It was a beautiful spring day in Raleigh. The sky was a soft baby blue with no clouds at all. Many from there called it a Carolina blue sky. The sun was warm but not hot and the slight breeze from the north made it the kind of day that just made it hard to be in a bad mood. It was the kind of day that made children dream of summer vacation and adults of walks on the beach.
The gentleman who turned on to Salisbury street seemed to be lost in just such thoughts. His broad smile showed off his perfect teeth and his dark brown eyes seemed to reflect the beauty of the day. On any normal day the sight of a very black man, wearing a bright white suit, complete with white leather loafers, and a white fedora, would have gotten more than a few looks and a few comments on why such a man was at the courthouse. However the day was not normal, the people who were still downtown were busy trying to get what they needed from their offices before the police shut down all the streets in the area surrounding the courthouse and the capital building. Everyone’s attention was drawn to the two National Guard hummers that were parked directly in front of the courthouse building and the Guardsmen who were patrolling the sidewalk with Heckler & Koch UMP45 Machinepistol, Americans called them sub-machine guns instead of the German name machine pistol. .
Dakarai continued up Salisbury St. He could see the top of the Holiday Inn where Rick should be waiting for him. As he made his way by the police who were setting up traffic barriers, he tipped his hat to one of the officers. The cop who’s name was Stephen Hodge, a 20 year veteran of the Raleigh police department, did not acknowledge the gesture, instead giving this stranger a long suspicious look. Later that night while telling his wife about the events of the day, officer Hodge would remember the man in the white suit. Because it finally dawned on him why the guy had bothered him so much; he had been the only person he had seen all day with a smile on his face.
As Dakarai entered the Holiday Inn, he stopped momentarily as his senses were assaulted by the chaotic scene of the lobby. Nervous and anxious patrons were checking out and more than ready to make their way to safer locations. He saw a young lady wearing a hotel clerk uniform and a man in blue jeans and a John Deere hat watching a small television. He could see that it was currently showing a reporter giving an update from right up the street at the capitol building. Dakarai paused to hear what these two were saying.
“You know what everyone is saying. It was some of them damn illegals,” John Deere hat said.
“Shut the hell up, Harold. I am trying to find out what is going on.” The clerk said.
“They come here and take our jobs, and take our money and then have the nerve to do something like this.”
“Harold, we don’t know who did this yet and frankly people need to wait until we do. For the love of God, they have reported that two Mexican families in Durham were pulled out of their homes and beaten and one of the men was shot. We need to be helping those poor people from New Hill and not going off half cocked and starting a damn riot.”
The scene on the TV switched from the reporter and was now showing an image of the Shearon Harris nuclear plant located only twenty two miles southwest of Raleigh. The camera was obviously far away, but you could still see the column of black smoke rising up from the middle of the plant. The text scrolling at the bottom of the screen said, “evacuations of New Hill and surrounding areas were complete. The Homeland Security Administration was currently overseeing activities between the military, FBI, CIA, FEMA, and local law enforcement from a post set up in Raleigh”.
“The government has done nothing to fix the border problems and if it was them illegals that did this, then you can bet dimes to a doughnut that you are going to see a lot more country justice before this is done.” John Deere hat continued.
The clerk just looked at him and said, “Harold, you’re an idiot.”
Dakarai interrupted the conversation by asking the clerk if she could check to see which room his friend was located. John Deere hat looked around when he heard Dakarai’s Nubian accent. The expression on John Deere’s face led Dakarai to believe this man was an equal opportunity bigot, so he just smiled pleasantly back, as the man turned back to watch the television.
“Most people have checked out or are checking out but I can see if they are still here. What is their name?” The clerk asked.
“His name is Ralph Fremantle.”
The clerk began typing. “He has not checked out yet...his room is 935.”
“Thank you,” Dakarai said.
The clerk called after him. “No problem, but would you tell him that he may want to look at other accommodations; we are not sure if we are going to be allowed to have guests here.”
Dakarai did not acknowledge the request and was already heading toward the elevators. He stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the ninth floor. The elevator opened and when he walked out, he could see that the hallway was empty, but a sign said rooms 20-40 were to the right. He knocked once on the door.
“Come in”, said a voice from inside . When he entered the room, Rick was standing and looking out the window, quietly observing the activity in the street below. Rick was tall around six two with dark brown hair that was parted neatly to one side. He had a muscular build and broad shoulders. He was dressed in his usual cowboy boots and jeans. He was still in his t-shirt. His most striking feature was something most people missed; he had azure eyes. They missed it because, whenever Dakarai had been around Rick and other people, he had observed others unconsciously looking anywhere but Rick’s face.
