NOT AN AMERICAN

by Stanley W Rogouski

  "But you don't have to give these to your mother or even take them yourself. Plant them on your boyfriend, Mr. Sedgwick, that bottle."

  He took out another jar and put it down on the table, then another, then another, then a paper bag with even more.

  "Those too."

  "You want me to frame Dan Sedgwick for prescription drugs? What's that, like a traffic ticket?"

  "You let me worry about that. Just do what I tell you."

  Quinn walked back over to the photo of John Avellanos.

  "Now let's talk about your new, more age appropriate boyfriend. What was his name again?"

  "Your guess is as good as mine."

  "His name is Martin James Ruiz. He's the half-brother of our current candidate for mayor and the bastard son of our esteemed late Senator."

  "James? He said his name was John. That's the guy I heard about on the news?"

  "That's him," Quinn said. "On Monday, after you've planted those pills on Mr. Sedgwick, you're going to tell me a little more about Mr. Ruiz. Make friends with him."

  "What if I can't?"

  "Then you're fucked, but I suspect you already have."

  He opened his wallet, took out a business card, and put it down on the table. He took a smart phone out of his coat pocket, and put it down on top of the business card.

  "Just to prove I'm a nice guy," he said, walking over to the door. "I got your phone back. The rest of your crap you'll have to get yourself. There's my card," he added. "Text me. You'd better get it done. If you don't, you go to jail, right along with that psycho mother of yours."

  He walked out in the hallway and slammed the door behind him.

  Chapter 15 - Stitches for Snitches

  John Avellanos spent Saturday night wondering why Cathy Chegoffgan hadn't called him. She had his number. She was out of jail. Surely a petty arrest for disorderly conduct wouldn't prevent her from picking up the phone.

  He got off the Number 18 bus at Reagan Plaza the next morning in a foul mood. After a quick loop around the fountain circle, he walked over to the pump house, surprised, and probably fortunate that there were no police officers at the gate. As he passed the War Memorial he was met, however, not by a police officer, but by a newspaper reporter, Danny Grossinger himself.

  "How are you doing?" he said, extending his hand. "You are Martin Ruiz, are you not?"

  "Yes I am," Avellanos said, shaking his hand. "Why do you ask?"

  "I'm with the Winterborn Daily Post. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions."

  He switched on a small digital recorder that was in his pocket.

  "Sure why not?" Avellanos said, momentarily caught off guard. "I suppose this is about the debate Friday night."

  He looked up to see Grossinger take his photo with a small point and shoot camera.

  "You really do bear a striking resemblance to your father."

  Avellanos pointed at Grossinger's thinning hairline.

  "Where's your hat and notepad?"

  "Ah, so you know who I am."

  “I read your column religiously. You're not without a certain literary talent Mr. Grossinger. It's just too bad you've sold your soul to Michael Catalinelli."

  "You'd be surprised at how little money I make. If I sold my soul, I came pretty cheap."

  "Your words not mine."

  "Did you get a chance to meet your father before he died?"

  "Unfortunately I did not get to meet Senator Felton."

  “I'm a little curious about why you waited so long. Did you have any resentment against your father? Do you have any resentment against your sister?"

  "None at all. My mother chose to bring me up by herself. Until I became an adult I never really gave my father much thought."

  "As you know," Grossinger said. "Mayor Catalinelli has never had anything against the Hispanic people. Since they're naturally conservative he often prefers them to the liberal elite, as long as they're in the country legally. Do you ever wonder why your father, who was a member of the liberal elite par excellence, did not live up to his fatherly responsibilities? Do you think it's because your mother was Hispanic. Maybe, in spite of your sister's sly insinuations that the mayor is a racist, your father was the real xenophobe?"

  "My mother was an American so the word Xenophobe doesn't apply."

  "You know what I mean, of course."

  "Make sure you get this," Avellanos said, pointing to Grossinger's digital recorder. "Nicholas Felton lived up to his fatherly responsibilities magnificently. He raised the woman who will shortly remove your boss Michael Catalinelli from power. If she accomplishes nothing else in life, she will have accomplished that, freeing this city from a cancerous tumor and a vile hate monger."

