Crowns and Cabals

by Dina Rae

  George’s true passion was the great outdoors. He loved to live off of the land. He learned the fine art of prepping and passed on the knowledge to me. One of the normal things we would do was camp, real camping. Glamping was a dirty word to George. Each year he taught me something new. When I was fifteen I learned how to work a generator. At sixteen, I learned how to build one. Living without Wi-Fi, GPS, cell phones, and TVs were not an option. Off-the-grid living was his ultimate goal. He believed The End loomed near.

  Some would describe my grandfather as a man with loose morals. Ironically, George believed in God. He never belonged to a church and detested organized religion, but he did read the Bible cover-to-cover more than once. I was forced into learning several Bible verses. He was complicated, but what he did, he did for me. I wasn’t going to throw away all that he sacrificed. I needed to be prepared for SHTF or when the ‘shit hits the fan’.

  The prepper lessons were meant as a last resort. George believed that education had the ability to change lives. He stressed academics first to my father and then to me. He told me my father struggled with reading when he was little. One teacher suggested placing him into special education. My grandfather didn’t like that idea. Instead, he hired a tutor who came over every night until my father no longer struggled. He forced my father to read a book a week for years. The end result was a positive one. He skipped a grade and graduated high school in the top five percent of his class. George expected even more from me since I never struggled in any subject.

  George insisted that first my father and then I attend an Ivy League college. He promised to pickpocket the entire city of Chicago to pay the tuition. In his eyes, Ivy League schools served as breeding grounds for future elites of the world. For most parents, this achievement symbolized the American dream-money and influence. For George, it represented survival.

  Samuel chose Columbia, and as promised, George somehow stole enough to pay the tuition. I also chose Columbia in honor of my father, and once again, George made it easy. Samuel chose to work in New York City, as did I. But that’s where I stopped following my father’s footsteps. He chose the business world, but I yearned for action and adventure. I dreamt of becoming a super cop or journalist. Journalism won out, and I declared it as my major. I wanted to succeed in television broadcast and eventually have my own political talk show.

  A New York City network hired me as an assistant to the news director the day after my college graduation. My dreams were on the right track. With my boss’s approval, I had the power to pick stories that were both interesting and news-worthy. I learned the inside and out of the business. A few years later, the network recommended me to the major affiliate network as an assistant to the executive news producer.

  Once again, I picked some of the stories that would air. There were times I would even investigate. Sometimes my facts and findings didn’t matter. As George mentioned before, I learned firsthand that news stations preferred stories that matched their political views over actual news. My ethics class was wrong. The network’s lean didn’t seem like a big deal at the time, but then my self-interest trumped truth every day of the week.

  Another five years flew by. Some weeks I put in over one hundred hours. My health began to deteriorate. I was still in my twenties but the bags underneath my eyes made me look older. My muscular body turned thin and lanky. I needed to slow down.

  I didn’t call George as much as I should have which was one of my biggest regrets. He got sick and wouldn’t tell me, but I could tell by the sound of his voice that something was wrong. I was too busy to find out what it was. Now if it was a senator having an affair or a celebrity who staged an attack, I would have walked through fire to get the details. When it came to my grandfather, all I needed to do was make a call. I procrastinated until the eleventh hour.

  My medical source filled me in that George King of Oak Park, Illinois suffered from a stroke. He spoke with the same inflection, rate, and tone as he always did. He had full use of his arms. However, he was left paralyzed from the waist down, and I was too busy to help him.

  I immediately flew home. George went from a tall, muscular man, to a hunched up frail one in less than a year. His modest, brick two-story bungalow undergone major changes. Most of the furniture cleared out. He needed space for his wheel chair. His old living room had been converted into his bedroom. A hospital bed took the place of the old couch. There was a wheeled tray next to it and a television mounted on the wall. A home-care attendant slept in one of the bedrooms upstairs. Twenty-four hour home health assistance was now required.

