.

On the ball diamond, Khalid idled his SR near home plate. He removed the box cutter from the left front pocket of his coveralls and cut the garbage bag lengthwise. He then gunned the two wheeler down the first base path and down the right field line. The object of the game was to scatter the garbage as thinly as possible without getting much refuse on himself and getting none at all on the bike.

Khalid returned home seven times and grabbed seven more trash bags. As a matter of Organizer and personal policy, Khalid always shredded anything that had his name or address on it prior to tossing it in the trash. Leaving eight trails of fetid litter ranging from home plate to various points in the outfield, Khalid imagined a bunch of mean old white men on their hands and knees, looking to his chicken bones and coffee grounds in search of identifiers.

Khalid wrapped up his mission about an hour before sunrise. He washed the SR with a garden hose and wipe down his riding gear with alcohol pads he did not feel even slightly tired they took a prescription stimulant anyway, just in case he got groggily later in the day.

Khalid and pulled a foldout lawn chair from the shed so that he could enjoy his breakfast next to his Silent Runner. The sun rose in a cloudless blue sky. Over microwaved chili dogs and nacho chips he spoke ever so gently to his new love. “There will be other evenings. There will be other targets. You will make me a happy man.”

SpringSummer Chapter 3: The Changeling

SpringSummer

Chapter 3: The Changeling

“Yes, I will sign a confession stating that I conspired with members of the Mexican Alliance to distribute tons of methamphetamine throughout Mississippi, Alabama, Tennessee and beyond...

“Yes, I did personally distribute more than one hundred kilos...

“Yes, I did deliver an ounce of methamphetamine to James Charles Pearce on two separate occasions...”

Dr. Wu worked his persuasive magic on the inmate strapped to the table who admitted to running an Escobar-sized operation. Wu's team would have to scale back the details of course. Meantiwhile the confessor admitted to conspiracy, to running an ongoing criminal enterprise, showed a willingness to implicate other conspirators, a willingness to firm up the cases against a few convicts who wanted to appeal their convictions ...another giant leap for Dr. Wu, or so it seemed.

The problem, which would not be discovered immediately, is that Dr. Wu had the wrong inmate on his confession table. Delbert Wayne Duncan, inmate # 101793, was the intended subject of the confessional. Instead, inmate # 107193, Delmore Wade Duggin, was having his cranium bombarded with horrific images.

Mr. Duggin had received many diagnoses over his twenty seven years but two recurring terms were “schizoaffective” and “paranoid.” For reasons unclear even to the perpetrator, Delmore had returned home after a lengthy psychiatric hospitalization and immediately took an aluminum bat to the stained glass windows of an Episcopalean church. He was instantly remorseful to the point of cutting his wrist in a sincere suicidal effort. How could a man who loved his Savior and who prayed to him incessantly, commit such an act of barbarity? No one could explain it.

As the changeling experienced visions of Delbert Wayne Duncan's sons burning in Hell with accompanying sizzles and screams and pleas of “Daddy help me!” the genuine Delbert Wayne Duncan studiously consumed video material on The Unit's new and improved Education Ward. There, he was captivated by images of his childhood head flawlessly graphed on the neck of a child actor as the tussin-tenor voice-over filled his triangular cell.

“Remember when you tasted your first bowl of AM Cereal and every kid wanted to be your friend?”

Yes, it was coming back to him now. In those days children were told to stay away from kids whose fathers were in prison and young Delbert Wayne often played by himself. Then his mother brought home a box of “American Morning” cereal and every kid in the world wanted to play with him.

The screen cut to his adult head flawlessly gumped on an athletic body reading the label of an “American Morning” cereal box. His shopping cart is overflowing with giant turkeys and hams and apples the size of cantaloupe and extra-yellow bananas...Delbert Wayne Duncan places the titanic box of cereal into the depths of the stainless steel cornucopia with a blissful smile on his face...cut to an exterior of a large, luxurious house...cut to a bright, sunny dining room where a smiling Delbert Wayne Duncan sits at the head of a sprawling table. Seated next to him is his wholesome model wife, a handsome teenage son and two daughters on the cusp of womanhood. The child models are all within ten years of his wife model.

The family is enjoying American Morning cereal and Happy Start pastries. Delbert Wayne Duncan silently pledges to devote himself to his family and stay out of trouble. His older son had grown into a fine young man. Not sure where his younger son might be. Hope he isn't in trouble. His wife must have been pregnant with twin girls when he got sent away. They all want to see their father and enjoy American Morning cereal with him.

“Things will be different next time around,” Delbert Wayne Duncan said aloud. “Things will be different.”

SpringSummer Chapter 2: Smith On Leave

SpringSummer

Chapter 2: Smith On Leave

“We Mr. Smith will not be here today,” Thomas Weldon announced to the man who seated himself across the table.

Walter McVey studied the man across from him. He was a few years older than Walter and smaller in stature but they shared a lot of Irish features. Thin skin, round heads, rounded noses that have grown bulbous, they would have blended in at each others family reunions. They even lost their hair in a similar pattern-- frontal recession concluding with a tuft and similar scraggly crowns.