  "Strong words Mr. Ruiz, and it obviates the need for my next question, which would have been whether or not Mr. Catalinelli correctly guessed that you supported him in the coming election. Is it true that you were at one time involved with Iraq Veterans Against the War?"

  "You should know the answer to that question."

  "Three years ago you attended a meeting of Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans Against the War in Chicago. Are you aware that a flag was burned at the rally shortly after the meeting?"

  “I did not witness the event you refer to," Avellanos said, "but certainly there are more effective ways of protesting a war than burning a flag."

  "So your objection to flag burning is that it's stupid, not that it's wrong." Do you think it's wrong?"

  "Not being a conservative, I didn't think they were mutually exclusive. In fact, I almost always assume that stupid and wrong are the same thing."

  "You evaded my question rather skillfully. But was there a flag burning?"

  "If you have any pictures I'll take a look at them."

  "You know there aren't any pictures. You're much better at this than I suspected you'd be."

  "You suspect too much. In spite of Mr. Catalinelli's suspicion that I'm a conservative, and your insinuations that I'm a wild eyed, flag burning radical, I'm actually pretty dull. All I really want to do is go to my job at WillyMart every day and mind my own business."

  Avellanos and Grossinger looked up to see David Sherrod standing in the doorway of the pump house.

  "Mr. Ruiz it's been a pleasure," Grossinger said, reaching out and shaking Avellanos's hand. "David," he added, nodding to David Sherrod. "I'm happy to see you're doing well in your new home."

  "Give my regards to Michael," Sherrod said as Grossinger turned around and walked off.

  Avellanos followed David Sherrod into the pump house. They sat down opposite each other at the table. Avellanos took the folder of opposition research out of his messenger bag and threw it down.

  "I guess I fucked that up."

  "You made a few beginner's mistakes."

  "Like what?"

  "You know what they were, asking a question you didn't know the answer to, about the flag, and the photos, but on the whole you did well. In fact, I want to change plans a little. Instead of Monday's press conference, would you be able to speak at the Water Rally next Friday?"

  "So that's what those signs are for."

  "Grossinger's going to write about you anyway. I wouldn't be surprised if your picture's in the Post tomorrow."

  "I should have choked the little bastard."

  "Choke him with your words. Next Friday will be the best chance you have. All the out of town media will be here, maybe even the New York Times."

  "The New York Times? I'll be fucked."

  "No you won't. We'll write your speech now. Talk about how you, a veteran and an old stock American were abused by Michael's police as if you were nothing more than an illegal immigrant or a homeless bum."

  "I don't think undocumented immigrants should be abused by the police, any more than old stock Americans."

  "Neither do I," Sherrod said, "but don't you see? That's where the CCIA has brought us, a police state, tyranny, not only for illegal immigrants," he added, "but for everyone."


  Avellanos sat back.

  "Well, I can't very well refuse the man who saved my life, but don't be surprised if I fuck the whole thing up like the inarticulate man of limited intelligence that I am."

  "You won't," Sherrod said. "Let's get started."

  John Avellanos emerged from David Sherrod's tent later in the day with a fully prepared speech in his messenger bag, and a haggard look on his face. Suddenly, he smiled. Only 100 feet away, Cathy Chegoffgan stood with a group of men that included Dan Sedgwick and Jeff Dawson. She was wearing a black T-shirt with a small anarchist "A" stenciled onto the front and the words "Stitches for Snitches" on the back. Her body language appeared languid and "unconcerned," the very model of detached cool as she took a puff of her cigarette and slowly exhaled the smoke through her nose. She had a necklace made out of a sharp piece of aluminum. She did not look up or acknowledge his presence.

  "Oh my God," he said. "I heard you got arrested."

  "Yeah I guess so," she said, finally acknowledging him but not making eye contact. "That's what they tell me."

  "I like your shirt," he said, flabbergasted at the cold way she spoke to him, pointing to the lettering on her back. "Snitches for snitches. That's pretty funny."

  "That's what I've been talking to her about," Sedgwick said.

  "Dan objects to my calls for violence," she said after taking another puff on her cigarette. "But I agree with you. It's meant ironically."

