by Jeff Altabef
The station replayed a press conference from the new Ghetto Czar. Actually, his official title was Secretary in Charge of Domestic Priorities, but the news show ran a caption underneath his picture identifying him as the Ghetto Czar, the more common street term. Darian turned up the volume. The man appeared comfortable in front of the cameras, his good-looking face unlined and his short white hair in place. He looked physically fit for someone in his sixties, and sounded silky smooth and sincere.
“I am pleased to announce that we are making the new brain cancer vaccine available to every citizen without charge. By distributing this vaccine we’ll end this plague that has affected so many of our citizens.
“The government has contracted to produce the vaccine in enough quantity for every citizen. Along with private doctors, police will distribute the vaccine through detention centers. The plan is to distribute the vaccine alphabetically by last name. Over a period of three months, we’ll roll out the distribution to every region. Please consult your local police office to obtain details about distribution in your area. I’m happy to take any questions.”
A tremendous breakthrough, the new vaccine should help millions of people and eradicate the disease within a generation. Darian smiled. It was important that the government make it available to everyone.
The new Ghetto Czar had certainly made a good first impression. Darian read the caption on the bottom of the screen: “Charles Sheppard – New Ghetto Czar – Announces Free Distribution of Brain Cancer Vaccine.”
Darian shut off the television. Charles Sheppard looked like someone who cared. Was it real or a good acting job?
Jack pulled the motorcycle onto the curb and locked it to a lamppost with a thick steel chain. “You’re never going to win at craps if you only play the odds, Tom. Craps just doesn’t work that way.”
Tom shook his head. “Jack, the entire game is odds and math. There’s no such thing as streaks. The numbers will always even out in the end.”
Jack grinned as he clasped the lock around the heavy chains. “What were the odds that I’d be the big winner and you the big loser?”
“Not very high.”
“Intuition and streaks are part of the game. Not everything can be boiled down to numbers and math.”
Both brothers plodded to their apartment. It was two-thirty in the morning.
Jack chuckled. “Did you lose everything you made from working the benefit?”
“I’ve had better nights,” Tom mumbled.
Jack surreptitiously grabbed a few bills from his winnings, slapped Tom hard on the back, and secretly slipped the bills into his brother’s back pocket.
Tom turned angrily from the sharp slap, but Jack’s wide smile disarmed him.
“You aren’t going to start with that karate stuff, are you, Tom?”
“How many times have I told you I study jujitsu? I’ve only been practicing since age five.”
Jack staggered a step under the grip of a fierce headache.
“Are you all right?”
The pain came and went quickly. “I’m fine. Just a little tired after taking all your money.” He winked. “So how come you’re fighting with Mary? I really like her.”
***
Tom stopped cold. “How do you know that I’m arguing with Mary? Did she say something?”
“No, brother, she didn’t say anything. I think you mentioned it.” Jack shrugged. “Besides, you’re hopeless with women.”
“She’s awesome, but she drives me crazy. She can be so stubborn.” Tom had met Mary four months earlier when Jack had been kidnapped. At first Tom thought she hated him, but she helped him save Jack and the relationship flourished. They had a lot in common, and it didn’t hurt she was the prettiest woman he had ever met. “I just feel lost sometimes, like I’ve got no idea what I’m doing and what she’s thinking.”
“She’s special, Tom. You’re never going to figure her out with math and numbers. Just go with your heart.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’ve always had lots of girlfriends. It’s a little harder for me.” Mary was Tom’s first real girlfriend if he didn’t count Carol Douglas in eighth grade, and he certainly didn’t count her. She only made out with him once to make her boyfriend jealous.
He swiped his card key at the common entranceway to their apartment building. The lock flashed green and the door opened. The porch creaked loudly as they stepped through the entrance to the building and turned from the staircase that led up to the other apartments. “Let’s be quiet. Mom should be asleep, and she always looks so worn out after her Solitary Day.”
A jolt of electricity shot through Tom. “Jack, the front door’s open,” he whispered. “Mom never leaves the door unlocked.” He carefully treaded into the apartment.
“Maybe she just forgot to lock it. It happens to everyone.”
They crept down the hallway toward the kitchen. The doors to the three bedrooms were closed.
Tom’s skin felt clammy as he instantly calculated probabilities and equations in his head. Something didn’t add up. “The light in the kitchen is on.” They were vigilant about shutting off lights and reducing energy costs.
What’s the probability that Mom forgot to lock the door and shut off the kitchen lights?
He led the way to the kitchen. The back door was shut, but not locked, and Mom’s e-reader lay on the table.
Jack picked up a crumpled piece of drawing paper from the floor.
Tom swept his eyes across the room. The kitchen chairs were out of place—one pushed too far under the table—and three small red drops had splattered on the floor by the stove. He squatted to look closer at the liquid.
Jack smoothed out the creased paper. His eyes widened. “It’s the drawing Mom was sketching of me. Why would she crumple it?”
Tom touched the sticky red fluid on the floor. “Jack, this is blood.” His heart pounded hard in his chest. He followed Jack to their mother’s bedroom door, where they both paused and stared at the doorknob as if it were red hot.
