Less Of Me
Page 12
Chapter 12
Andy made it home with a sack of take-out Chinese about 4:35 pm, Sunday afternoon. What a day. He hadn’t written a word. Real life had been about all he could handle today. He had just started dumping boxes of Chinese goodness onto a plate when the phone rang. He answered it with the phone wedged between shoulder and chin, carrying a heaping plate of Kung Pao chicken and Sweet-n-Sour Shrimp in one hand, and a fork and can of soda in the other.
“Hello?” he was inconvenienced.
“There you are. I tried your cell.”
“Oh, hi, mom. Wild day. I didn’t hear it. Sorry.”
“Look, you going to be there for a while? I was going to come by.”
“Anything wrong?” he asked, not really wanting to add anything heavy to a day like today.
“No. I’m just going to be out and I thought I would stop by. Wanted to talk to you.”
“Sure, yeah. I’ll save some Chinese for you.”
“No, you go ahead. I had a late lunch. Hey, how is your friend?”
“She’s out of ICU, out in a regular room, I guess. They want her head to remain very still for a few days, for the concussion, you know. Her hip’s messed up, though.”
“Oh dear, poor thing.”
“Their apartment is on the 2nd floor, I don’t know what they’re going to do, you know?”
“It’s very sad. I’m glad you’ve been there for them, though.”
“Actually, you know me; I made it about me, as usual. Actually got depressed because of how it was going to affect me. Can you believe that?”
“Well, it’s hard dealing with these things. Hey, I’m getting on the road. I’ve got a few errands and then I’ll be over.”
“Okay, bye Mom.” Andy clicked the phone shut and returned to Sichuan feast piled high before him.
Andy ate in the office and dumped the greasy paper plate and flatware in the little grey can by his desk. “Mom could show up in five minutes or five hours,” he told the empty room as he wiped his hands on his pants. Andy opened the Appalachian Malady file and found his place at the bottom of the last page, he re-read a few sentences to get his bearings. It was difficult because he was still so worked up about the Martin’s nephew. Sometimes his anger found release in the unsuspecting story.
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Appalachian Malady
He shut down his computer and returned to his rented Forerunner. He picked up an Atlas from a 24-hour Wal-Mart a few miles east of town and located Alta Loma County and the town of Rose Park. It looked to be a two-hour drive southeast which would put him in the area a little before midnight. He imagined that little mountain town would be closed for business at that hour, which he was counting on in order to protect his cover. Rance opened a Powerbar he picked up in the store and settled in for the drive.
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“Oh yeah,” he said out loud and paused. His mind began to wrap back around Rance Broadback’s late night quest to Rose Park, Ky. “Uh... Okay.”
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Kentucky was a maze of little country highways that that you would never be able to navigate without GPS or a decent Atlas. It wasn’t as bad as Seattle, when it came to following a street map, but it was definitely designed for local people, those who already knew where they were going. Rance had to keep his eyes peeled to catch the proper roads or find himself twenty miles out of the way. It reminded him of the old joke where some city dude asks an old hillbilly for directions;
“You know the way to Highway 10?”
“No, I don’t rightly know.”
“Well, How about Johnson Street? Can you point me there?”
“Afraid I don’t know that one either,” Rance said out loud to the empty car in his best southern drawl.
“Then what about Smith Ridge? Am I anywhere close to there?”
“I don’t really know.”
“Well fella, you don’t know much, do you?” The city boy said in a huff.
“Well, know, I suppose I don’t,” said the hillbilly, “but I’m not the one whose lost,” Rance smiled. “I should do stand-up,” he thought.
But it was kind of like that out here. The further Rance got off the beaten path and the closer, he believed, he got to Rose Park, the smaller and more twisted the roads became. His two-hour drive stretched out to three and a quarter, putting him in downtown Rose Park, such as it was, about 1:15 am. As close as he could tell, Rose Park covered an area of approximately two miles with Old Highway 289 running through the town connecting Rose Park to the rest of the world. Henryville, a community of five hundred, was located twenty miles north, and Jacobs, the hub of Emery County, located about 18 miles South. Rose Park boasted a whopping 1200 people who, until 1985, had all worked at the Cedar Ridge Coal Mine. When the mine went bust the town nearly disappeared. The major employers in the county now were the school system and the jail.
Rance picked up a tail while cruising slowly south on highway 289 in front of the only business open in Rose Park at this hour, Harvey’s Grocery, which looked like kind of a General Store/restaurant/gas station. He thought of stopping for a drink but reconsidered when he saw the three ball-capped hell-raisers in the cab of the old Chevy, sipping cans of Busch and smoking, tuck in behind his SUV. He instinctively reached into his jacket pocket and donned a pair of black leather batting gloves, pulling the Velcro straps tight as he kept one eye on the road and another on the rear view mirror.
The Chevy followed him South on 289, staying on his tail close enough so he would know they were pushing him out. They pulled to the side of the road and hooked a U about two miles South of town which just made Rance that much more curious. “They just wanted to make sure I was passing through,” he said to the dark cab of the SUV. So he waited till they were well up the road on the way back to town, then he turned around himself. “Some guys are just asking for it,” he whispered of himself. He drove back and pulled past Harvey’s slowly as the boys were exiting the truck laughing and strutting into the store. One of them noticed the dark forerunner and jabbed his buddies. They jumped back in to the truck and slung gravel as they pulled out of the lot, north bound, behind the guy they had just left at the southern border of town. Now he was asking for it. One of them pulled out a cell phone.