  I cried as I took in the new scenery. “Why? Why didn’t you tell me? You were fine six or seven months ago…”

  “Raphael, you are like a son to me,” George interrupted. “I wanted you to live out your dream. Then my pride got in the way… I thought I would get better and you wouldn’t have to see me like this. I don’t think that is going to happen, but I am glad you are here. There is much to discuss.” George motioned his attendant for some coffee.

  The two of us talked all afternoon, night, and the next morning until the sun came up. My grandfather’s illness consumed everything including his house. Soon his home would be foreclosed upon.

  “You won’t get much of an inheritance,” George said. He laughed and held my hand. “Ah, but one thing is safe, the farm. At least for now. You know how I set it up. But remember this, Raphie, private property will soon be a thing of the past. You need to prepare. I’ve done some serious renovations over the years that you never got to see. Hope you will find refuge there.”

  “Grampa, you’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  I returned back to New York, put in for all of my accrued sick time, and finished tying up some loose ends on stories I had been working on. From now on, I planned on taking four day weekends for the next few months. Days later, I got the phone call that turned my world upside down. George ate a bullet. That was that.

  To avoid depression, I dove even farther into my work. I rose among the ranks from an assistant to a producer, and then a fill-in host. Four more years went by. Now in my thirties, I carved out a name for myself in the media business. Success wasn’t as fulfilling as I thought. I was lonely.

  Finding female company was never a problem. Women liked to flirt with me, and I liked to flirt with them. I was seen as a handsome and ambitious catch. Then I met Aysa Nottingham. Like my grandfather and my father, she also died unnaturally. Vengeance was all I had left. Someone would pay for this. I didn’t know who, but I would get even. With each robbery, I cut through another coating of the inner circle. Alberta Ross’s crown had to be somehow connected.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Raphael

  The death of my grandfather gave me a drinking problem. The death of my wife gave me alcoholism. I isolated and drank at least four or five nights a week. Occasionally, I started in the afternoon when my students left my last class of the day. Now that Jaxie gave me a reason to carry on, my habit went away. That's at least what I told myself as I managed to keep it together for most of the week. Were other war survivors turning into drunks as well? I saw my students strung out on pills. We all coped better with chemistry.

  A typical Friday night involved me, a bottle of some kind of booze, the brand or kind didn’t matter much anymore, and my one and only two-page photo album filled with pictures from my wallet. I wished I had more photos of me with my grandfather, but they were now gone. Fridays were reserved for my ritualistic pity party. The booze, the memories, and the photos caused me to cry. I wanted to die so badly, but not tonight.

  For the first time in a long time I felt like getting drunk and celebrating opposed to getting drunk and isolating. My gang of thieves just pulled off the most lucrative heist to date. The whispers of suicide within my head fell silent for the first time since Aysa died.

  I got home around eight o’clock. The night was still young. I opened a bottle of Smirnoff, an old
, cheap brand of vodka that I had brought back from my grandfather’s farm. He had quite the collection. “Raphie, when the shit hits the fan there will be only a few things that have worth-gold, guns, and Grey Goose.” I laughed. The Grey Goose bottles were the first to go when I hid out at the farm.

  The Smirnoff put a smile on my face as I turned on the television. A knock on the door sobered me up for a split second. Cops? To my relief, I saw Chad Whitley through the peep hole in the door. He was dressed for basketball. We had agreed not to contact each other. Was something was wrong?

  “Chad?” I said as I opened the door partway. My eyes must have gleamed with confusion.

  “I thought we could play some ball or something. On second thought, let me come in. I could use some of what you’re having.”

  I smirked and imagined I must have looked inebriated. His smart ass comment calmed me down. “Come on in. I guess I don’t hide my drinking too well.” I poured Chad a half of glass of Smirnoff.

  “You got a mixer?”

  I nodded and poured some orange juice in his drink. I preferred it straight. The effects came on much quicker. Chad took his drink to my couch and sat down. Seeing the photo album on the end table, he gave me an expression that pleaded for permission. I nodded. He thumbed through some empty pages as I turned down the volume of the television.

