“Do you think they’ll try again? To kill me, I mean?” Sharon asked when they reached his apartment building, a red-brick, four-story structure left over from forty years ago when the area was known as The Restless Ribbon.
He got out of the car, but his equilibrium faded. He staggered against the open door for support. Sharon rushed around and slipped underneath his free arm.
“Lean on me.”
“I’m all right.”
“Don’t be stubborn, Nail.”
He relented. He fished in his pocket for the key to his apartment and handed it to her. She opened the door and locked it behind them before letting him down on the sofa.
“You don’t have a cat or dog? Maybe a parakeet?”
“Mice.”
“Yuk! Is it too late for breakfast?”
“There’s a Burger King down the block.”
“You’re in no condition. I’ll fix us something here. If you have something?”
“There are some cans of tamales and beans in the cupboard. Above the sink.”
She smiled when she looked. The cupboard was as bare as Old Mother Hubbard’s except for the can of tamales, one of pork and beans and a Campbell’s chicken noodles.
“As long as I have a can opener, we eat,” he said. “It’s in the drawer by the stove.”
She removed cans, employed the can opener on them, turned on two burners and found some pots below the oven.
“Jamie...” The catch in his throat made him pause. “She wasn’t much for cooking either.”
Sharon looked around the cramped apartment. “I can’t believe she stayed with you.”
“She had her own apartment over by TU. If you think this is bad, you should have seen hers. Just like her mama.”
He watched her at the stove in her jeans and red shirt, a spoon in one hand, tending the pans. It had been a long time since a woman cooked for him. It was a nice feeling, even under the circumstances.
There was an old-fashioned percolator coffee pot on the back burner. She shook it, found it half-full and turned on the burner.
“You didn’t answer me. Do you think I’m in danger?” she asked without looking at him.
“You said this runs deep. How deep?”
“Did you ever watch Jerry Baer’s show?”
“He was some kind of conspiracy nut.”
“I suppose that makes me a conspiracy nut as well. I telephoned Zenergy News this morning. Carl Patton is running Best of Jerry next week with a special on Thursday for the funeral. Judge Galliano will fill in until I return to New York. I fully intend to take up where Jerry left off by continuing to expose these people for what they really are.”
“Which would be?”
“Marxists,” she said without embarrassment. “Communists.”
Nail shook his head. “I thought the Cold War was over.”
She was stirring beans with a spoon. She seemed unoffended by his disbelief, as though she had been through it before.
“Did you know Virginia erected a statue honoring Josef Stalin?” she asked.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Communists are cool these days. Public schools ban American flag T-shirts, but you can wear one with Che Guevara on it. Actress Cameron Diaz toured Central America carrying a purse with a Soviet red star on it and the slogan ‘Save the People.’”
He shrugged. “Hollywood is full of dimwits.”
He recalled that Rupert had left a Che Guevara T-shirt in Jamie’s closet.
“Those who don’t know history are doomed to repeat it,” she said gently, as though trying not to indict him for his ignorance of current world affairs. “Most everyone thought we had beat the Marxists, but they never give up. That’s what Jerry was doing—educating America on our history and where we’re heading.”
She tasted the beans. “Do you have condiments?”
“In the cupboard to your right. Both the salt and pepper.”
She had a nice smile, a little sad because of things, but still nice.
“We used to view communists as dangerous to the Free World,” she continued. “Now, communists are teaching our kids history. Kids know about ‘social justice,’ but they’ve never heard of the gulags or the mass slaughter in the Soviet Union, China, Cambodia, and wherever else Marxism is implemented. They can give you the name of Michael Jackson’s monkey and the titles of Lady GaGa’s albums, but most of them never heard of Vladimir Lenin or Pol Pot. All the networks are producing programs commemorating the anniversary of Michael Jackson’s death while America is burning and the emperor is fiddling.”
Nail thought her a bit melodramatic. The United States was the only permanent, dependable nation in the world. It was too big and powerful to fail. America would never accept communism.
“Do you want to eat on the sofa?” Sharon asked.
He got up from the sofa to take a seat at the table. “I go formal when I have guests.”
“Which by the looks of things isn’t too often.”
She dipped tamales and beans on his plate, took a share for herself and sat down. He started to dig in, but she stopped him with a sharp look.
“What?”
“Let’s say grace.” She bowed her head and took Nail’s hand in hers. He hesitated, then bowed his head. He hadn’t talked to the Big Guy in a long time.
She finished the blessing and let Nail’s hand go. “Now, we eat. Today is Sunday, right? Don’t you go to church?”
“I’m usually working on Sunday.” He kept his head and eyes lowered as he ate determinedly past the lie. Coffee percolated. Sharon jumped up and poured two cups. “Cream and sugar?”
“Black and hot.”
She walked to the frig and seemed to brace herself for another foray inside it. Sighing, she turned back. “I suppose I’ll have mine black and hot also.”
When she returned to the table, Nail said, “You read what Logan wrote about commies. Pardon me if I find that hard to swallow.”
“No harder than this coffee. How long has it been in the pot?”
“No more than a week at most.”
She rolled her eyes before returning to her subject.