  "You certainly look a lot better than I thought you'd look after just getting out of jail," Avellanos said, trying to get closer to her but not able to get past Sedgwick or Dawson.

  "Oh it wasn't so bad. It was only for a few hours."

  "Lizard girl was locked up in her cage all day," Dawson said, laughing, and opening up a space for Avellanos. "They fed her a few flies, and now she thinks it was a four star hotel."

  "I'm actually speaking at the Water Rally next week," Avellanos said to Cathy Chegoffgan.

  "That's wonderful," she said.

  "I saw you talking with that asshole Jew Grossinger," Jeff Dawson said. "I guess he was all into you because Catalinelli dissed your father on TV."

  "I don't think his ethnicity has anything to do with it," Avellanos said.

  "I think anybody who survived the Second Battle of Fallujah can handle Grossinger," Sedgwick said.

  Avellanos looked confused.

  "I was telling Cathy how you fought in both battles of Fallujah," he said to Cathy Chegoffgan, smirking as if to say 'I told you so."

  "I swore to him you looked too young," she said.

  Avellanos took a deep breath.

  "Happy birthday," he said. "I guess it's cool to be able to drink legally now."

  "Sam's been buying me my liquor for a while," she said, pointing to one of the two men in the circle Avellanos hadn't met. "I pay him back by sleeping with him."

  Sam, who was an almost skeletally thin man in his 60s, just laughed.

  "Jack gets me my drugs," she said, pointing to the other, a dark haired man in his 30s. "But he's a faggot so I don't have to fuck him."

  Jack laughed in turn.

  "I don't really like the word faggot," Avellanos said, "even if it's meant in jest."

  "Shut up faggot," Jeff Dawson said.

  He raised his hand and Cathy Chegoffgan high fived him.

  "Could I talk to you?" Avellanos said.

  "Sure," she said. "Will you excuse me for a minute," she added to Sedgwick.

  Sedgwick shrugged his shoulders as if to say he didn't approve but there wasn't much he could do about it. Avellanos walked in the direction of the war memorial with Cathy Chegoffgan following. After about 25 feet, just far enough away to be out of the group's earshot, but not far enough to be out of their sight, she stopped and took a drag on her cigarette.

  "I think I work with one of your father's old friends," Avellanos said. "His name is George. I guess you do eventually run into everyone in this town."

  "Oh yeah," she said. "I know just about everybody. It's good to see you again," she added.

  "You seem different"

  "I'm the same."

  "I'm not a big fan of that guy Dan."

  "I don't think he's a big fan of you either."

  "I've done nothing to him."

  "He's very protective of David. I guess he just sees him as being a little too in awe of your sister."

  "OK. I can see that."

  "He doesn't like the idea of David putting you up on stage. There can always be unpleasant surprises," she added, taking another drag on her cigarette.

  "Dan is an asshole but he's right," Avellanos said. "There's a lot about me you don't know."

  "For the time being," she said, "there are probably some things it's better for you not to tell me. I need to go," she added, turning around and starting to walk back towards Sedgwick and Jeff Dawson.

  Avellanos followed her and grabbed her shoulder.

  "I really need to talk to you."

  She brushed off his hand with a violence that surprised him.

  "Get your hand off of me."

  "I'm sorry."

  He frowned when he saw Sedgwick and Jeff Dawson come up.

  "I don't care who your sister is," Sedgwick said, getting in between them. "I don't like your sense of entitlement."

  "Don't worry about it. I'm just cranky," Cathy Chegoffgan said. "I'm still feeling like shit."

  "Fuck you," Avellanos said to Sedgwick. "I'm getting sick of you stomping around here like you own the whole place."

  "Fuck you," Sedgwick said.

  "Enough," Cathy Chegoffgan said. "Chill out, both of you. I need to go."

  She turned around and walked towards the fountain circle. Avellanos did not follow her. Dan Sedgwick walked over to the pump house. Jack and Sam followed Sedgwick, but Jeff Dawson, who had had a grin on his face, sidled up next to Avellanos, and put his hand on his shoulder.

  "Loser," he said, smiling. "She won't give you the time of day."