  “No one uses photo books anymore, old man. This is some old school memory keeping,” Chad said. “Who’s the woman? Too pretty for you. Asian chicks turn you on, huh?”

  I looked at the picture he pointed at. Our wedding picture. Aysa wore a simple white dress and I wore a suit. We had a quick reception in a Las Vegas church with her sister and her parents there to celebrate. George had been dead for several years at this point. His absence in the picture was always noticed.

  Aysa looked like an angel with long, shiny blue-black hair, almond brown eyes, a Roman nose with freckles smattered across, and a full mouth. Her smile, fit for a toothpaste commercial, flashed brilliantly in every photo. We were so happy. She was my first morsel of happiness after George died. The picture moved me in so many ways. My sudden good mood soured. She was beautiful. Our life was beautiful, and our son would have been beautiful.

  “Her name was Aysa, and yes, she was Asian, half Chinese from her mother’s side. But her father was British. Her family moved around a lot. That love of travel stayed with her. I could never break her restlessness. She was a foreign correspondent at the same network as me. She was in Tehran at the wrong time.”

  Chad looked at me with sympathy. “Yeah, now that you mention it, I recognize her from the TV. Beautiful and brilliant. Sorry.”

  “That she was. The woman next to her is her sister Jaxie.”

  “Damn, Raph. The blonde? Funny, same parents, but they couldn’t look more different. The blonde ain’t bad! She obviously resembles the dad, and your wife favors her mother.”

  “Their parents were in London when it happened. I lost them too.”

  “Oh, man, how awful. But the sister is still alive?” I nodded, but wasn’t ready to share any more. “Your wife had an accent if I remember. I used to watch her on the news. Never put together you two were married.”

  “Yeah, she had an accent. Funny, the sister doesn’t, but then Aysa went to school in England and Jaxie went to school here. Oh, I loved Aysa’s accent. It faded over time, but she never could completely get rid of it. And I loved her. Miss her every day.”

  “Well, here’s to Aysa.” Chad and I clinked glasses. “Raph, I’ve known you for what? Close to a year? You never told me you were married. You never mentioned it in the classroom or afterwards. If I didn’t crash your place, you might never have told me.”

  “Some things are too painful to talk about.”

  Chad flipped through all two of the pages.

  “You know, I had more photos. But they were online, in the cloud as they used to say. Fogle never did restore personal drives. Everything is missing or destroyed.” I quickly downed my straight vodka and poured another one. I didn’t like to talk about Aysa, especially in my townhome. There were times when I suspected the place was bugged. I was only an instructor. Maybe at work, but why here? My mind played tricks on me that seemed so real. Tonight I felt safe. “Chad, do you have anyone to get drunk over?” I asked with a slur.

  “I’m working on it. Marta and I… Too soon to tell.” Chad handed me the book. He had a look of respect and understanding in his eyes. I was grateful to have a friend tonight. “Enough of this sappy shit. Turn up the volume. I want to see the news. I am dying to see if we are in the clear.”

  We sat in silence for at least twenty minutes listening to the propaganda of the day. America found another medical breakthrough…, Europe’s poverty is exterminated…, Peace has been maintained within the Middle East…law and order have been restored…, etc. Every story provided an example of how the world was a better place now that we were all united under one set of laws and government.

  Next up, the local news… There was a commercial break and then the reporter went into the “gas explosion” that happened at Alberta Ross’s house.

  A gas explosion leveled the house of Mr. and Congresswoman Ross’s mansion in Highland Park. Police found the remains of a dead woman hours ago. She has now been identified as Louisa Alvarado, reportedly the Ross’s longtime housekeeper…

  “Damn it, Raph! You said the house was vacant! Now what are we going to do? I would have never…” Chad screamed.

  “She didn’t live there, and was not supposed to be there…”

  “We never even checked! Oh God!”