Dakarai took a seat on a small couch near the door. “You are an artist Rick. The boss was hoping for something good, but you really delivered.”
Rick continued to stare out the window. He was thinking about the past few days. It had been just two short weeks ago when he had arrived at the bus terminal in Raleigh. There had been a storm coming up from the west and the wind had smelled like rain.
It was convenient because bus terminals were always in the poorer sections; the area where you were sure to find desperate people. It was the kind of place he felt most comfortable anyway. He began going to the local dives in the area surrounding the terminal. Most were either redneck bars or juke joints that blacks tended to favor. The boss had been specific, so he needed Hispanics this time.
He was about to give up for the night and go and find a place to sleep when he saw a bar just as he was rounding the corner. The bar’s name was El hoyo de tequila. This looked promising. There was some Spanish music blaring out of the jukebox as nearly one hundred Latinos sang, danced and drank to relax from another hard day. Some looked at him when he entered, but quickly looked away. A tall white boy stood out in a place like this. He followed his usual routine and walked up and stood at the bar. The bartender came over and he ordered a double shot of Patron Gold. He then just started watching and waiting for the right person to show himself.
It was about two hours later that two men entered the bar. One of the men was nursing a bleeding nose. The other fellow had fliers in one hand and the other arm around his friend. They seemed to be known by most in the bar and several stood around to ask them what happened to Jose.
The one without the broke nose said, ”We were beaten for trying to pass out the fliers against the highway safety bill”. A law that would make it impossible for any undocumented immigrant to get a drivers license.
A fat man dressed as a gardener complete with straw hat said, “You are going to piss the gringo’s off enough to get you and your sister deported.”
“Well who is going to trim their lawns and clean their toilets then,” replied the unhurt one.
The crowd broke up and the two men sat down at a table in the corner of the bar. His friend was still trying to help Jose with his nose. Rick called the bartender again and dropped two one hundred dollar bills on the counter. “Give me the bottle of Patron and when you see that this one is low bring another.”
“Si” replied the bartender and slid over the bottle and pocketed the bills.
Rick walked over to the table. “You gentlemen need a drink?”
Un-hurt said, “What do you want?”
“I am not just any gringo. You want justice. I am all about settling accounts.” Rick said.
They talked in whispers for over two hours and they did manage to finish two bottles of Tequila. Rick was skilled in getting desperate men to do desperate things. Sometimes he appealed to their hate or sometimes to their sense of justice or anything that would get them to agree. These men were easy.
He learned that Juan and his sister Maria had left Chihuahua after the family lost their small farm. They had crossed the border and made their way to Mississippi to earn money for the family, working as day laborers in the reconstruction projects following the hurricane. They had met Jose there and he had told them his brother in North Carolina could get them all jobs working for a chicken processing plant. They had only been working at the plant for a month when ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) raided the plant. They had not been caught, but they lost their jobs and it had been getting harder and harder just to feed themselves, much less send money back to the family. Juan, Maria, and Jose had done their best to keep things going, but time was running out and their fear and frustration was rising. This made them easy targets for Rick. When he began speaking to them, he started by saying that they could show the world that they were strong.
He had set Jose and Juan on a path and they were eager. They never even asked how their actions would help their cause. He had simply told them that those in power would see them as serious people and the rich would bleed. Like all the other men he had used over the years, they just accepted his word. When Rick met with such people, rhetoric became plans and plans became action. Most could not say why he was so convincing and no one had ever been able to give a good physical description of him. Rick had discovered that ordinary people found looking at him difficult. There had been one man a while back, who had described him to authorities as a un-man. A hole in reality that gave no light. He was still telling this to anyone who would listen as they shipped him off to an asylum for the criminally insane. Usually though, people just described him as hard, cold, and dark.
During the next few days he had pulled his own strings to make sure the men could get into the plant. He had trained them on where to put the bomb. They thought that they would have thirty minutes to leave once they activated it, but he had set it up to detonate immediately. The boss did not like loose ends. He had made a call to Juan’s sister Maria, telling her that Juan had been killed and that the authorities were on their way to get her. He told her to go to Sanford and head north on I-95 and he would meet her at the first rest stop. He told her to wear a red t-shirt so he could recognize her.
He then phoned the local police and told them exactly where to find her, and her role in today’s terrorist attack. The dispatcher was still asking him for his name as he dropped the pre-paid cell phone into the trash. One more loose end tied up. Juan had told his sister about the plot, but she thought Rick was just another Hispanic. She would keep the authorities looking for a Hispanic man and her story would help whip up a fire against every immigrant in the state. All in all it was a pretty good mission.