Rance led the parade north on 289 toward Henryville and the Rednecks stayed about ¼ mile behind. He passed the entrance to the Cedar Ridge Mine and noticed two more pickups parked in the entrance just in front of a set of sixteen-foot chain link gates. The trucks were positioned opposite each other with their motors running and lights off. In the moonlight Rance could see two heads silhouetted in each cab. As the Harvey’s truck passed the mine entrance Rance noticed in his rearview that the other trucks pulled in behind them. “Ah ha, now we’ve got a convoy,” he said. “Don’t like me going this direction. South is okay but North is not allowed.
Three miles north of the mine entrance the truck behind Rance accelerated on a short straightaway and passed the SUV, the occupants of the truck didn’t make eye contact as they sped past and maintained the high rate of speed till they were well out of Rance’s sight. With the two trucks behind him closing ranks, Rance began to consider evasive measures. As the straight road ended and wound into another series of switchbacks, Rance eased around a 15 mph curve and slammed to a stop before crashing into the truck from Harvey’s which had pulled across the road leaving no room to pass between a mountain rising on one side and maybe room for one car to squeak through on the downhill shoulder. The three rednecks from Harvey’s were standing against the bed of the truck with their arms crossed, waiting. Rance left his lights on bright, which would work to his advantage till their eyes adjusted. The other two trucks pulled a safe distance behind the rented SUV and stopped, taking up both lanes. Rance saw two men pile out of each cab from his rearview mirror. Rance exited the Forerunner and took his keys with him.
He decided to deal with the boys in back first. He lifted his hands and started walking towards them with a conc
erned look on his face. “Is there a problem?” Rance said. The four were in front of the trucks, silhouetted against their headlights Rance could see that two of them appeared to be carrying shotguns, another had a tire iron and one was little taller and stockier than the others, standing with his arms crossed. Tough guy.
Tough guy spoke first with Rance still a couple of car lengths away but walking slowly forward. “We don’t take to people snooping around town at this hour,” he called.
“Just out for a drive,” Rance said. “Not looking for any trouble.” He was within fifteen feet now and had a pretty clear plan. Tough guy stepped forward to meet him standing like an old west gunfighter with his head cocked to the side defiantly while the others hung back a few steps anticipating an ass kicking. Rance was hoping that the guys in front had closed ranks and followed him back. He chanced a glance behind him before Tough guy got too close and saw the three walking past his rental, closing the gap. Only one of the three behind him appeared armed.
“Too late for that,” Tough guy said as Rance stepped within five feet. Rance could see the young man pretty clearly now. He was mid-twenties, built, pack of camels in his shirt pocket, definitely a ball-buster. “We escorted you out of town real gentlemanly, but you turned back. That’s on you.”
“Guess I just wasn’t done looking around,” Rance said.
Tough Guy didn’t expect the stranger to be so calm, he figured the man was just stupid, and needed a pretty serious whipping to wipe the smirk from his face. “Who are you, anyway?” Tough Guy asked.
Rance thought about that for a second before he smiled. “Me? Well, I guess you guys can call me your worst nightmare.”
The three standing behind Tough guy cocked their heads and looked at each other and Rance launched forward with a crushing kick to the side of Tough Guy’s left knee, snapping his leg like a twig as he simultaneously thrust a hard right fist into his gasping wind pipe, taking his breath and sending him to the ground in a convulsing heap. Before the others could react, Rance stepped past across former Tough Guy and grabbed the man furthest to the right holding the shotgun. He jerked the gun down then violently upward in a seemless motion, catching the man under his chin with the heavy butt of the shotgun, breaking his jaw and scattering teeth back across the hood of the Chevy. As he crumbled to the ground Rance pivoted, gripping the barrel of the weapon, and swung it like a Louisville Slugger toward the second shotgun wielding guard who was just beginning to raise the gun in response. The heavy end of the Winchester caught the slightly built man in the side of the head dislodging the gun and knocking him unconscious over the steep embankment at the side of the road. Rance turned again, just as the fourth man swung wildly with the tire-iron. Rance blocked the strike with the barrel of the gun and in one flowing movement turned and brought the butt of the gun down and back with a ferocious two-handed blow to the mans groin. He fell in a heap with urine and blood spilling onto the ground around him.
Rance turned as the three from the lead truck began to react. The man holding the gun was drawing it up for a shot as Rance side-stepped, cocked and shot his borrowed weapon from the hip, hitting the man with the shotgun in the shoulder with a tight spray of shot that probably wouldn’t kill him. As the man fell, he reflexively pulled the trigger on his gun, sending a turkey load into the gut of Tough Guy who had struggled back to one knee. The two final men from the Harvey’s truck rushed Rance together, the first of which Rance leveled with a fist to the gut and, as he doubled over trying to catch a breath, finished with a kick to the face which snapped his neck back and broke his nose in a bloody spray. Rance blocked a blow with his left forearm from a tire iron and grabbed the hand of the man wielding it, pulled violently, extending and twisting it so the elbow was up, and brought his right arm down with a thunderous crash that broke the arm with such vengeance that the young man passed out before he hit the ground.
It was over in less than thirty seconds. Without a pause Rance gathered the shotguns and hurled them over the embankment into the deep ravine. He did the same with the three sets of keys from the ignition of each of the trucks. Six of his assailants were squirming around in various stages of pain, the seventh hadn’t made the climb back up to the road. He returned to the Forerunner and eased it carefully along the shoulder near the edge of the ravine, around the Harvey’s truck, then, exited again, using a pine branch to erase the tires tracks. He didn’t pass any vehicles the rest of the way to Henryville, so as he turned north on highway 55 to head back to Louisville, he dialed 911 from a payphone.
“Henryville… County Sheriff… Thanks,” he waited on the line until whoever was on call finally answered the phone.
