by Len Melvin
The oil companies, unmonitored and with no motive but profit, had chewed up the Delta, and the Corp of Engineers, with no initial understanding of the Mississippi River and its Mother’s nourishment to the wetlands, had dammed tributaries and erected barriers to protect the towns upriver. The land had become malnourished and had begun sinking and the Gulf of Mexico eventually began consuming up to six hundred yards of Louisiana daily. And then, despite the best efforts of the Corp of Engineers, the River had turned away from New Orleans, merging with the Atchafalaya River, the easier path to the Gulf through Morgan City, drying up the docks and crippling industries from Baton Rouge to New Orleans and on down to the Gulf. Without the flow of the River to impede it, the salt water of the Gulf of Mexico had seeped into the city, ruining the drinking water. “The politicians,” Malouf’s grandfather would say bitterly, “squabbled and talked of master plans to reverse the Gulf’s advance but nobody never did nothing. They always said it was too expensive. Now look what they got.”
The rain became heavier and water began to gather along the curbs. Malouf poured the Jameson into the cup of coffee and took it to the window. He put his face close to the pane of glass. Beyond the elevated interstate that stood a mile away, he knew that barely five miles further lay the Gulf of Mexico. The town of Lafitte was long under water. Bayous and inlets, mapped and named by French explorers, lay overrun by the rising waters, their names long forgotten by present inhabitants. He sipped from his coffee as a man in a suit jumped from a cab and stepped into ankle-deep water, hesitating for a moment before running for cover. Malouf turned and gazed in the direction of the North Bank where the city of Slidell sat on the edge of Lake Pontchartrain and knew its fate was to be the same as New Orleans.
He returned to his bar stool and ordered another Jameson. “Want me to freshen up that coffee? You might be here a while. Looks like it’s flooding outside.”
“Yes, thanks.”
An orange barrel that warned of potholes floated by and then another. The bartender returned with the coffee. “Seems like it gets worse all the time. Half the pumps don’t work and the gutters are all filled with debris and garbage. And then all the water pipes break when it’s cold and there ain’t no water for a while.” She poured coffee into Malouf’s cup and then grabbed the bottle of Jameson by its neck and emptied it into the shot glass. She lobbed the empty bottle half-way across the bar into a waste basket where it burst with a jarring crack as it struck another empty bottle. “This city’s a little over three hundred years old but I doubt it will make it to four hundred.”
“It won’t,” said Malouf.
She stopped, an empty mug poised under a tap, and gave Malouf a stern look. “You seem awfully sure of that.”
“It’s a fact.” Malouf shrugged.
“What do you mean a fact?” She rolled her eyes in a theatric manner and turned her attention to filling the mug of beer. “C’mon. I was kidding. They’ll think of something.” She said over her shoulder, glancing from the beer that was almost full, to Malouf and then back to the beer. “They always think of something.”
“And you seem awfully sure of that.” He sipped on the Jameson and then placed the glass on the bar. He turned in his chair and pointed through the window at the flooded streets. “Thirty years from now the entire city will be under salt water except for parts of the French Quarter and the airport. You’ll have to ride on an airboat to get from one to the other. People will be fishing in the Gulf of Mexico off the shoulder of I-12, north of Slidell.”
The bartender put both hands on the bar and leaned in toward Malouf. “Oh, please. Somebody smart will come up with something. I read somewhere they already got some kind’a master plan for the city.” She stepped back and stared at Malouf. “This city ain’t going nowhere.”
Malouf took another sip of Jameson. Through the window people in raincoats and galoshes struggled to walk on the sidewalks, the water now knee-level. “Their master plan didn’t count on the river changing course and for one hurricane after another.”
The bartender gave a dismissive laugh. “Whatever you say, Mister.” She picked up a glass from the sink and massaged the inside.
Malouf held up his shot glass to the bartender. “To the City that care forgot.” He finished the Jameson and put the empty glass on the bar, then turned from the bartender and to the rain cascading from the sky. “She was a grand old girl while she lasted.”
◆◆◆
Beaux stopped mopping, her attention diverted by the New Orleans news station on TV. On the screen, a man lay still in the street as another man in a white sleeveless t-shirt and tattoos that went wrists to shoulders grasped a woman by her hair, a knife to her throat. The woman fell to her knees, apparently begging for her life, as the tattooed man leaned in close to her face, as if taunting her. Another man with a long stringy goatee stood to the side, a pistol in hand, grinning and watching.
The video played in regular time and then replayed in slow-motion as a reporter’s voice narrated the action. Beaux watched, transfixed as the drama played out. A man wearing a long coat, his head covered by a hood, moved into view. The man with the tattoos turned, the knife pulled from the girl’s throat and slashed across the closing space between him and the approaching figure. The man held up a hand in protection and blood spurted across the French Quarter street as the knife crossed his open palm. Beaux gasped as she covered her mouth with her hand.