He smiled and turned to Dakarai. Dakarai dropped his eyes. Even he could not stand to see that face with a smile on it.
Dakarai said, “I am going to see the boss today, you could be due a bonus for all your work.”
Rick stopped smiling, “No, I don’t need anything.”
Dakarai understood that this was another unusual thing about Rick. The guy never wanted anything extra. All the other technicians in the organization always asked for perks or time off the job. However, they also did not make it as long as Rick. They always either ran or killed themselves in the end. The job ate away at them like a cancer. Rick seemed to, if not thrive, to adapt to his role like no one else. Dakarai had asked Rick once early in his time with the organization why he never quibbled over the assignments. Rick had just told him that he had owed a debt and he meant to see the accounts balanced.
“Well, the boss loves ya. He told me once that you might be the best recruit that he has ever had. That is one huge compliment, big boy.”
He was not interested in compliments. “What’s next?”
“Well first we have got to get your big white bread ass out of town. We need you to do a collection in Vegas. Have you had a change of heart about flying? It would be a lot faster and you could get a little time to gamble and go out to the pussycat ranch.” Dakarai said with a growing smile of his own.
“I prefer the bus. It’s more my kind of people.” Rick replied.
“Suit yourself. Just go by the terminal in about an hour and there will be tickets waiting.”
“Who is the collection in Vegas?” Rick asked.
Dakarai answered as he stood up from the couch. “His name is Steve Simms. He is the owner of the Bellagio. I will meet you there and give you the details.”
“Fine,” Rick said.
Dakarai turned to leave, but paused as he was facing the door. “Rick you are one of the coldest SOB’s in an organization filled with cold SOBs. You grew up around here didn’t you? Why don’t you take some time to relive some old times? Quite frankly, if you lose any more of your humanity, you won’t be very useful to us.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No…I know who the boss would choose if it came down to a choice between you and me. You are the best and we don’t want to lose you. We need a man we can count on working the beat out there.” Dakarai found himself looking down at the floor as he said this.
“That is why I ride the bus. I get up close to people. Don’t worry your pretty little head about me, Dakarai. I still have a few miles left in these old boots.”
“Sorry I said anything Rick, but dammit you need to keep centered, live a little, bang a few girls.”
Rick said, “That is how the other technicians ended up getting collected; they wanted to pretend they still had a life.”
“Do what you have to do man, and again, great job.” Dakarai opened the door and left Rick alone in the room.
He turned to look out the window again, but this time he did not see the activity below; he was lost in his own thoughts. Another collection, he did not mind those. It was clear and easy with him. You made a deal and each party lived up to their side of the bargain. Sounds like this Simms fella had gotten his. He was the owner of one of the biggest casinos in Vegas and now he wanted to get out of his part. They always tried. They always thought they could somehow be the one to beat the wrap. Eventually, their accounts came due and if they tried to avoid payment then someone like Rick would go and collect it. Rick preferred to tortured them first, to make sure they knew why he was there. In the end he would collect them and mark one more account – paid in full.
He had been in the service of the boss and a member of the organization for nearly ten years. He had made his own deal and gotten what he wanted. For that he served the organization as a technician. A debt was owed and a debt was paid. While he did not mind the collections, he did feel some sympathy for people during operations like the one here in Raleigh. Generally it involved innocent people. Well that was not totally true; He was far too jaded to believe anyone over the age of twelve was truly innocent. However, they did not owe anything to the organization, so it seemed unfair to see them hurt in such ways. Yet he did owe the boss and those were the boss’s orders, so that was that.
The sun was starting to set when the phone rang and woke him from his thoughts. It was the receptionist, “Sir, are you going to be needing accommodations for tonight, because we have been notified by the police that visitors must find rooms outside of the downtown area.”
“No, I will be checking out as soon as I have a quick shower.”
“Very good sir, how long do you think that will be?”
He hung up the phone without answering her last question. He walked in the bathroom and began to undress. Traveling always made him feel grimy, he wanted to be as fresh as possible before getting on the bus.
Downstairs Cheryl, the receptionist, slammed the phone down. Just trying to do my job you big ass, She thought. She saw Tim the bell boy coming in the front entrance. Waving, She shouted, “Hey Tim could you go up and ask 935 when he plans on checking out?”
“Screw that! I had to take him some towels the other night. When that dude opened the door, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Something about him gave me the heebie jeebies. Why don’t you do it?”