“Hi, yeah, there was some kind of brawl out on 289 between Henryville and Rose Park… Three trucks… Bunch of hell raisers beating the crap out of each other… blocking the whole road… Somebody better get out there, they had guns…” Rance clicked the phone shut and left it to the local Sheriff to clean up the mess. He pulled the batting gloves inside out as he took them off and stowed them back in his jacket pocket.
Rance settled into the comfortable bed of the upscale hotel forty-five minutes before his 6:30 am wake up call. He slept for an extra hour and spent the rest of the morning gathering information on the evening host, James Rafferty, and gaining a better geographical lay of the land.
He noted that Kentucky had two North/South interstates, I-65 and I-75, both of which were heavy traffic lanes for products moving north, to the Great Lakes, and south to Florida, Tennessee, Georgia and Alabama. The East/West lanes however were extremely limited. A state highway had been constructed to carry traffic from the western states into central Kentucky, where it jogged and continued northeast up to Lexington. Further south, a parkway had been built to usher traffic due east from the center of the state to I-75. Rance discovered that plans were in the works to adopt this highway and bring it in to the federal system, which would effectively dump money in to the region and ramp up the economy in a big way. I-66, already a developing highway back east, would eventually connect West Virginia to all points west via the Daniel Boone National Forest.
Rance cocked his head to one side and took a sip of hot tea as he pondered the implications of a federal interstate passing within thirty miles of Rose Park and Alta Loma County.
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The doorbell wasn’t loud enough to break through the zone Andy was in. It took three long rings on it before it tunneled through and whispered through the key-hole of the little room in the corner of his mind where he was hiding and watching the story unfold; “You-who, lardass, someone’s at the door...” The slam from his subconscious eventually got his attention. He yelled from his seat in case he had missed more of the insistent rings, “Okay! Coming!”
Andy was under the spell of the story and struggled to clear his mind. The fight, the sounds, the shots and the blood, was all so vivid, that looking around at his office was surreal. The sound of his doorbell was distant like a dream.
At fifty-eight years young, Janice Boyd was, in many ways, the typical progressive Bay Area woman. Divorced and never remarried, she was comfortably independent. She had invested much of the money left to her from her x-husband’s life insurance policy, and, combined with her income as an HR manager at Macys, she was set to retire at sixty. Her life, unlike the life of her only son, was pleasantly predictable. She worked, she enjoyed her time with friends, loved to read, volunteered at the library and South San Women’s Shelter, and was an absolute maniac when it came to the Giants. Andy’s mother had what he never seemed to be able to achieve, balance. After the divorce, she worked her way through CSUSF while Andy was still in grade school, earning a business degree with an emphasis in Public Relations. She started working at Macys about the time Andy started college and had been there for seventeen years, working her way up the food chain.
Andy always figured that he must have gotten his metabolism from his father because Janice Boyd was trim and petite. She kept her hair short
and stylish, streaked, as Andy saw it, in a pretty combination of blonds and browns. She always carried herself with class and would have appeared, to the casual eye, to be much wealthier than she really was, because of her trendy Macy’s wardrobe. She was also his best friend. Andy always looked up to his mother and hoped that he could become more like her. She represented much of what he longed to be. But as perfect as she was in his eyes, she was still his mom, and as such, was a pain in the neck sometimes. He worried about her and suspected some of her friends of pulling her in to things that were not in her best interest. Like the Bunko-phase, as he called it, when she was out several nights each week playing strange games with friends and the occasional blind date. That was an interesting season that he was happy to see fade during Baseball’s spring training, which she followed like a sports writer.
“Can I get you something, Mom? Coffee, bottle of water?”
“I’d have a little coffee,” she said, taking a seat on the sofa. “Have a little accident?” she said while Andy was grinding some fresh beans.
“What’s that?” he said as his mom stepped in to the kitchen carrying an empty ice cream container and a tablespoon.
“Fall asleep in your chair?”
“Oh, yeah, I guess,” he said, as she tossed the empty container in a wastebasket where it joined three others, and placed the spoon in the sink. “It was a long night. I was at the hospital till really late, well, till you called, and then I went back this morning.”
“Is your friend going to be okay?”
“I think so. But it’s a really bad situation.” Andy poured the coffee when it was done and the two stepped over to the sitting area. Andy sat in his big chair and his mother sat her cup down on the little crate Andy used as a coffee table and took a seat on the sofa near her son. “It looks like the Martin’s nephew may be responsible for the whole thing... I guess he pushed her or something and she fell down a flight of stairs.”
“Oh, Andy.”
“Yeah, and then, I guess he came back later last night and broke in to the apartment, really trashed the place.”
She sipped at the hot coffee, her face stern with concern. “What was he after, is he on drugs or something?”
“It’s a long story, Mom, but the kid had a package delivered to the Deli, and, I guess the nephew is named after Mr. Martin, so Mr. Martin thought the package might be for him - so he opened it... It was a kilo of marijuana...” Andy paused for a drink of coffee. “So his uncle hid it and, you know, he didn’t know what to do... I guess the kid came looking for it.”
“Just about the time you think you have problems,” she said, shaking her head slowly. With a soft spot for the downcast, Mrs. Boyd’s heart could break in a split second when an innocent person was harmed.
“So, yeah, I’ve been a little pre-occupied this weekend,” he said.
“I guess.”
The look on his mothers face told Andy plainly that she wanted to talk. And he could tell that she was reconsidering now. He had a lot on his plate and she wouldn’t want to add to it. She was so sweet.
“Mom? What is it?”
“What?”
“You look like you want to talk.”
“No. I, I just wanted to tell you about my weekend. But, heavens, you are dealing with so much.”
“Well, if it’s good news, I could probably use some of that,” he smiled and then caught himself. “Actually, even if it’s bad news, now I’m curious, you’ve got to tell me. You know how my mind works.”