With the other hand the man in the long coat brought a black baton from his pocket and touched the tattooed man’s torso. He collapsed, falling in a heap onto the street. The man with the goatee approached, pistol in hand as he screamed at the man in the coat. The man in the coat pointed the baton, flicked a switch and the baton extended in a blur toward the goateed man. He fell as the baton came in contact with him and lay near his friend, motionless on the street. The man in the coat flicked the button again and the extension of the baton receded. He placed it back in his pocket and bent on one knee next to the girl who was half-sitting on the street, legs spread in disarray. He put a hand behind her neck, drew her close to him, leaned in and said something. She nodded as he spoke and then he rose, keeping his head low as he pulled his hoodie down over his face. He touched the figures lying prone on the street with his foot as if assuring they were no threat and then strode down a side street and out of the vision of the camera.
Chapter Seven
The crowd was growing, an almost all white, angular jaw, clean-cut assortment in jeans and boots and tucked-in colorful shirts. Below the reflective sunglasses, a trace of a smile etched around the corners of Simon’s mouth. The Boss would be happy. His type of crowd and a big one. Places like Oklahoma were still on his side. Infrastructure crumbling, teachers quitting because of low wages and chaos in the streets, but mention all of the old catch-phrases and a few jabs at opponents and he would have them in a frenzy.
Simon whispered something into the wireless microphone attached to the inside of his t-shirt. He hated these open events. There were metal detectors and retina scanners set up at all of the narrow entryways but it was just too easy for some knucklehead to slip through. This was Tulsa, which was a Boss type of crowd but he still was uneasy. New threats were coming in daily. There were so many people in his database it was getting difficult to go over them all before it grew larger again. He started toward the fringe of the crowd. The Boss liked him close, especially since the bombing, but it was his experience that any danger most likely would come from the periphery. He moved around the edge of the crowd that was still gathering, his head on a slow-moving swivel.
The rally was to be held in the middle of the city in a public park that had a flat grassy terrain with a series of concrete steps at the end that led up to a wading pool. People were already sitting on blankets on the ground, territory claimed, beer and food held in large ice chests. Though the rally was still an hour away, the steps at the end of the lawn were already filled.
Simon was getting nervous. There were to
o many entryways and the lines to get in were beginning to overwhelm the local security. Everyone was becoming impatient and the guards had responded by hurrying through the entry procedures. Spur of the moment events without adequate security measures in place in advance always resulted in shortcuts. The governor of the state, finding himself in an unexpected close election against a moderate Republican, had begged the Boss for a visit. And with the primary in ten days it had to be now.
Simon sighed at the growing lines but moved on. Setting up the venue security wasn’t his job and anyway, there was nothing to do about it now. He moved along, observing faces, watching the particular gaits of people, especially anyone who was alone. Around the perimeter of the park were a series of bars and restaurants that were doing a brisk business. Police cars blocked off the streets and patrons spilled out onto the pavement, drinks in their hands, as they waited for the rally. Simon leaned against a light pole and watched people exit, especially from the bars. He held a red to-go cup in his hand as he surveyed the scene. Though his head didn’t move and he probably seemed bored or non-interested to an observer, his eyes were moving from left to right behind the sunglasses. It wouldn’t be the first time an assassin imbibed on a shot or two of courage before undertaking his plan.
He wore a Tulsa Drillers baseball cap turned backward on his head. He had a six-day growth of facial hair, and his long ponytail was braided, the end of it hanging over one shoulder. With the jeans and t-shirt he hoped he looked like a casual onlooker out for the day to see the President. The Boss had never liked his appearance but Simon always thought it made him less conspicuous and better able to mix into a crowd. Besides he couldn’t stand that stuffed-shirt look.
He had never worked a job that required him to wear a tie. His dad had moved to Vegas when his parents divorced and Simon had gone with him. He was thirteen and could choose which parent he wanted to live with and had picked his dad. His sister, Margaret, was only nine and had to stay with his mom in Mississippi. His dad worked security at one of the big casinos and Simon would go there after school and stare at the monitors for hours. It was too hot to be outside, he didn't know anyone and the breadth of the security measures and extensive procedures had amazed and transfixed him. He gained notoriety among the security personnel one night when seated next to his father watching monitors of the gaming tables, he had spotted a player sending signals to another player at a blackjack table. His dad’s co-workers had pounded him on the back when security hauled both players out by the collars of their jackets.
He began studying pictures of known card cheats, card counters and people who were unwanted on the property for one reason or another. At his father’s side, Simon would motion to a player, whisper to his dad and a manager would be called. Simon would explain the problem, the manager would squint at the database of photos and then nod. When Simon identified a player who had been banned and had gotten cosmetic surgery to evade the facial recognition software that had recently been installed, he and his father were summoned to the Chief of Security’s office. “How,” he was asked, “did you identify someone who took over a million dollars from the casino, had surgery to avoid detection and wasn't recognized by the software?”
