Jim McGill 04 The Last Ballot Cast, Part 2

by Joseph Flynn

  The cap’n couldn’t keep a look of fear off his face.

  Jackie told him, “Put the knife down easy, and get up here and drive.”

  Cap’n Thurlow did as he was told.

  Once the cap’n had his hands on the wheel, Jackie slipped past him and took a seat in the stern.

  The cap’n asked, “Where you want me to go? Back to Cayman Brac?”

  “No,” Jackie said. No point giving the cap’n home-island advantage. There was still time left on the slip he’d paid for on the canal. He told the cap’n to head back there. It’d be as good a place as any to hide out.

  On the way out of the harbor, Jackie asked Cap’n Thurlow how he knew which boat had the right of way. The cap’n explained that, generally, a boat on your left was supposed to give way; a boat on your right, you were supposed to give way. There weren’t any lane markers on the water but there were buoys. The cap’n told him which side of the buoys you were supposed to be on.

  Shit, Jackie thought. You knew that stuff, it made everything a lot easier.

  He had one more question, and he waited until there were no other boats around to ask. “This boat have the gas to make it to Venezuela?”

  Cap’n Thurlow laughed loudly.

  Seemed Jackie had asked a dumb question.

  But Thurlow laughing so hard let Jackie sneak up behind him and put a round into the cap’n’s skull. The guy might not have been entirely dead when Jackie threw him overboard, but he figured drowning or sharks would finish the job. He wiped up the little bit of blood on the boat with an old piece of cloth and tossed that into the sea, too.

  He made his way back to the marina on the canal, driving with much more confidence.

  Didn’t piss off a single boater.

  He was disappointed the Whaler couldn’t make it to South America.

  All that did, though, was make Jackie more determined to get his money back from that prick cop who’d ripped him off.

  Welborn had four members of the RCIPS waiting when Carina Linberg showed up at the marina. The cops boarded Irish Grace with guns drawn and using Carina’s key went below deck. Finding no one aboard, the cops told Carina and Welborn they could come aboard.

  Carina didn’t report anything missing — to the cops.

  After they’d left, she did a more thorough search and told Welborn that ten thousand dollars, her LadySmith .38 and an old boonie hat had been taken. It was mention of the hat that caught Welborn’s attention. He asked if it had been Air Force blue.

  “What else?” Carina asked. “Did you see it while you were aboard?”

  Welborn shook his head. He remembered seeing a guy on a white boat leaving the harbor shortly before Carina arrived. The guy was wearing a blue boonie hat.

  “What kind of a white boat?” Carina asked.

  Welborn described it.

  “A Whaler. Shit. If it had been a sailboat, we could have gone after it.”

  “How far can a Whaler travel?” Welborn asked.

  “Not very, not without refueling.”

  Welborn nodded. “I think the bastard will be back then.”

  Carina gave Welborn a long look and said, “You’ve got something he wants, but you’re not going to tell me what it is, are you?”

  Welborn smiled and said, “Have to leave something to the writer’s imagination.”

  The Alibi Club — Washington, D.C.

  Tom T. Wright, Senator Howard Hurlbert and Bobby Beckley were sitting around a table in a private room, a drink in front of each of them, when Tom T. slapped a check for ten million dollars down on the table. The check faced the senator and his chief of staff so they’d have no trouble getting a good look at the amount tendered. Maybe it was all the zeros but Hurlbert and Beckley took their time reading the check.

  The Alibi Club had been founded in 1884. Its name came from the practice of providing members with corroboration to claims of their whereabouts when questioned by their families. Its stated founding purpose was to provide mutual improvement, education and enlightenment. It was just the place for what Tom T. had in mind.

  Hurlbert and Beckley looked up at Tom T. Maybe it wasn’t the amount payable that had stopped them cold. It might have been the fact that the check was unsigned.

  “Okay, Tom,” Beckley said, “what’s the quid pro quo? Neither the senator nor I have any children so we can’t give you our first born.”

  The billionaire smiled. “I already raised one boy, as you surely know, so I’m not looking to bring up another child, and before we get to what I want, you should know I’m willing to put another ninety million into the pot. That should go a long way to rounding up the petition signatures the senator will need to get his name on the ballot in all fifty states. Might even be enough to buy TV time in all the big markets.”

  Beckley said, “In other words, you’re going to want as much as you give.”

  “Fair’s fair. I look at Senator Hurlbert’s presidential ambitions as a startup venture, something that could pay off for at least eight years and maybe a whole lot longer, if we play our cards right.”

  “What is it you’d like, Mr. Wright?” Hurlbert asked. “Your own key to the Treasury?”

  Tom T. laughed and sipped his drink.

  “That what you think I have in mind, Senator? Backing a truck up to the Bureau of Printing and Engraving, filling it with new hundred dollar bills?”

  The senator was about to answer when Beckley held up a hand.

  He said, “For a hundred million dollars, Tom, we expect you’ll want something big.”

  “Oh, I do. You got that part right, but it’s not about me. I’ve got more money than I’ll ever need, and the only person I truly love has even more than me. What I want to do is change a few things. I thought somebody who had the gumption to start a whole new party and name it for my part of the country might be just the man. Now, with the senator acting like all I’ve come to do is some horse trading, I’ve got my doubts.”