“Yes. If I leave without saying anything you’ll have me diagnosed, dead and buried, or engaged and moving to Cancun with someone I just met,” she laughed at the thought of her sons fertile mind.
“Exactly,” he smiled. “So, which one is it?” they both laughed at that one.
“Right. No, it’s nothing like that... I just wanted to tell you about... You know, I went to the Jefferson Wheat crusade all three nights.”
“Really, all three nights? It was pretty good then, I guess.” Andy didn’t know where this was going, but as long as it didn’t include his mother dying or moving, he was fine. “There I am, thinking everything is about me. Idiot,” he thought.
“Andy,” she said, smiling and shaking her head slowly, mentally re-living the experience, looking for the right words, “it’s hard to describe. Good? Yes, it was good.”
He smiled, she sounded funny. Like the night the Giants beat the Angels in game four of the 2002 World Series. It was the first World Series game they’d won, at home, in like eighty years or something. And the come-from-behind victory sent Janice Boyd in to frenzy. Mother and son were at the game, stunned, elated - again, words couldn’t describe what they felt. Janice could hardly speak on the short drive home, her mind replaying every pitch, every sound, and every crack of the bat. The Giants lost the series, but, that night, the night of game four, was one of those forever-moments, for Janice Boyd. This seemed kind of like that, Andy noticed.
“So? Give. What happened?”
“Well, it was great, for one thing. I didn’t expect to be, you know, touched the way I was.”
“Quite a show, huh?”
“It wasn’t just that... Each night began with, just simple music and singing, nothing all that stunning, you know. But even in the music, there was something beautiful and simple, like they were, I don’t know, refocusing their attention. It was like attention was being redirected away from us and onto God, through the words and melodies of the music. It felt so selfless and pure.”
“Sounds kind of like hypnosis.”
“It’s hard to describe... And then they would play some videos about things that are happening around the country and in other parts of the world. They showed scenes from Katrina and the food relief and medical help they have been able to provide. It was moving. Then there were interviews with people that, you know, had been in the middle of the whole thing. There was a choir of children from an AID’s stricken region of Africa who sang about God’s love...” she paused to regain her composure a little, and smiled. “You know me, I’m a sucker for the downtrodden. And these people, I mean, that is what this organization is all about, helping people in need.”
“So, let me guess, you volunteered to go to Africa.”
“No, but,” she said with a gleam in her eyes, “that’s not such a bad idea.”
“Mother.”
“Anyway, then Mr. Wheat would get up and talk. You know, I expected a fire-and-brimstone-thing, but he didn’t really preach at us, he just talked about God and about people.”
“And he asked for all your money.”
“Not at all. Actually, he just talked about the longing everyone has in their heart to be loved and known; to be valued, you know.”
“I guess I can relate to that,” Andy admitted.
“I know, me too...” she searched deeper for the right words, “Andy?” She took a deep slow breath, “I received Christ as my Lord and Savior.”
Andy got a puzzled look on his face. That one didn’t compute. The extent of the Boyd religious experience amounted to a Precious Moments nativity scene made of cute little porcelain cartoon characters that sat on the mantel during the Christmas season. Other than that, they were resolutely agnostic. They saw religion as a social network for old people and a business enterprise for charismatic preachers. This was San Francisco, the land of the open minded, the home of the progressive, anything goes, lifestyle, which they loved. The unwritten Bay Area motto was “if it’s true for you then good for you,” and all the diversity in beliefs and wacky practices that such a culture produced was interesting, liberating and socially healthy. Or so they had always believed. Now she was turning to religion? It was like someone had unplugged his mother’s brain from the real world.
“You received Christ? What does that mean... did you join their group, or their religion or something? I don’t understand.” Andy stood and retrieved the coffee pot for refills. He poured the cups and sat the carafe on the coffee table-crate b
efore sitting back down.
“I didn’t expect it either,” she said. “I was sitting there on Friday night and Jefferson got up to speak and, suddenly, it was like it was just he and I. I mean—I didn’t consciously sense anyone else in the room. And he just told me about my life, and it was like my whole life replayed before me, both the good times and the bad. My mistakes and the things I regret doing and saying...” She took another sip of coffee, there was a glassiness forming in his mother’s eyes and, finally, a tear rolled down her pretty cheek. “Andy, I’m not the angel you have always thought me to be. I’ve made mistakes.”
“Well of course, mom, we all have,” he said, trying to alleviate what he perceived as pain.
“But I’ve always tried to cover all the bad with good, you know? My work, my friends, my team,” she sniffed and smiled at that thought. “Mr. Wheat called what I was feeling, sin. That emptiness of guilt and shame that each person feels, deep down, in a place where we know that we have failed,” she paused, the room was silent, lights from the city were shining through the window as another lazy Sunday was winding to a close while mother and son sat talking about life. “He said that Jesus came to fill that emptiness. His example of love and forgiveness is recorded in the Bible—the crucifixion, His death and burial in a tomb, and resurrection - when He rose from the dead. All that was to fill that hole in my life and set me free. Not make me religious, but set me free. That’s the part that struck me.”
“Yeah, that’s different.”
“Exactly. Because I always saw religion as a kind of bondage, you know, to a belief system that forced you into a certain lifestyle, like those Muslim women wearing the Hijab.”
“I can’t see you in one of those.”
“Right. But, I mean, that’s the picture, right? But he said that following Christ is nothing like that. The whole thing is based on the fact that God the creator loves His creation - people. And He made a way, through Jesus Christ, for all of us to, once again, walk in loving relationship with Him the way He intended it back in the days of Adam and Eve. No big religious trip, no scary set of rules and someone standing behind you to whack you with a ruler each time you screw up. Just the fact that God has something better for you - something He actually designed you for, to know Him and to know His love.”