“I’ll call New York to send me DVDs of Jerry’s shows. The man insisted on exhaustive research. He didn’t merely offer his opinions. He provided facts and evidence to back them up. He’s the Thomas Paine of our generation. The Tea Party movement started with him. He’s the major reason why the Anastos administration is trying to shut down opposition media.”
“So the commies are coming?” he asked derisively.
“Do you recall when Nikita Khrushchev came to the United States?”
“I wasn’t even born. You weren’t either, unless you’re a lot older than you look.”
“If that’s an off-handed compliment, thanks. This is how Khrushchev said it would happen: ‘You Americans are so gullible. You won’t accept communism outright, but we’ll keep feeding you small doses of socialism until you finally wake up and find that you already have communism. We won’t have to fight you. We’ll so weaken your economy that you’ll fall like overripe fruit into our hands.’”
“You’re beginning to sound like Big C Brown.”
She lifted a brow.
“One of the biggest and meanest detectives you’ll ever meet and an old friend who goes back to the first war in Iraq,” he explained. “Big C is always talking about black helicopters, concentration camps, foreign troops in Tulsa and Albuquerque, a secret army, commies in the White House...”
“You’re making fun of me, James.”
He threw out his palms. “I’m listening.” It was better than talking about other things that only further depressed them.
“In 1963,” she went on, undeterred, “the Communist Party USA listed the goals it must accomplish in order to turn America socialist. You tell me which of them it has accomplished so far or is about to accomplish.”
Her passion intensified as she set down her coffee cup and began ticking them off on
her fingers one by one:
“Capture one or both political parties;
“Gain control of the media;
“Exert influence over book reviews, editorial writing, and news content;
“Dominate key positions in radio and TV to make programming decisions;
“Infiltrate churches and replace revealed religion with social religion;
“Exclude public prayer on the grounds that it violates separation of church and state;
“Discredit the U.S. Constitution by labeling it inadequate and old-fashioned;
“Discredit America’s founding fathers;
“Ban private ownership of all firearms;
“Infiltrate and gain control of labor unions;
“Nationalize healthcare, banks, energy and other institutions;
“Destroy the family as an institution by encouraging promiscuity and easy divorce;
“Collapse the economy...
“Feel free to stop me at any time.”
Mel Gibson in Conspiracy Theory was a nut, but it turned out he was right. Still, that there was a communist cabal working under the auspices of the U.S. Government to subvert and take over the country made no sense whatsoever. Nail shook his head in denial. It was all too overwhelming. Next thing he knew, he’d be out with Big C looking for black helicopters and secret extermination centers.
Sharon was not going to let him off the hook. Like she could read his mind.
“Anyone who believes in Marxists is labeled a conspiracy kook wearing a tin foil hat and lumped with people who see UFOs and Bigfoot,” she said. “It was Marx’ idea to discredit and delegitimize opponents by marginalizing them. If that didn’t work, you sent them to re-education camps or liquidated them.”
Nail was ready to let it drop and move on. “If they—whoever they are—wanted Baer dead, why didn’t they simply assassinate him without making such a big production of it? All those other people didn’t have to die.”
Sharon sighed. “You have to know and understand Marxism. Marxists thrive on fear and intimidation. They have to create a threat, an enemy at the gates, in order to justify draconian measures for the public safety. You can see the spin in the drive-by media. News sources depict the militias and Tea Parties as threats to the peace, safety and freedom of the country. That justifies building a private domestic anti-terrorism force and taking measures like the Fairness of Airwaves Doctrine to close down opposition. Murdering Jerry is another step in our government’s reign of terror to take over the nation. We’re all fools if we think they’re going to stop with this.”
Nail stared deep into his coffee, still unconvinced. “Right now, I’ll settle for nabbing the maggot with the big tattoo.”
She gave up. “So where do we start since Logan is out of reach?”
“I’d like to take a look at that chopper, but I’m sure they won’t let us near it. That leaves us with a couple of minor league marbles like Rupert.”
“Rupert?”
“My daughter’s boyfriend. He’s a community organizer for ACOA and PEIU. I’d like to know who ordered him to bring out the troops to be fodder at ORU when this thing went down.”
“And the other lead?”
“We might be interested in who shows up for Ron Sparks’ funeral.”
“You’re not dismissing Joshua Logan’s note?”
“You can’t dismiss anything when you’re starting from zero,” he said. “We begin with Rupert after you wash dishes.”
“We start tomorrow morning,” she corrected him. “Even God rested on Sunday—which I suggest you do in your condition. I have a feeling we’re going to need every advantage we can get.”
She pushed away from the table and gathered dishes for the sink. He watched her. It seemed he may have taken on a partner.
“I suggest we take a drive to the Kensington and pick up your luggage,” he said. “You’ll be safer here.”
Murder Conspirator Slain in Escape Attempt
(Oklahoma City)—The suspect jailed in a murder plot to assassinate undercover Homeland Security Agent Ron Sparks, who was posing as a federal census taker, was shot and killed Sunday afternoon while being transported to a more secure federal facility in Oklahoma City. Anthony Kimbrell, Regional Director of Homeland Security based in Oklahoma, said Joshua W. Logan, 38, died on the scene yesterday after he attempted to forcibly escape from two agents who were driving him from Tulsa to Oklahoma City for confinement and trial...