Jack reached for the handle but hesitated. A light sheen of sweat coated his face as he twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open into the dark room.
At first, Tom saw the sheets bunched together on his mom’s bed and thought she slept safely. Then his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he realized she wasn’t there.
Jack flipped the lights on and they stared into their mother’s empty, unmade bed.
“What’s going on?” Tom asked.
Jack grabbed his cell phone and dialed his mother’s number. The ring tone blared in the kitchen.
Tom went to fetch the phone, and returned ashen-faced. “This is bad, Jack. Something’s happened to Mom. She hasn’t called anyone since yesterday. She has two missed calls—one from Aunt Jackie and one from her friend Susan.”
“Give me the phone and I’ll dial Rachel. Maybe she knows what happened to her. Look around and see if you find anything else that looks weird.”
Tom handed the phone to Jack and left the bedroom in search of clues.
***
Jack’s hands trembled as he hit the speed dial number 14. “Rachel, it’s Jack. Have you heard from Maggie? She’s missing.”
Rachel was the leader of a secretive underground political movement called the Fourteenth Colony. America had become a nation divided between the fabulously wealthy and everyone else. The Fourteenth Colony dedicated itself to restoring balance and fairness to American society through nonviolent means. Rachel and Maggie were old friends, and Jack had been a member of the group for a few years. Tom had joined four months ago when he saved Jack with the covert group’s help.
“I haven’t heard anything, Jack. It’s been slow tonight. What can I do to help?”
“Let me talk it over with Tom. There have to be some clues around here. I’ll call when we figure something out.”
“Okay, Jack. I’m going to ask some discrete questions. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
Tom joined Jack i
n Maggie’s bedroom. “There’s nothing else out of place. There’s no sign of an accident. I have a really bad feeling about this.”
“Let’s look around some more.”
They began a detailed search of Maggie’s bedroom with Jack looking through her dresser and Tom pulling out a plastic bin from under her bed.
Tom opened the box and carefully sorted through the contents. “It feels weird going through Mom’s stuff.” When he finished with the bin, he pushed it back under the bed.
Jack still worked his way through the dresser, so he turned his attention to the closet. The door creaked as he opened it. “That’s odd. All of mom’s clothes are pushed over to the right.”
Tom scanned the closet. “Check this out. The floor’s angled upward at the corner for no reason. There’s a false floor. Mom must have hidden something underneath.”
“Why would Mom need a hiding spot?’
Tom used the flashlight mode on his phone to sweep the light over the floor. The rays lingered over the wood. “You see how the dust has been swept away? Mom recently opened this thing. There should be a latch or some lever on the box to spring it.” He brushed the outside of the box with his fingertips and found a small nook. He reached in and pulled, and the wooden trap door popped open with a clunk.
He leaned over and peered inside. “That’s weird. It’s empty.”
Cooper sat next to his mother, Ethel, at a round table toward the front of the main ballroom. His fashionable Italian-made tuxedo fit him flawlessly, yet he hated it. It had become a second skin, squeezing him and suffocating the breath from his body. He so wanted to rip it off.
He fidgeted with his shirt’s silver and onyx studs, and upon catching himself doing so, he took a deep breath and placed his hands flat on the table. He had discipline.
Over two hundred people crowded the main room like cattle in a giant pen. He had gone to far too many of these formal events. All the men wore tuxedos. Most of the women were a decade younger than their companions and wore formal gowns with enough diamonds and gold to fill the best jewelry stores on Rodeo Drive. Ethel would not be outdone. Her brilliant diamond necklace and matching earrings sparkled even in the dim light, and were easily the most expensive pieces of jewelry at the event.
Ethel was one of three children born to Frank “The Bulldog” Simmens. Cooper’s grandfather had made a fortune in real estate. He was a tall, beefy man with large thick fingers and strong hands and self-described as a “hard man.” Cooper would never admit it to anyone now, but Frank terrorized him. Physically imposing, he liked to cause pain, usually by pinching or stomping or pulling.
Physical pain wasn’t the worst type of pain Frank doled out. He used to say nasty things to Cooper when they were alone—”you’re a rather dumb boy,” or “you’re a weak little thing,” or “stop crying so much, you baby.” Cooper wasn’t the only one Frank aimed his derogatory comments at. Everyone else in the family got their share of poison—everyone except Ethel. He spared only her.
At first, Cooper thought he spared her because of her gender, but then he realized that Grandmother endured the worst treatment. Eventually, he decided either Ethel scared him or he respected her more than anyone else in the family. Either way, she was safe from the poison dripping from Frank’s tongue.
One month after Cooper’s tenth birthday, Frank fell victim to a serious stroke. He could no longer walk or talk, but his eyes, those deep blue eyes, burned. Luckily, Frank died not long after the stroke. Cooper remembered the funeral, less a memorial for The Bulldog than a crowning ceremony for Ethel. Everyone kissed her ring, including both her brothers, Uncle Jay and Frank Jr. She had been running the company during Frank’s illness anyway, and no one was dumb enough to cross her.