“So, geez mom, what happened, what did you do, you know?”
“Well, it all just rang so true in my heart. That God loved me and was willing to forgive me and set me free from having to live up to my own silly standards or the standards of others. That He wanted me to be fulfilled and happy, like never before. Or, I should say, differently than I ever have been before, living with purpose and meaning. Jefferson finally gave an invitation for people to receive Christ. And I looked at Marg, and I was crying and she was crying and I just stood up and walked down to the stage and Mr. Wheat led in a prayer asking God to forgive me and for Christ to be Lord of my life. I guess that was about it. But Andy... I have never felt like this, not ever. I wanted to tell you about it first, before anyone else. I just feel alive. Forgiven. New. It’s like I’m a new person.
“Wow. Mom, you know me, I’m a skeptic about these things, I admit it. But... Wow. I can see that this has really touched you somehow. I’m really happy for you, I really am. But what happens now?”
“I don’t know. He said to find a good church to become a part of, which, I’m not too excited about, but I don’t know, really. I do know that I want to know more, though. I think there is so much that I haven’t been seeing properly, you know, I’m looking at life differently now. There is more hope, more possibility.”
“Amazing.”
“What?” she smiled.
“Well, you are already the most positive person I know, and now you are saying that you feel even more so. Being a guy that feels exactly the opposite most of the time, what your saying sounds pretty great. Not for me, necessarily, but amazing.”
“I’m really glad you’re okay with it, Andy.”
“Oh, are you kidding? What I believe in, is you. I totally trust your judgment and know that if something has touched you this deeply, then it must be real... I’m really happy for you.” With that Andy got up and leaned his big body over the sofa and gave his mother a gentle hug. “I love you,” he said. She was sniffling again when he stood and he went to the kitchen to get her a napkin.
“Listen, I really want you to meet Marg’s niece Debbie sometime, she’s very sweet.”
“I don’t know, mom.”
“Really, Andy. She is a nice girl and I think you two might have some things in common. She teaches high school English.”
“Don’t let her anywhere near my books then.”
“Your English is pretty good.”
“No, my language is good. My English sucks.”
“My word, Andrew.”
“I’m sorry, you know what I mean.”
“Well, just keep it in mind, will you. I may have Marg and Debbie over for dinner one night this week and I’d like you to come.”
“I’m busy that night.” Andy caught the look from his mother that told him it was time to stop fooling around. “Okay, I would love to come over for dinner. But give me fair warning, okay? The book and the Martin’s, you know, my plate is rather full.”
“I know, really. Hey, I’ve got to get home; I’m back to work tomorrow myself. I could have forgotten all about it after this weekend.” Janice Boyd stood, her newfound radiance was becoming clearer to her son. She did seem different. Better, if that were possible. Andy walked her down the steps to her Accord, which she parked, across his driveway in the tow-away zone like she always did. He gave her a kiss goodbye and watched as she drove down Chestnut, past Martin’s Deli and out of sight. He stood looking in that direction till long after she had vanished, thinking about what she had said and how he hoped it would prove to be a good choice for her. Her choices, as opposed to his, were usually good.
After he made it back to his office and settled into his familiar perch, it only took a minute to tunnel back into the unfolding drama in Louisville.
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Appalachian Malady - 4
Rance was showered, shaved and watching the window as time approached for the car to pick him up. A few minutes before 6:00 pm a dark blue Escalade stopped in front of the hotel; moments later his room phone rang, it was the front desk.
“Mr. Pena, your party is here, sir.”
“Okay, thanks,” Rance said. “I’m just about ready, please send them on up to the room.” He wanted to appear to be a total rookie, on one hand, and on the other, he wanted Raffertys driver to take note of his suite, the finest in the hotel. “Got to play the part,” he thought to himself. In three minutes there was a light knock on the door of the Grand Suite. Rance opened the door and for the first time this trip, he was surprised. Pleasantly surprised.
“Mr. Pena?” she said.
“Yes, uh, yes. Please, call me Michael,” he stammered, not completely on purpose.
“I am Sophia. I am your escort for the evening,” she said with a smile warm enough to melt Alaska. She was tall, maybe 5’9”, with beautiful dark eyes and long, silky black hair. Her thick accent betrayed South American roots; he guessed Brazil, or maybe Venezuela. She was wearing a beautiful evening gown, conservative and elegant, dark green with matching pumps that elevated her to near six feet. They shook hands and Rance noticed a firm and confident grip. This woman was more than a pretty face. Much more.
“Venezuela?” he asked.
“Si. How could you tell?” she said, surprised.
“Just a guess,” he said as he shut the door and they walked to the elevator. The scent she was wearing made her just as attractive walking side by side as when they were standing face to face.
“I grew up there. My father was a trainer, the trainer of champions. Mr. Rafferty brought us to the United States in 1993. I finished school here.”
“And now you work for Mr. Rafferty as well?” Rance assumed, a
s a highly paid escort to events like this.
“Si. Yes.”
On the ride down the elevator the two were quiet but looked at each other in the way men and women do when they realize they had just gotten more than they bargained for. Passing through the lobby, the snap of her pumps on the marble as she glided through the room, attracted attention like a royal processional. He was invisible by her side, like a purse or an umbrella. An accessory. He rather liked it. Rance opened the hotel door, and, as they approached the Escalade, a short, thick man with a crew cut hopped down from the passenger seat and opened the door for Sophia; she got in and moved to the far side as Broadback/Pena slid in behind her. “Thank you,” he said to the crew cut, and received no response.