“Sure Tim, I will just do your job and mine.” Between the job she hated and the city that had lost what little charm it had with today’s events, she just might take up her friends offer to stay with her as she set up a new life in Sacramento. Tim was such a girl sometimes. She would give 935 forty five minutes and then she would tell someone with a badge about the situation and let them handle it.
He stepped from the elevator, and into the lobby, clean and ready for his trip. He had the only bag he ever carried with him, an old well worn army backpack. He walked to the counter and slid his room key to the attendant. She had obviously been busy the last few hours because she quickly took the card and began the check out procedures. She paused for a moment as she read the room number.
“I apologize sir for the inconvenience, we are under orders from the police to have everyone out by the end of the evening.”
Rick did not say anything, and she continued to type into her terminal. “Would you like a copy of your receipt?” “That is not necessary,” He replied.
He turned and began making his way out to the street. Cheryl turned and tried insert the receipt into the shredder, but her hands were shaking so badly that she was having a hard time feeding the paper.
Tim was coming back from helping one of the last families load their luggage into the courtesy van when he saw her struggling with the paper. “You ok Cheryl?” Tim asked.
“I see what you mean about the heebie jeebies, there is definitely something wrong with that dude.”
“I am just glad he’s gone.” Tim said.
The street was still busy with police routing all the traffic away from downtown. He was going to have to take the long way to the bus station, but it was a good night for a walk. He shouldered his backpack and turned up Hillsboro Street. He had gotten about three blocks when he came upon a group of people shouting.
There was a large group of Hispanics, mostly women and children with a few men in front, in the courtyard of the local Catholic Church. There stood an elderly priest standing in front of the gate. On the other side was a slightly smaller group of people who were chanting “GO HOME” over and over again. One man was holding up a crudely put together sign saying “ILLEGALS = TERRORIST.. Dakarai would have recognized him by his John Deere hat.
Police stood in between the two groups, but a larger group of police were facing the church.
“The church has bestowed sanctuary on these people. You can not just come in and take them.” The priest was yelling at an overweight cop who seemed to be running things.
The cop had to yell to be heard over the chanting from John Deere hat’s group. “The executive order from the President of the United States says that we can padre. So I am going to ask you one more time to step aside before you are charged with obstruction of justice.”
“There is no order that can make me violate my oath to my church.” The priest was screaming now.
“Then let the church go your bail then.” The cop turned to another policeman and said, “Jimmy take the Father into custody; you can put him in my car.”
When the other officer grabbed the priest, several of the men in the church yard began to move forward to help defend the reverend. One cop, most likely a local yokel who never did much more than write parking tickets, shot a canister of tear gas into the crowded church yard. Three other officers fired their tear gas after seeing the first one go.
Rick turned and started down McDowell Street which lead to the bus station. He could hear cries and screams as the cops stormed the church and in confusion, anger, and fear began to beat the people who had sought shelter there..
He shook his head as he made his way down the street. The bomb was placed so that there would be no chance of any nuclear fallout or core breach, but these people had been contaminated. They were contaminated with fear. The clean up at the plant would be completed in a month, but it would be much longer before this community would be made whole again, or maybe it never would be made whole again.
The bus station was packed. He was trying to make his way inside when he saw another hand made sign posted beside the entrance, “Proper documentation needed before being allowed to board any bus.”
He had to chuckle at the asinine dichotomy of it, one group up the road is shouting go home and here they are saying just as long as you don’t take the bus. The station was crowded with people but few of them were Hispanic. It was mostly just people wanting to be anywhere less exciting. The few Hispanics that were there were being checked out by National Guardsmen and some guys wearing dark suits. They had to be feds.
He finally made his way up to the ticket window where a heavy set older man with grey thinning hair asked him, “Can I help ya.” The man had a strong southern accent that made him suddenly think of his younger days for a moment. He reminded him of the men that his father had known; democrat by birth and southern by the grace of God.
“Yes, I should have a ticket waiting”
“What’s the name?”
“Ralph Fremantle,” He replied.
The man typed away at his computer. “I need to see some identification.”
He took out his wallet and handed the man his driver’s license.
The man grunted and hit a few more keys. “They will print in just a sec.”
“That’s fine,” Rick said.
The old guy seemed to be watching the feds and weekend warriors as they questioned the ones that they had pulled aside.
“What kind of ape shit monkey mess has the country turned into? All those boys need is some jack boots and a hearty Sieg Heil and it would be complete. I don’t even recognize this place anymore.” He finished his little speech just as the tickets finished printing. He handed them over to Rick.