  God. I kept forgetting that Chad was one of the few young people who still believed. Maybe it was the booze, but I wasn’t too concerned. “God wasn’t there, Chad. Get yourself together.”

  The body has been charred beyond recognition, however Ms. Alvarado had a unique tattoo that enabled her boyfriend to confirm…

  “Maybe Alberta will suspect Louisa and her family as the ones who cleaned out her panic safe room,” I said coldly.

  “You said no one would die when we started this…”

  “Chad, enough! We are at war now. It’s starting, and not just here in Dallas. This story will die, just like Louisa, but it’s up to us to keep it together. I never meant for her to die and neither did you. I will make sure we right this wrong somehow. Maybe slide her family some of what we get from the fence. You know as well as I do that the Albertas of the world must be stopped. It’s us or them. And I choose us! If a Louisa has to die now and then, so be it. Say your prayers or whatever you do. If we don’t succeed, we die. The world dies.” I was drunk, and the truth poured out of my mouth like acid.

  “Revenge has made you apathetic. She was an innocent in all of this.” Chad got up from the couch. His eyes were watery as if he would cry.

  I did promise him and everyone that killing others wasn’t part of this, but I knew deep inside that there would be sacrifices. We were now on a roll. Death was the only way I would stop.

  I thought Chad would leave, but instead he got up, poured another drink and sat back down. We watched the news segment in silence. Alberta Ross was interviewed as she stood, dressed to perfection, in front of her once storybook mansion that was reduced to rubble. She mustered some tears in respect to her maid, and then mentioned the loss of some family heirlooms, but we knew better.

  “So that’s how she’s playing it?” I said, breaking the silence which was becoming too awkward.

  “Maybe the crown wasn’t hers. Maybe it was her husband’s,” Chad said as he drained his third or fourth vodka.

  “That is not an heirloom, it’s an artifact. We can’t pawn it. She will have her people looking all over for it.”

  “Absolutely. The safe room was fire proofed. I get to pick the next mark. You promised,” Chad said.

  “Any names you want to drop?”

  “You know damn well that I got a lot of beefs with a lot of these fuckers. I got a name, alright. If he’s not part of
the inner circle, then I don’t know who is. That’s why I am putting up with your bullshit, Raphael. No more. One more accident, one more death, I’m out. Unless…it’s my target.”

  I could see the retribution blaze in Chad’s deep brown eyes. He wanted his pound of flesh, and I would give it to him. For all his rhetoric, he chose to continue with what we started. Now we both understood that Louisa Alvarez might have been the first casualty, but certainly not the last.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Raphael

  That night I dreamt of George. He occasionally appeared to me and outlined my next move. I’ll never be sure if it really was him or my subconscious. Over a decade passed since his death, but I never properly grieved. Every time I saw his mischievous blue eyes, I wouldn’t look into them for long. I listened to the sound of his voice guiding me each step of vigilantism. I had some damage control to take care of. In my dream, my grandfather made it clear that the crown was much more than a priceless artifact. It was a symbol. But to whom? His voice faded out. I yelled for him to come back, but then I awoke with my head pounding like a drum.

  In my dream, George told me not to feel guilty about the dead maid. Louisa Alvarado was thirty-one years old with three small children. She didn’t have much of a life, and neither did I, neither did most. Maybe I even did her a favor. My vengeance had side effects.

  I was much more concerned with the crown. The piece symbolized something, but what? I sat up in bed, trying to recall the exact words my grandfather said to me. I remembered something about the Middle East, but the words drifted away.

  My head slumped back to sleep, and the throbbing inside of it slowed down. I felt as if I was falling from a skyscraper, maybe Tower One. Fire was all around me. My father was now in my dream, and he had something to say, but all I heard were his screams.

  I spent most of Sunday obsessing about my dream, the crown, and Jaxie Nottingham. I wanted to call her. She rarely called me. Social skills and warmth weren’t her strong suits. Aysa mentioned her sister always preferred computers to people because they did not require work or attention.