Crewcut and the driver looked like former military, thick lunks with square heads, tailored suits and earphones. These were guys who didn’t speak, they just hit things when they were in close and shot at things that were too far to reach, muscle, as Rance’s dad used to call them. As threatening as they thought they were, Michael Pena continued to play the oblivious Spaniard and talked to Sophia as if they were the only ones in the car. She seemed a little more cautious.
“Is the farm far from here?” he asked.
“Maybe an hour, I guess.” she said.
“And how long have you worked there—For Mr. Rafferty, I mean.” Rance didn’t expect that she worked at the farm. Probably a contractor like Rance Broadback—just called in to make a good impression. Just bait the hook and wait for the fish to bite, then, adios amigo.
“It’s been a couple of years, now. Right after I finished school.”
“Oh, where did you go to school?”
“UK and Auburn,” she said.
“Basketball fan?” Rance asked. Kentucky, in his mind, was known for horses, whiskey and basketball. And, when it came to the University of Kentucky, we are talking serious basketball.
“A little. Nothing like most people.”
“I’ve heard that it is horses and basketball around here, right?” he asked.
“And bourbon,” she smiled again, her lips parting to expose perfect teeth.
The pleasant ride was over too fast as the Escalade pulled off the interstate just west of Versailles and turned north. After a series of turns that Rance memorized, they came to an imposing iron gate with guard shack. The driver rolled down his window and the guard, a clone of the two men in the front seat, nodded and pushed a button, opening the gate. They drove along a beautiful tree lined fence for half a mile. There were corrals, barns and stables scattered around, all of which were immaculately kept, and horses of all sizes and ages grazing and playing in the pasture.
“What a beautiful setting,” Rance said out loud.
“Yes, it is wonderful,” Sophia echoed.
----------
Andy swiveled from side to side in his chair. He let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling. Then, closing his eyes, he strained his minds eye to see the horse ranch, Rafferty’s house and the winding road. He rocked and swiveled for five minutes before straightening up in his chair and putting his fingers on the keyboard. For the next three hours all that moved were his fingers.
----------
The SUV pulled to a stop in front of an imposing mansion. It was a beautiful white building with marble pillars and a massive front door. It resembled the White House, Rance thought, only newer. The heavy’s in the front seat jumped out of the car and opened the passenger doors, then jog-waddled to the front door and opened it for Sophia as she approached. They remained outside as Pena and Sophia stepped in to the foyer. The floor was Italian marble with a small fountain in the center underneath an opulent chandelier that must have been eight feet in diameter. Beyond the chandelier was a grand, winding staircase to the upper floors. The original Matisse and Monet on either side of the foyer confirmed an elegance that was reserved for the very rich. Rance noted that Michael Pena, with his wealthy shipping background, was not in this league, by a long shot.
“Wow,” he couldn’t help but say. He looked to his escort for validation but received none.
She leaned close to his ear and whispered, “I don’t like the house. Too cold.” Michael/Rance looked at her curiously just as the slightly built James Rafferty rounded a corner and stepped in to the far side of the long foyer.
“Mr. Pena!” he said as he quickly traversed twenty-something feet of imported marble.
“Mr. Rafferty,” he said, “What a beautiful home.”
Sophia leaned in again and whispered in Rance’s ear, “I think it is a Napoleon Complex, you know?” Leaving Michael/Rance stammering to maintain his composure. He somehow kept a straight face as Rafferty stepped up to shake his hand. Sophia, knowing she had struck a chord stood aside and giggled.
“I see you have met Dr Garza,” Rafferty said.
“Uh,” Michael/Rance said, stunned. He looked at Sophia who knew the handsome businessman had misread her. She smiled and nodded slightly and they both chalked another point for her. “Yes, she has been excellent company.”
“She agrees to these little errands sometimes, don’t you dear?” Rafferty said, smiling at Sophia who gave a polite grin and curtsey.
“But they are not always this enjoyable, I assure you,” she said.
“Sophia, honey, could you give us a minute?” Sophia stepped through the foyer into the palatial living room where it appeared that several other guests were already gathered. Both men watched her go, Rafferty watching the sway of her hips and Pena watching a pleasant and unexpected combination of brains and beauty.
“Michael, I appreciate you coming out here this evening. I want you to know, I’m not in the habit of inviting strangers to my home. But I have a good feeling about you. Later lets talk horses, shall we?”
“I’m honored, Mr. Rafferty.”
“Please, call me James, or Jim - my friends call me Jim.”
“Jim, then.”
“Now, let’s find Sophia and get you something to drink.”
Sophia joined the men just as they entered the living room. She took the arm of her date.
“Sophia, would you get Mr. Pena something to drink and introduce him to our guests, I need to step away for a moment, the Senator is on her way in.”
“It is my pleasure, of course,” she said.
Rafferty stepped away and left the room through a side door. Rance tilted his head and said softly, “Dr. Garza?”
“Veterinarian,” she smiled.
Michael/Rance looked at her, his eyebrows narrowed, he was at a loss for words. She nudged him with a grin into the next room.
The living room made the foyer look pitiable. There were three seating areas and a river rock fireplace. A nine-foot Bosendorfer grand graced one corner of the room, being played masterfully by a gentleman in a white tuxedo. There were two or three servers working the room and maybe ten guests, some standing in small groups nursing cocktails and nibbling on hors d’oeuvres. Sophia led Rance across to a small bar where she ordered a white wine for herself and looked at Michael/Rance.
“Small Batch Bourbon for me, please, rocks,” he said, looking at Sophia, “When in Rome.”
They stepped away from the bar with their drinks and began the series of introductions. Rance didn’t realize the extent to which Michael Pena would be the guest of honor, each guest had “heard so much about him,” which struck him as odd. It seemed Rafferty was working a plan of his own that Rance wasn’t aware of. He must have struck the right chord the previous day at the track.