  “I apologize,” Hurlbert said. “I’ve gotten too used to the way things are done around here.”

  Tom T. nodded his acceptance. Beckley stayed focused on the matter at hand.

  “How can we help you, Tom?” he asked.

  “Start by telling me who you think was the most important politician ever to hold office in the South. You might be tempted to say the senator here, and I’d give you a pass on that, loyalty to your employer and all. But I mean history-book important.”

  Beckley ran the question through his mind. He felt sure Tom T. meant someone from his home state, Louisiana. Many of the big political names from down there had wound up serving federal time. Only New Jersey and Illinois came close to matching the Bayou State for political corruption. Putting the convicted felons aside, the only big name from Louisiana politics that came to memory was …

  “Are you talking about Huey Long, Tom?” Beckley asked.

  “I am,” he said with a smile.

  “He was a Democrat,” Hurlbert objected.

  Tom T. replied, “And you were a Republican. Things change. The important thing to remember here is that Huey Long was a true Southerner. Who better for a True South candidate to liken himself to?”

  The senator leaned forward. “Huey Long believed in the redistribution of wealth.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing, Senator. I’m talking about redistributing a hundred million dollars of my money to your campaign’s interests. I haven’t heard you complain about that.”

  Affronted and stuck for an answer, Hurlbert downed his drink.

  Beckley pushed his drink over to his boss.

  He said to Tom T., “If I remember right, Huey Long wanted to tax corporations during the Depression to relieve poverty and homelessness.”

  “That’s right.”

  “He wanted the federal government to spend money on public works, build schools and colleges. Provide old age pensions.”

  “Right again. He was a man of vision, and we know who did all those things: M
r. Franklin D. Roosevelt. Think how different the United States would be today if a Southerner had done all that. We’d be the part of the country everybody looks up to, turns to for leadership.”

  Hurlbert leaned forward and hissed, “Huey Long was assassinated.”

  Tom T. shrugged. “He was shot just the one time in the belly. Died of it, that’s true. But if he’d had a bulletproof vest the way we do today, he’d have been fine. Now, the fella that shot Huey got plugged sixty-two times. I don’t think there’d be any helping him.”

  “How do you feel about social issues?” Beckley asked.

  “Ten commandments about cover that for me.”

  “You’d like to see them taught in school?”

  “Sunday school.”

  “Abortion?”

  “Never had one. What I hear is they’re no fun at all. Best way to prevent them is to give kids the education and the means to keep girls from getting knocked up.”

  This time Tom T. raised a hand to keep Beckley from speaking.

  “Is there a man at this table who hasn’t wanted and had sex with a young lady he’d never care to marry?” The silence that followed was all the answer he needed. “I didn’t think so. Now, maybe we all got lucky and those girls didn’t get pregnant. Maybe one of them did and she took care of it on her own. Maybe one of us even helped her take care of it.

  “When we talk about birth control and abortion, we’re talking about burdens that weigh heaviest on women, but all us folks with tallywhackers are involved, too. We kept our peckers in our pants ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the abortion debate would be over. Of course, nobody’d be having any fun except the blue noses, and that’s pretty much the way they want it.”

  Tom T. finished his drink and pocketed his check.

  “So, here’s what I’m thinking, gentlemen. I’m looking for a southern man of the people. Someone who’ll lend a hand to folks in trouble, not give them the back of his hand. I was poor once. I know how much it hurts. I’d have loved to see another Huey Long coming down the road to help my daddy and me. I got lucky and now I’m rich. It’s my turn to come down the road to help those as poor as I was. Y’all let me know if you want to be the ones to help me.”

  Tom T. got to his feet, but he had one last thing to say.

  “I do want to thank you for one thing even if you say no. Your idea about starting new political parties, that’s a winner. Things don’t work out between us, I just might start one of my own. Y’all won’t mind if I call it the Real True South Party?”

  2

  December, 2011

  Indiana University — Bloomington, Indiana

  “We’re going to begin today with an assignment,” Sheryl Kimbrough told her class. “The Democratic Party was founded in principle in 1792 and came to be known by its current name in 1828. The Republican Party was founded in 1854. One week from today, I’ll expect to see five pages from each of you outlining and analyzing how our two most prominent political parties were regarded by American newspapers when the parties were brand new. Did the only mass communications medium of the time take them seriously? Who were their supporters? Who were their detractors? How much did the journalists of the time rely on truth to advance their points of view and how much bull-puckey did they fling?

  “Once you’ve got all that sorted out, take a look at the new True South Party that Senator Howard Hurlbert has started. See if there are any parallels between how True South is being treated by contemporary media and how the Democrats and Republicans were treated at the times they were new kids on the block. This paper will count for half of your final grade.”

  A young woman in the front row raised her hand.

  “Yes?” Sheryl asked.

  “Each of us has the copyright on our papers, right? Because if we do a good job …” She looked around at her classmates and said, “And I’m sure we all will.” That drew laughs, including Sheryl’s. “What we’ll be turning in to you would also make really cool book proposals.”