Chapter Thirteen
Tulsa
“Welcome to the New World Order, sleepyhead.”
The aroma of frying eggs and bacon and boiling coffee. Nail sat up in bed, not sure where he was for a moment; he was accustomed to batching it with coffee and a bagel for breakfast. Sharon leaned casually against the door frame to his bedroom with her arms crossed and a half-smile on her lips. She looked scrubbed and refreshed in a pair of form-fitting black slacks, medium high heels, and a blue blouse with a ribbon tied at the throat. There was a matching blue ribbon in her hair. She had already made a run to the Safeway, judging by the smells coming from the kitchen.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, still smiling. “I used your shower after I cleaned two dead crows and a Petri dish from your frig. I’m happy to report that nothing attacked me in the process.”
He looked her over. She used makeup sparingly. She didn’t need it. “That shower never did for me what it does for you,” he said approvingly.
“Thank you, sir.”
Last night she insisted that the patient sleep in his own bed. She had washed and dried a sheet and a pillow case in the Laundromat next door before building her nest on the sofa. She must have been up and about for some time, although Nail was sleeping so soundly he hadn’t heard her.
“The smell from the kitchen is enough to clog arteries within a three-block radius,” he commented, smiling his appreciation.
“You don’t look like you have cholesterol issues.”
He sat bare-chested in bed, wearing only the bottom of an old pair of Army sweats. Sharon’s presence in his bedroom—well, almost in his bedroom—made him suddenly uncomfortable. She walked to bedside to inspect the bandages on his head.
“I picked up some fresh gauze and antibiotic cream,” she said. “We need to change the dressing after you shower and get dressed.”
She turned and walked out, smiling back over her shoulder. “Hurry. Breakfast is almost ready.”
She waited to ruin his day until he limped from the shower wearing khaki trousers, hiking boots, a white button-down short-sleeved shirt and carrying a gray summer sports jacket over one arm. The little .38 S&W was tucked into his belt. She set a plate of food in front of him at the table and took her place across from him before she sprang a copy of The Tulsa World on him.
He shot her a quizzical look. He was hungry, ravished; he took it as a good sign. Then he lost his appetite when the headline jumped out at him.
Murder Conspirator Slain in Escape Attempt
His jaw tightened. He looked up. She was watching his reaction.
“What do you think now?” she asked.
“Cops don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Neither did Jerry Baer.”
He didn’t think he was hungry after such a jolt, but he cleaned his plate and swigged another cup of coffee. Made fresh this morning. Nail had some calls to make. Sharon cleaned the table and washed dishes while he worked the phone. He started with Lieutenant Jack Ross.
“Where the hell are you?” Ross demanded. “Schwartz said you left the hospital yesterday morning with your bare ass flapping in the breeze and he hasn’t seen you since.”
“I had things to do.”
“Obviously. With the pretty young woman?”
“I do have a life, believe it or not.”
“Kimbrell’s been asking about you after he couldn’t find you at the hospital.”
“Isn’t it funny how his name keeps popping up every time there’s a dead man. Jack, what do you kn
ow about the Homies capping Logan?”
“Only what’s in the news last night and this morning. James, I’m advising you to get in touch with Kimbrell. Talk to him man to asshole.”
“Jack, how about the ORU file?”
“Kimbrell is threatening to issue a material witness warrant for your arrest.”
“I’ll ponder it.”
“We can’t hold your home address from him much longer. You’re officially on medical leave. How’s your head?”
“Fine. The file?”
“Remember Toby, runs the Quik Trip on Lewis Avenue? Helped us in the Morgan girl murder? I’ll have a squad car take the file by there. There’s not much in it. The Homies are keeping all the working reports under lock.”
“I owe you one, Jack.”
“No more than I owe you and Big C over the years. That reminds me. Big C needs to talk to you.”
“I’ll call him when things settle down.”
He hung up. Sharon shot him an inquiring look from the sink where she was elbow deep in dishwater suds.
“I love to see a woman in the kitchen where she belongs,” he said, trying to lighten up things.
“Barefoot and pregnant too, I suppose.”
Neither of them was in the mood for more banter. Nail picked up the phone again. He had been putting off calling his ex-wife. He dialed. She answered on the fourth ring and he could tell she had been crying. He heard voices in the background. At least she wasn’t going through this alone.
“Connie...?”
That was as far as he got. She went off on him, screaming and shouting into the phone. He finally had to hang up. He dropped his chin in his palms and sat staring at the phone. Sharon dried her hands and came up behind him to place a hand on each shoulder. She smelled of Dawn soap.
“She’s blaming me for... for Jamie,” he said in a strained voice. “She had a hell of a birthday.”
“James...? James, she’s grieving.”
“Sharon, I tried... I couldn’t get to Jamie in time.”
He batted his eyes.
“I blame myself,” he said.
A Thousand Years of Darkness: a Thriller Page 6