Dr. Sophia Garza worked the room as if she were in the company of family. With her arm under his, she smiled and glided from group to group greeting the guests and introducing her date. Rance was having more fun being with her than he had expected. He was trained to notice everyone and every thing, and he did, but it was an unusual challenge given his disarmingly wonderful chaperone.
“Pena. Isn’t there a ball player named Pena? Carlos, is it?” William Prate, CEO of Prate Industries, a
sked Michael after their introduction.
“I believe you are right, sir,” Michael/ Rance smiled. “Actually, Pena is a very common name in Central America and Spain. Similar to Smith or Jones here in the states.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” responded Mr. Prate.
The small talk was interrupted as James Rafferty entered the room again, this time with another guest, the honorable Phyllis Lecter, Senator from the neighboring state of Indiana. Many of the people in the room, Pena noticed, were acquainted with the Senator, the men standing to shake her hand and the women exchanging small talk about family and mutual friends. Mr. Prate stood as both he and Pena watched the Senator and Rafferty walk from group to group. Prate asked if the Spaniard had ever met Senator Lecter.
“No, I never have. I’ve heard a little about her, though.”
“Well, keep an eye on her son,” Mr. Prate said. “Some of us think she might be the next democratic nominee.” His eyebrows shot up as he looked at Pena with a slight grin and clinked his glass against Michaels.
“Senator Lecter, you know Bill Prate and his lovely bride Cynthia?” Rafferty said as they approached.
“Bill, wonderful to see you again. And Cynthia...” Ms. Lecter said, grabbing Mrs. Prate’s outstretched hand with both of her own, “you look so good. How are you feeling?”
“I’m well, thank you, Senator,” Mrs. Prate said, not standing.
“And of course you know our favorite veterinarian, Dr. Garza,” Rafferty said.
“Sophia, you look stunning, as usual,” Lecter said, shaking hands with the doctor.
Sophia smiled, “Senator,” she said simply.
“And this is the young man I was telling you about Senator Lecter, Michael Pena... Michael, this is Senator Phyllis Lecter from across the river in Indiana,” Rafferty offered.
“Mr. Pena, you made quite an impression on James, that’s not an easy thing to do,” she said.
“He has been a perfect and unexpected host,” Broadback/Pena said.
“So what brings you to Kentucky, Mr. Pena?” the Senator asked.
“Well, I am a businessman. Always looking for new opportunities and new markets, right?”
“I’m sure,” she said, wondering if they were thinking along the same lines. She expected not. “Well, I’m not sure what your plans entail, but don’t miss Indiana while you are out this way. There are many opportunities in the Hoosier State as well.”
“I am certain there are, Senator.”
The Senator pulled back and was escorted to the bar where Rafferty picked up cocktails for both of them, and continued around the room.
Sophia gave her distracted dates arm a slight tug and motioned for him to follow over to a small couch by the fireplace.
“These heels,” she said. “I need to sit for a moment.”
“You look like you are walking on air,” he said honestly.
“You are kind... I am used to working in Nikes and jeans. My patients are not that concerned about my professional attire,” she said, smiling as she crossed her long legs and slipped off a shoe for a quick moment to rub her foot. “Bad form in a group like this, I suppose,” she looked back at him, then glanced around the room.
“You don’t seem like the type to care what others might think,” he said.
“I don’t like to disappoint James, he has been very good to my family. You know, after I graduated high school his gift was to pay for college. I was able to attend the Equine Research Center at UK. From there I got my doctorate at Auburn. All paid for... By him,” she nodded across the room toward Rafferty who was spinning a wild story to a couple of guests. She slipped her pump back on and leaned back on the couch. She pivoted and put an elbow on the back of the sofa, twisted slightly so she was facing Michael/Rance and asked, “So, what’s your story Michael Pena? How did you end up in the middle of this group?”
It was an honest question. Rafferty had stopped by her clinic on the farm mid-morning and asked her for this favor. She had obliged on two previous occasions, both for very prominent people; one, a Congressman from Southern Kentucky and another, a thin, eerie man she didn’t like from back east, both of whom became regular guests at the ranch. She knew that Rafferty had consigned “other girls,” professionals, if you will, to the escorting task, but there were people inside a certain circle that he wanted treated differently. For the special ones he called on Sophia, and she knew it. So, what was special about Michael Pena?
“It’s a good question, Sophia,” he began. “I am really just on a business trip, looking for new business, you know, looking at opportunities to break in to this region with our transportation service. I had some free time so I went to the famous Churchill Downs. One thing leads to another and here I am,” he said innocently. “So I’m a little lost as well.”
He was very convincing. In fact, he would have probably believed himself if it weren’t for the fact that he had been orchestrating each move thus far. In the course of twenty-four hours he had gotten dangerously close to the inside of something. He didn’t know what, yet, but something. And he didn’t know if Dr. Sophia Garza was part of it or not. Due to her connection and allegiance to Rafferty, he must assume, at this time, that she was mixed up in whatever this group was doing.
Time passed quickly and Rance noticed several of the couples saying good night. There were only about eight people left in the room when Pena retrieved a third glass of wine for Sophia and another bourbon for himself, delivering it with a touch of class, “My lady,” he said, bowing slightly. She stood before accepting the drink.
“I think we’re being summoned,” she said, motioning in the direction that Michael/Rance had just returned from.
“Summoned?” he asked quietly as they began to move from their place.
“Usually this is the time when the men hold court with the Senator in the next room and the cigars come out.”
“I don’t smoke,” he said.
“Well, you may want to take it up if you want to run with these ponys,” she said smiling; she released his arm and walked toward the dining room where several of the wives were gathering around another table.