  “I hope you’ll mention me in the acknowledgments,” Sheryl said, “whichever of you hits it big. You have the copyright on everything you write from the moment you finish writing it. If you wish to sue someone for violating your copyright, however, you have to register your work with the U.S. Copyright Office. You can do that online for a thirty-five dollar fee. If you can manage all that by the deadline I’ve set, more power to you.”

  “How do you spell your name again?” the girl in the front row asked. “For the acknowledgement, you know.”

  Playing along, Sheryl printed her name on the board at the front of the class.

  “I have to tell you, though,” she said, “that I’ve already cut a deal with The Indiana Daily Student.” The university newspaper. “They’ve agreed to publish the best papers. If you want your work to appear there, you’ll have to consult with them about retaining your rights.”

  The class went on to discuss whether True South would be the last new party to appear and field candidates before the next election. The students thought there might be one more. They guessed each major party would have serious competitors before the 2016 elections, and by 2020 coalitions of smaller parties might govern Congress in the fashion of a parliamentary system.

  By the end of the period, Sheryl was dazzled by the way bright young minds could leap about from one idea to the next. It gave her hope for the future. God help the country if political thinking ever stopped evolving and became —

  Static. Adversarial. Dug in. Us against them.

  The way it really was outside of university classrooms.

  It was enough to depress a saint. That was, someone far closer to the divine than she was. She wondered whether she’d be doing the right thing to cast her Electoral ballot, unthinkingly, the way she’d pledged to do.

  On the other hand, if people couldn’t be counted on to keep their word, where would we be?

  Having no answer to the conundrum, she packed her briefcase. Cassidy was meeting her on campus today. The two of them planned to do some clothes shopping and go to dinner, talking all the while they were together about any number of things. She cherished such times and—

  Sheryl heard Cassidy’s scream through the closed classroom windows.

  She knew that sound from the first time she’d heard it from her baby.

  It terrorized her, and then things got so much worse.

  The scream was followed by the metallic sounds of a horrible crash.

  And more screams.

  20º North, 82º West — Caribbean Sea

  For a while there, Jackie Richmond thought he was in clover.

  Or whatever the hell was the right thing to say when you were out on the water.

  Looking at his situation as he’d hunkered down on the Whaler the past few days, he’d considered his goals and his opportunities. What he wanted to do was get to South America and have a good chunk of money to back up his next play. What he needed to do was kidnap Carina Linberg and steal her boat. That or kidnap that fucking cop and hold him for ransom.

  If he went with Carina, she’d said her boat could make it to Isla de Margarita, and it would bring a good price even if the buyer knew it was hot. If he kidnapped the cop, that prick would be a lot more trouble. He probably wouldn’t have the four hundred grand with him and … fuck that.

  Carina, it was. He’d settle up with the cop later. Would not forget that guy.

  Having made his choice, Jackie took the chance of going out and buying a new disguise. A Landshark Lager baseball cap, a flowered shirt and cargo shorts. But no goddamn sandals. He got a pair of running shoes, in case he had to lay down tracks.

  Then he stretched out on the Whaler under a sheen of tanning lotion and deepened the color he already had. Looked like a new man. Fit right in down around Venezuela. Only thing left to do now was to go grab Ms Snoot and her Irish Grace.

  Damn, he was going to be pissed if she’d gone back to Key West.

  All he could do was hope her boat w
as still in the local marina.

  Only it wasn’t. He didn’t have to go that far.

  Irish Grace was anchored at sea. Not too far out. Just a little farther than where he was. Just beyond the coastal boat traffic. Carina Linberg was lying out on top, looking to him like she was naked.

  He motored a little closer and saw she had on a real small bikini that was just about the color of her own tanned skin. He knew she was no kid but, damn, she’d kept everything right where it belonged. Without making a conscious decision, he kept the Whaler moving closer.

  She must’ve heard the motor because she lifted her head and then got to her feet.

  With her back to him, she undid the strings that held her top in place.

  Then she turned his way and let the top fall.

  Jackie knew right then it had to be a trap. The woman had never taken to him at all. Well, maybe that first day at Mango Mary’s when they’d tag-teamed that chump the slavers had sent. They’d gotten along okay that day. Right now, seeing what she was made of, he couldn’t help but wonder what it’d be like sailing off with her and staying tight for a good long time.

  He moved in a little closer. Got a good look. Hoped she’d drop her bottoms.

  Maybe it wasn’t a trap.

  He edged the Whaler closer, sure he could outrun a sailboat.

  You know, if someone did try to grab him.

  She put her hands on her hips. Daring him to come get her.

  God, he was tempted … just looking at her was great.

  Touching her would be —

  Something he’d never know. That fucking cop came roaring out from behind Irish Grace in some kind of big black inner-tube with a monster outboard stuck on the back of it. Jackie did the only thing he could. He opened fire with the LadySmith. He was aiming for the cop, but the black rubber boat was bobbing up and down like a teeter-totter.

  Jackie didn’t hit the cop, but he put at least two big holes in the inner-tube.