“It was the way he walked.”
“What?” The head of security had squinted his eyes as he studied Simon through wisps of cigar smoke. “The way he walked? Jesus, kid, we just spent a couple’a hundred thousand dollars on this fuckin’ software shit that’s supposed to identify these guys and you spotted him by the way he walked?”
Simon had shrugged. “He kinda rolls his shoulders. And he has a little slew-footed, stutter-step,” he added.
The head of security for the casino had said nothing but the next week Simon sat in front of the Chief of Security for the entire Casino organization. He explained how he had identified the player in question and then they’d given him a series of tests. They’d placed a myriad of photos in front of him and asked him to identify any who were in the database listed as ‘Undesirables.’ Two weeks later he was given another series of tests. For three hours, photos and videos of people entering and leaving the casino were placed in front of him. A week later he was brought back and asked to identify any of the faces he had seen the week before. Again they’d shown him multiple pictures and videos but this time he was asked to identify any that he saw from the previous week.
He had tested in the 99th percentile.
He was too young to work under state law and the Nevada Gaming Commission rules prohibited employment until age 21 but the casinos weren’t going to follow rules that might cost them money. They’d given his father a healthy raise and installed computers and software in Simon’s home. He would study faces and databases daily between the courses he had to take for home-schooling. Each Friday, he would present his father with a spreadsheet of any and all things he had detected during the week.
◆◆◆
Simon stiffened as a man with brown hair combed down over his brow in a circular fashion exited a bar across the street. He had a thick upper body supported by thin legs so that he seemed as if he might topple over at any moment. The man glanced one way, hesitated a moment and then glanced the other. He had both hands tucked in the pockets of a tan jacket that he’d zipped up almost to his chin. He removed a hand from his pocket, wiped it across his mouth, scanned the area one more time and took off in the direction of the rally.
Simon waited, still watching the bar the man had just come from. From the corner of his eye, he saw the man stop and look back at him. Simon sipped from the cup and pretended to be interested in a woman in a sun dress in front of him. His gaze followed her, an almost leering affront, until she passed from view.
The man continued walking toward the rally. Simon ducked his head and spoke into the microphone affixed to the inside of his collar, then turned and followed. He stayed at a distance, keeping him in view, speaking into his microphone as he went.
◆◆◆
Watching monitors at home quickly had become boring. So had Vegas and at eighteen, over his father’s protests, he had joined the Army. After three weeks of Airborne School he applied to be an Army Ranger. He spent two grueling months in training, before they’d placed him in cyber operations. He was back in front of computer screens, analyzing information, and collecting digital data. After four years he had again tired of his life in front of computer monitors and had, against the advice of his commanding officer, opted out of re-upping.
He’d applied for a job in the Secret Service figuring that his abilities in detecting and identifying bad guys in videos in casinos might somehow translate into a job with what was essentially an investigative and protective agency. He took a written examination called the SAEE and made the best grade in the class but he failed the Applicant Physical Abilities Test. While in the Rangers, a night jump had torn his kneecap almost off and the ten percent disability to the body as a whole precluded a job with physical demands. But he was a veteran and with experience in cyber operations, so they hired him and placed him in the Protective Intelligence Division which again put him in front of computer screens. He had grumbled initially but analyzing threats both on and offline was as good as he could expect with his bad knee.
It was then that he had met Leanda, an English girl who was working as a nanny to a British civil servant. She was with friends of some of his roommates, who’d invited her to a birthday party in a Georgetown bar. In a blue t-shirt and jeans she had stood out among the others who had come directly from their Washington jobs. She had blonde, wispy hair that fell to her shoulders and a broad smile and green eyes that crinkled up at the corners. Her features were delicate and she was quiet, watching more than engaging. Though she was slight of build and her height barely five feet, her chest was full so that the blue t-shirt posted far out in front of her body. “So you came here to learn English?” Simon had smiled and asked upon being introduced.
“How not to speak it,” she had replied, the green eyes dancing in merr
iment. She was from Cockermouth, she had answered in a defiant tone upon his asking, almost daring him to deploy a disparaging word. He had barely abstained, somehow sensing that she probably had already heard a thousand jokes about the name.
“Isn’t that kinda on the fringe of the Lake District?” he had asked instead.
“Yesss,” she had said, in a drawn out reply, pleased at his response. “How did you know that?” She wasn’t used to Yanks who knew anything about another country.
“I remember it from looking at a map of England.”
“Just from looking at a map you remember Cockermouth?”
“Yeah.”
She had leaned back and crossed her arms. “Really? It’s a small village. How would you remember that?”
“I don’t know. I was in the Army once and there was a chance I might be stationed in England so I was just looking at a map of places there. Isn’t it about ninety miles from both Manchester and Liverpool?”