  Chapter 16 - The Shot

  John Avellanos, for that was his legal name, walked up the path to City Hall, taking the long way back to the bus stop in order to avoid giving off any impression that he was following Cathy Chegoffgan, looking at the ground as he strode along, plowing through a group of police officers near the gate, and almost getting himself arrested. He made a right at Reagan Plaza West, then another right at Reagan Plaza North, getting to the Number 18 shelter a few minutes ahead of schedule. He noticed a homeless man. With his gaunt, Scots Irish features, and scraggly beard, the man could have been a frontiersman, living on in poverty and desperation on the land his ancestors had stolen from the Indians. He had one arm wrapped up in an old t-shirt.

  "Hey buddy," he said, holding out his good arm. "Do you have any change?"

  Avellanos took out his wallet.

  "I got fucked up in the Gulf War," the man said. "I told them that I didn't want to get that fucking shot, but they told me I'd go to jail if I didn't get it."

  Avellanos looked oddly shaken, but managed to find a 10 dollar bill. When the man reached out to take the bill with his good arm, his other arm fell out of the old T-shirt, and Avellanos gasped. It looked like a mangled lobster claw, as if it had been broken but never set properly.

  "My God Andy," Avellanos said, "your arm."

  "Martin Ruiz," Andy said. "You were always a good guy, not too bright, but a good guy for a dumb spic."

  Avellanos pointed up to the tall white church above Scahentoarrhonon Station.

  "I know how you feel about the VA," he said, "but there's a clinic attached to that church. We can get your arm fixed."

  Andy grabbed him with his good arm.

  "Clinic?" he said. "Clinic?"

  "Yes," Avellanos said. "It's free. They won't even ask you for ID."

  Andy tightened his grip.

  "You're not Martin," he said. "What did you do with Martin?"

  Avellanos pulled his arm away. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the bus.

&nb
sp; "Martin committed suicide," he said. "Come on with me. I'll pay your bus fare."

  "Oh I know you now Johnny Avellanos. You disguised yourself as Martin so you could get close enough to kill me. You want to give me the shot, don't you?"

  "Andy. Please. Let me help you."

  "Get away from me."

  "I can't leave you here," Avellanos said, grabbing Andy's good arm and trying to move him towards the bus.

  "You leave me alone," Andy yelled, violently pulling his arm away and throwing a punch, which Avellanos managed to duck. "Leave me alone."

  The bus pulled up to the shelter and the door opened.

  "East Poison Springs," the driver said, "all aboard for East Poison Springs."

  "Get away from me. Get away from me you murderer."

  "Andy."

  "Get on your fucking bus or I'll kill you. Get on your fucking bus."

  Avellanos stood in place, frozen.

  "Hey kid," a man sitting in the front of the bus called out. "Get on your fucking bus or I'll kill you myself. I want to get home," he added.

  "Last chance," the driver said, opening and closing the doors. "I've got a schedule."

  Avellanos admitted defeat. He jumped on the bus, paid the bus driver, and sat down in the chair a few rows away from the front. The passenger who had spoken to him through the door turned around.

  "God these lunatics," he said. "If Catalinelli had any balls, he'd just heard them all into a gas chamber and throw the switch."

  Chapter 17 - Mother and Daughter

  As the sun rose over the bluff at East Poison Springs, Cathy Chegoffgan walked out onto the steps of the Poison Springs City Hall, rifling through her backpack as she hurried to her car. She breathed a sigh of relief when she realized everything was there. That meant she didn't have to go back to the property clerk and complain about anything that was missing. More specifically, it meant she could get to her car before she ran into Quinn or Muffley, both of whom she imagined she saw lurking around every corner the building.

  Five minutes later she was driving south on Route 1081, looking at the construction site at Winterborn II fade into the distance in her rear view mirror. She passed WillyMart, the American Patriot Motel, a strip of fast food places and tattoo parlors, then made a left at the Military Park exit on the other side of the Scahentoarrhonon Bridge. She drove along the Scahentoarrhonon River until she came to what at first sight appeared to be a trailer park, but which, upon closer examination, revealed itself to be a cluster of tiny, prefabricated houses covered in aluminum siding.