" Is this Bilderberger week?” McVey asked half jokingly.

Weldon smiled. "It is not but I suspect it's something like that."

McVey paused and said in an observational way, "You guys always have plenty to talk about. Excuse me if I feel like a wallflower."

Weldon turned serious. "It's Trig Dynamics. There is never an Isosceles for very long. That's why love triangles are so fragile. But you have become our hypotenuse, my friend."

"Did you major in bullshit or horseshit?” Walter McVey asked with mock sincerity.

Weldon chuckled. "Accounting is my specialty. I take safety in numbers."

“So, Mr. Smith liked your depreciation formulas and ask you to construct a depletion allowance that would keep America safe from foreign aggression."

Weldon shot Walter an expression a high school teacher might reserve for a loudmouth pupil who just called Shakespeare “dumb." “I retired from the IRS,” Weldon recited mechanically. “Then I went into consulting. It was there that Mr. Smith made his acquaintance. He has opened a lot of doors for me. He has answered questions no one else could have answered. He has shown me things I never would've seen on my own.”

“You talking secret handshake?" Walter McVey asked sincerely.

“Handshakes plural." Weldon replied smugly.

With that Weldon shifted the topic to John Joseph, the Eclectic Party and Mississippi. “I have seen the Eclectic Party game plan. They want to use hacks to win a few elections but their long-term goal is to displace one of the two major parties."

“Which one?"

“Probably the Republicans but could be the Dems. They believe they can get the number three party to merge with the Eclectics. Of course by that time they will call themselves the Progressive Party.”

“Why do they insist on calling themselves progressive when it's just rehashed libertarianism?"

“Joseph, the old man, says Progressives don't deserve that label. He calls them retrogressive."

“Bloom is anything but libertarian.”

“No, but then again, Joseph isn't ready to challenge the big boys. He is friendly with the president and wants to see him re-elected. He is not necessarily chummy with the rest of the Republicans, especially the vice president. Have you met John Chissel?”

“Walter McVey shook his head."

“He's a good man. He shares our values. He's one of the few Republicans I would ever vote for."

“Does Bloom think he has a snowball's chance?”

“No. But he's shrewder than he's made out to be. He will run as the Eclectic, get national exposure, take a few votes away from the Democratic candidate and then switch over to the Dems after the election. Then he'll grumble about the wacky Eclectics, say if you mea culpas for helping to re-elect Walker, and then gear up for the Democratic nomination. It's all scripted."

“Do you think John Joseph will run for president?" Walter McVey asked sincerely.

“Maybe someday. But in four years his party will probably run Eva Marie Taffy. Which is why they are trying so hard to dress up Mississippi."

“By legalizing drugs?"

“By pouring a ton of money into the state. By inflating test scores and income statistics and employment stats. Joseph has broken ground on the world's largest shopping mall just off I-20 and he will open as many as nine sports stadia strung along I-55.”

“And we can stop him?"

“Why would we? Mississippi might just be his downfall. The Josephs might pour in their cash and if these things start to bleed red ink, they'll pour in more and more and then there's a scandal here scandal there and boom! The disease strikes when the host is weak."

“Walter McVey shifted in his seat and chose his words carefully. “I'm not asking this question myself. Let's just say there's another person in this room and he wants to pose a question.”

“A hypothetical question from a hypothetical person? I can provide a hypothetical answer if that's what he wants."

Walter McVey paused, leaned forward and crossed his hands on the table.”Hypothetically, can we be a little more forceful?"

Weldon shifted in his seat and started to answer and then paused and started over. His face grew red and he said in a forced whisper, “You people just don't get it...”

Walter's interest froze at the infliction of the term "you people." Did he mean DEA, narcs in general, cops in general?”You people” was never an inviting term.

“... The last thing we want to do is make John Joseph a martyr. Hell, we got a national holiday for a plagiarizing preacher thanks to James Earl Ray. Even if John Joseph fell victim to an accident, it would raise all sorts of conspiracy theories. Capitalism could use a martyr and we're not giving them one."

“You got more patience than our hypothetical friend.”

For the first time since Walter McVey started coming to these meetings, someone was raising his voice.”Patience! It's all about patience! You people don't have any damn patience!” Weldon bellowed.

Weldon arose, removed a bottle of water from a dorm fridge and returned to the table. He seated himself as he twisted off the cap and then took a big schlook. He continued his sermon.

“Brute force has its place but not like promoting one textbook that extols the merits of the Great Society. I reject the primacy of bureaucracy nonsense that the Josephs blather about. This idea that bureaucracy is an unconscious impulse, that we're all bureaucrats at heart and we want to waste people's time because that is what we are programmed to do. It makes me want to scream.

“I do support what the Josephs call the bureaucratic agenda. What is wrong with an elite, educated group of compassionate people nudging the less fortunate in the right direction? What's wrong with that?”

Walter McVey was unsure if he was expected to answer the questions. At any rate Thomas Weldon stood up before he could respond. “I have had some intestinal problems recently. I got to cut that short."

He stood up and took small, quick steps toward the exit.”Patience!” He grumbled as he turned the doorknob. “Patience. Patience. Patience.”