Cooper bounced his leg under the table as he fidgeted with his napkin. His mother forced him to attend the event because she had been named The Philanthropist of the Year. He had no idea why she’d won the award. A holographic video explained everything, but he paid no attention to it. A lovely raven-haired woman sitting a few tables away had distracted him. Her short black dress revealed a shapely thigh as she played seductively with a strand of pearls that hung around her alabaster neck. Her full, wet, candy-apple lips teased him as she seductively licked a teaspoon while staring at him.
His heart jumped. When she had his attention, she strolled toward the restrooms, glancing back over her shoulder with a pouty expression on her face, inviting Cooper to join her. He fought hard against that impulse, but he didn’t want to be here in the first place. He glanced at his mother, annoyed.
Who cares about philanthropy? Would it really hurt anyone if I left now for a little fun?
He could control himself if he went. He wouldn’t spoil his tuxedo with blood.
His hands trembled, and just when he decided to join the young woman, an official announced Ethel as the recipient of the award. The entire table stood and clapped enthusiastically as she strode purposefully toward the stage to accept the honor and make her speech.
The black haired seductress’s spell had been broken. The troops held the front line. He wouldn’t budge while Ethel gave her speech. He silently congratulated himself on his extraordinary willpower.
After Ethel returned to the table, Cooper left. He thought about finding the young woman, but too many people strolled about for him to fully enjoy himself, so he fled to the back rooms. Both were similarly appointed with lush carpeting, dark wood paneled walls, long mahogany bars, and numerous sitting areas with leather chairs grouped around small, dark cocktail tables.
All the action took place in the back rooms, which guests needed an extra layer of clearance to enter. Big, muscled security guards checked identifications with portable card readers. The important people always gravitated to the back as the night progressed.
He leaned casually against a rich mahogany bar. Two dozen people, mostly men, milled about in the dark room. The band in the main ballroom began to play a Nat King Cole song.
He held a vodka martini in the fingertips of his left hand and wore a placid smile on his face, as if it were an accessory. Three acquaintances stood uncomfortably close and discussed a future real estate deal in hushed tones just loud enough for those around them to hear every detail.
Cooper smiled.
A short gray-haired woman not more than five feet away strained to eavesdrop on their conversation, her spine tilted backward in an uncomfortable angle, and her lips pinched tight in concentration. She obviously wanted to listen to what he had to say.
Does she really believe that I would discuss anything important with these people?
He regarded the man closest to him, Wade Angus, with a measure of distaste. Wade’s wide shoulders were uncomfortably close to his arm, almost brushing against him. Almost, but thankfully still a few inches apart. A slight red rash sprouted where the man’s bull neck bristled against the collar of his tuxedo shirt.
Wade’s family had made their money in commodities. Cooper thought he was only slightly smarter than the wooden bar he leaned against, and that was generous. Wade’s grandfather was clever, but as far as Cooper could tell, Wade and his father failed to inherit that gene.
Nothing can be done for those who did not inherit the raw material necessary to be exemplary. Unfortunately, so few people are extraordinary. So few count or mean anything. The rest are mere cattle to be used and discarded.
Cooper stood out, superior from birth, and his superiority had nothing to do with his upbringing. He owed his success to superior genes and his extraordinary willpower and discipline.
The three men discussed the financial merits of their transaction. They anticipated making three times their money with a thirty percent annualized return. Of course, he could invest with them if he wanted.
“We build the apartment buildings on gigantic pontoons supported by helium buoys. We’ll call them boats. Then we won’t have to pay real estate taxes. The views....”
Cooper’s mind drifted away from Wade’s bla
thering and toward Maggie. Now that he had her, he needed to see her, to do things to her. He wanted to leave, but his mother would be angry if he left so early, and he didn’t want to make Ethel angry. No one wanted to make her angry.
He noticed a lull in the conversation around him as three expectant faces waited for him to cast judgment on their potential business deal. An image floated to his mind of Wade sinking into the river on one of his pontoon apartment buildings wearing nothing but a captain’s hat. “Can you swim, Wade?”
Wade screwed his face into a question mark. “No.”
Cooper chuckled. “The transaction sounds ill-conceived to me.”
Wade’s face turned pink and the color drained from the other men’s faces.
The eavesdropping woman snorted in laughter.
Cooper clasped the beefy man on the shoulder, excused himself, and left them standing by themselves to share a heavy dose of disappointment.
He sauntered away from the riverboat real estate team and scanned the room, looking for a diversion. He found one in the person of Samuel Wickersham. Under most circumstances, Wickersham would not have gained clearance to a room like this one, but Cooper had made sure the list had included him. He caught Wickersham’s eye and nodded toward the corner of the room, where he met the doctor.
“Samuel, it looks like you’ve lost some weight. You must share your diet and exercise regime with me.” Cooper smiled.
Wickersham wasn’t dieting or exercising. A surgeon’s scalpel and a small vacuum had sucked away unwanted fat. Still, Cooper offered the praise in case anyone else listened in to their conversation.
Wickersham patted his stomach. “I’d send it to you, but you haven’t gained a pound in twenty years.”
Cooper nodded. He had never felt in better shape. He enjoyed exercise, most particularly rock climbing and cliff diving and his time with the Maggies, which always made his blood race.