The old man added, “If I was you, I would board as early as I could. We have been running slam full all day.”
“Sure thing, thanks.” That was probably good advice and he walked out to where all the buses were parked and began searching for bus nineteen. He found it at the very end of the row. They were all idling and the smell of the diesel fuel was almost overpowering. He climbed aboard. The old bird was right about it being packed, this bus wasn’t scheduled to even begin boarding for another twenty minutes and it was already half full. He made his way toward the back, putting his backpack in the overhead area and taking a window seat on the left side. He did not have a book or radio to keep him occupied, so he just sat back and tried to doze for a while.
He was startled back to wakefulness by the bus driver who began making announcements before he even hit the driver’s seat. “Folks, you can see that we are nearly completely full, so please be patient with those around you. We will be departing in just a minute and our next stop will be in Burlington. You can make connecting busses there or if you are staying on the bus, I will come around and check your tickets. Thank you for choosing Greyhound.” The driver hopped into his seat and began to prepare to pull out of the station.
Rick did notice that the only empty seat left on the bus was the one next to him. That suited him just fine; he could use a little extra sleep. The bus pulled out with a loud rumbling sound. They turned down McDowell Street and headed for I-40 west.
A lot of time had passed since he was a little boy growing up in the area and in what felt like another life. Maybe it was what Dakarai had said about reliving some old times, because he was beginning to feel old memories stirring. He had done his best to bury that time in his life and forget about it, but tonight it seemed those memories were not content to rest in their graves but were determined to claw their way out and make some noise.
The feeling got stronger as he watched familiar highway signs pass.
Hillsborough, his father had known this obese mechanic from Hillsborough. He had two talents, fixing cars and eating. It was rumored that he was asked to leave an all you can eat buffet before he finished all he could eat. He had died when a car battery had exploded in his face. He knew so much about cars and he was killed because he hooked up a set of jumper cables wrong. That’s what passed for irony around these parts.
Mebane, His mom’s parents had lived in Mebane, along with his uncles and his aunt and a few cousins.
Haw River, The Haw River Ratz! It had been over a decade since he had thought of the old gang: Randall, Jeff, Johnny, Chuck, and … Amy. Those were some of the more painful and vengeful of the memories that seemed determined to haunt him tonight.
The next sign was the first Graham exit. Graham, his hometown, he had lived just right up the road from this exit. The only time he was truly happy had been stomping around this stupid town. The problem with burying these happy memories is that when they come back they are not the happy feelings you put away so long ago. They come back spoiled and they bring with them pain and a grim feeling of despair.
They passed the second Graham exit and he actually tried to see if he could see the old court house from the highway. When he was a kid it had seemed like a castle standing in the center of town with it’s tall round columns on each side. Main Street circled around the courthouse and on one side of the building there was a tall statue of a confederate soldier. Remembering fun times at events held at the court square was not as painful as the other memories. Unfortunately, it was too dark for him to make out anything from the highway. Just as well, there was no use encouraging the ghost of Ricky’s past.
The bus exited the highway and made its way to the Burlington station. When they stopped, the driver announced that everyone needing a connecting bus should see the attendant inside to confirm the bus number and that he would be back to check everyone else’s tickets. Eight people stood and collected their belongings. It looked like all but two were part of the same family. They shuffled off and into the statio. Soon new people started to board and the bus quickly filled again, leaving only the empty seat next to Rick. The bus driver came back and announced that they would be leaving in just a minute. He figured that the bus driver must have decided not to check tickets after all because he was already getting in his seat. The driver was just about to close the door when a young girl ran up, wailing, “STOP!! STOP!!” .
She stumbled up the bus’s steps, breathing hard, and with her arm outstretched to show her ticket. The driver inspected her ticket and motioned for her to take a seat. Rick’s body stiffened, he felt like he was seeing a real ghost, maybe come to drag him back to the place he had banished them. “We missed you Ricky, We missed you a loooot”. If Dakarai thought it was hard for people to stare Rick in the face on a normal day, He would have sworn that had someone looked into his eyes that night, they would have wet themselves in terror.
She reminded him of so much of her. Maybe it was just too many old memories this evening, but she did fucking look like her. The girl was young and could not be more than sixteen. She had long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore black high heel boots and a short denim mini, with an old jean jacket over a white blouse. He could not see what color her eyes were because she was wearing a pair of old Roy Orbison style sunglasses. She came to the only seat that was open and asked, “Is this seat taken?”
“No,” was all he said.