“Michael, let’s step in to the next room for a smoke, shall we?” Rafferty said and followed Mr. Prate, Senator Lecter and two other men passed the big grand piano and in to a walnut paneled library that was lined with a million books. There was a fine Persian rug in the center of the room upon which sat four deep chocolate leather chairs, the kind you sink in to and never want to leave. The Senator took a seat in one of the chairs and the one opposite hers was offered to Mr. Pena. Rafferty pulled a side chair over from the imposing desk at the end of the room and invited the other men to sit as he stepped over to a small humidor by the desk and extracted a box of fine cigars. After offering one to each guest he returned the box and sat in the side chair chair he pulled next to Michael Pena. Rafferty rolled the cigar under his nose, savoring the aroma. Just two of the others, Prate and John Welsh, an accountant from Lexington, joined their host in the smoke. Prate and Welsh prepared their cigars, snipping one end and rolling the other between wet lips before lighting them, while Rafferty allowed his own to remain unlit.
“Not a cigar man, eh Michael?” Welsh commented.
“Never acquired the taste, sir. Now my father, he is the cigar smoker,” Pena said.
“I suppose in Spain he can import them from around the world,” Welsh said, lamenting the shortage of good Cuban’s in America.
“He can and he does, sir,” Michael confirmed, smiling.
“So Mr. Pena,” Senator Lecter interjected, “what brings you to Louisville, really.”
“He certainly didn’t have an inside line on the horses, did you Michael,” Rafferty said, chuckling.
“That is true,” Pena said. “I was a perfect seven for seven,” he informed the rest of the group. “That is seven straight losers. Not a win, place or show.”
The group got a little laugh out of that.
“What’s your se
cret?” Welsh said, and then added, “Wait, never mind.” Which brought the place down again.
“So we know it wasn’t the horses,” Rafferty said, bringing the conversation back around.
“No, not the horses. But honestly, I am fascinated by the sheer power and speed. I am looking forward to learning more about the game. Maybe investing,” Pena said.
“You invested a little yesterday,” Rafferty said, to which Michael raised his glass and nodded.
“That I did, Mr. Rafferty,” he said. “Actually, as I was telling Dr. Garza, I am here with my company hat on. This is a business trip. I am hoping to expand in the near future and I would like to move a little further east with the services we provide.”
“Intermodal freight, wasn’t it?” Prate asked as if he hadn’t been adequately briefed.
“Yes sir. We are based on the West Coast and I’m considering adding four additional terminals.”
“You want to add an intermodal terminal in Kentucky? That might be a little like betting on seven losers, son,” Welsh jested.
“Fortunately, I’m a little better at judging freight that I am at judging fillies,” Michael assured the group.
“So why here, why now?” Senator Lecter asked.
“I like to stay ahead of the curve. It is a trait I get from my father... May I speak frankly?” Michael asked, glancing around the room at his curious hosts.
“Please,” Rafferty said.
Michael/Rance leaned forward in his seat, drawing on the research he done in the past 24 hours and making it sound like something he’d been planning for months. “I understand that a new federal highway, Interstate 66 is going to slice right through southern Kentucky. Effectively connecting the East Coast with I-75 and I-65 and points further west...” Pena let that hang in the air for a few moments. I would like to open a terminal on the Gulf Coast, either in Mobile or maybe Florida; another in Kentucky, possible Somerset or Bowling Green; Another in the Great Lakes region, possibly Detroit; and the final one the east end of the new highway, possibly in Virginia... I want to own that new highway before it’s built.”
Rafferty sat back in his chair, rolling the cigar under his nose. The fragrance was lost as his mind was moving too quickly for his scent receptors to keep up. The Senator knew exactly what he was thinking, and was moving over similar terrain herself. If the man sitting across from her was as capable as he appeared to be, it could be an absolute gold mine for their little distribution business. She knew that a thorough check was in order, one that she could complete before opening session tomorrow if she flew back to D.C. immediately.
“That, my young friend,” the Senator said, “Is a fabulous idea, very keen thinking. But listen, don’t leave Indiana out of your plans, we have some very favorable incentives for businesses that are looking to expand.” She sounded as political and objective as a person in her position always needed to sound.
“Thank you, Senator,” Michael/Rance said, “I guess we’ll see how it all works out.” Prate and Welsh echoed the Senators sentiments and added a little spin of their own. Welsh, the accountant, saw nothing but dollar signs lining the I-66 corridor and suggested identifying potential terminal sites immediately, if not sooner.
Senator Lecter sat forward in her chair and sat her water glass on the rich mahogany side table, “Well, gentlemen, this has been an enjoyable evening, but I really need to be heading back to D.C., we have that memorial tomorrow.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Prate said, “Senator Hagin, wasn’t it? Suicide?”
“Terrible,” Rafferty said.
The Senator stood and was immediately joined by the men. “It has been especially nice to meet you, Mr. Pena, and I look forward to hearing great things about your company,” she smiled and shook Michael/Rance’s hand. “Jim, if you would be so kind,” she said, nodding toward the door.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Rafferty said, setting his unlit cigar down on the side table before joining the Senator at the door. The rest of the men set back down to quiz Michael on his timetable for expansion.
----------
Andy pulled away from the screen, visualizing the Rafferty Mansion as clearly as if he were sitting in the library along with the others. “And Sophia Garza? a doctor?” He said out loud. “I didn’t see that coming,” he said honestly. It seemed like there were a few sparks between Dr. Garza and Pena. Andy wondered if Sophia was part of the cartel, maybe their connection to South America, or, maybe she was innocent, just in the wrong place and the right time. He wanted to go back in to the secret chamber and find out, but it was late and he was already getting a little rummy, he could feel it.