At least, that was Roger Smith’s opinion. He’d worked at the Stone Creek Tribune since the day he turned fourteen, ferrying newspapers through town for ten cents an hour. But that had been back in 1966, a time remembered by foggy memories and even foggier photographs. He was almost fifty-five years old now, and a lot had changed since 1966. Printing presses had evolved, delivery methods had become more sophisticated, and staff had fluctuated, but Roger had always been there to see it through.
Now he was head editor, investigative journalist, and senior copyist for the Tribune. The only thing he didn’t do was make his own coffee. That was Mary Anne’s job, his secretary of fifteen years. She did all the paperwork and logistics he didn’t have time for.
Without her, the Tribune was doomed to fail. She’d helped bring it out of financial limbo several times already, and Roger had no doubt she would save it several times more. That is, until he decided to set his pen aside and submerse himself in the emphatic tide of retirement.
Roger shuffled across his little office and gazed outside, raising the blinds so beams of fresh, morning sunlight could dance across his face. He loved feeling the newborn sun on his skin. It sent shivers down his spine; gave him new life and lifted his spirits. Like a tonic from the gods. Little did he know that, one day, the sun would turn to poison in his veins.
“Good morning, Mr. Smith. I have the results from last week’s election.”
Roger turned around slowly, unwilling to take his eyes off the serene Colorado countryside. He was enchanted by the rippling cornfields and cloudless blue skies, and figured he would continue to be awed by the view until his dying day.
“Good morning Mary. Have you looked outside this morning?”
“Yes. It’s very peaceful. I haven’t seen a day this beautiful for a long time.”
“That’s what I mean. Do you think it’s too peaceful?”
Mary Anne strode across the room and glanced out the window. Her wavy brown hair bobbed as she walked, falling gently around her shoulders. How Roger wanted to bury his face in that hair and drown in her feminine charms. She stopped beside him, barely a foot away, and touched the windowpane with her carefully manicured fingertips. He could smell her now, the perfume that lingered across her lustrous soft skin. But he knew that he could never indulge in such carnal desires. It would mean the end of their professional relationship.
After a moment she looked up. “How can a day be too peaceful?”
“I don’t know,” Roger said simply. “I just feel it in my bones. Like something bad is going to happen. But I don’t know what. It’s like the calm before the storm.”
“Well then, you must be psychic,” Mary Anne smiled. “Something bad did happen. You know that mayoral candidate you didn’t like? Ignacio Salvador? He won the election—by a landslide, too. I have the figures right here.”
Roger frowned. He’d been afraid this would happen.
Ignacio Salvador was a fat cat from the big city, a man with more inspiration and less leadership capability. He wanted to take Stone Creek and modernize it, turn it into another Denver. His campaign slogan was: “Thinking of tomorrow…today!” with an exclamation point at the end to catch the voter’s eye and show he meant business.
Maybe all that slick big-city talk had won over the little-city votes at the election booth, but it didn’t fool Roger. He could smell a con artist from a mile away. He knew that once Salvador had milked Stone Creek for all it was worth, the dirty politician would skip town and start looking for the next little town he could ruin.
It had happened before, and if Roger wasn’t careful it would happen again. He needed to expose the conman before it was too late. That was his duty as the town’s editor, journalist and copyist. The townspeople looked to him to keep them informed.
Mary Anne dropped a sheet of paper on his desk, and retreated toward the door. Her intoxicating fragrance retreated with her, and Roger was left all alone. But he didn’t mind. He was used to being alone. Ever since his second wife, Ruth, had left him last summer, he’d been alone a lot. With the exception of his cat, Whiskers, of course.
Roger took a big gulp of coffee and settled behind his desk. It was cold now, and the coffee grains tasted bitter on his tongue, but he drank it anyway. He was one of those caffeine junkies he’d condemned so many times in the Tribune, the kind of person who didn’t drink coffee because of the taste, but because of the caffeine high it attained. A guy could have worse addictions, he thought.
A moment later the phone rang. It was Sam Brown, one of Roger’s closest friends and the former mayor of Stone Creek. He was a man who stood up for his beliefs and valued a man’s word above anything else. The sun had narrowed his gaze and turned his skin to leather, but he had one of the kindest hearts and warmest handshakes in the country.
“Hey there, Roger. Just thought I would say hi. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Of course not. I was just looking over the election results.”
“Surprised?”
“Not really. Salvador had a lot of hype going into the election, and he spent a lot of money on campaigning, so…” Roger let his words taper off. Partly because he didn’t know what to say and partly because Sam already knew what he meant.
Sam broke the silence with a good natured chuckle. “Well, they say all good things must end. I guess they ended before I wanted them to.”
Roger was silent.
“Which is why I’m going to leave Stone Creek, and look for opportunities elsewhere.”
“What?”
“You heard me right. I’m leaving. Going to live somewhere else, like Dallas or New York or God-knows-where. I just can’t stay here.”
“What are you talking about? Of course you can.”
“Roger. I’ve lived here my entire life. I married a beautiful woman and raised two strapping young boys in this town, and now it’s time for me to go. I can’t bear to stay and watch this town go to hell in a hand basket. It would break my heart.”
“But you can’t leave! This town needs you too much!”
Sam was weeping now. His words were slow and choked with tears.
“When you live in a town as long as I have, you learn one thing. Home is where the heart is. This town is my home, and even though it’s going to hurt like hell to leave, I know it’s for the best.”
“I see.” Roger sighed. It was a deep, introspective sigh.
“And Roger?”
“Yes?”
“Take care of the town for me, okay? I don’t want that sly Spanish bastard fucking things up too much.”
“I will. I promise.”
Roger smiled. It was the first real smile he had experienced all day. At least old Sam hadn’t lost his fire. He was a soldier, and he knew how to fight for what he believed in. But he also knew when to stop the advance and retreat. That was the mark of a good leader. If only the voters had seen that on Election Day.
Roger hung up the phone and buried his head in his hands. Today was going down the shitter, and fast. He wanted to crawl back into bed and pretend like none of this had happened. He wanted to pretend that he’d never heard of a man named Ignacio Salvador, and that Sam Brown was still mayor of their little shit-splat, po-dunk country town. But he couldn’t. He had headlines to write and articles to research and newspapers to print.
So much for going home early.
Chapter 2
“What do you mean ‘Sam is gone?’”
“Just what I said. He called me last week and told me he was leaving.”
“That’s impossible. Sam would never just up and leave.”
“Believe it or not, he’s gone. Left this morning for Phoenix. I stopped by his house to say goodbye one last time.”
Roger sat in a booth across from Dirk and Ben Hollister, two farming boys who’d never set foot outside Stone Creek. Their massive arms and barrel chests were a testament to their family’s long agricultural lineage. But, in addition to being two fine, if dim-witted, creatures,
they were also Roger’s friends. In a way, he considered them to be his sons, since he’d tutored them since second grade. Except now he sat in a bar with them, and watched them down pints of beer. Rocky’s Finest, mostly, since it was “The Coldest Beer in Colorado.”
“When will he come back?” Dirk asked, brown hair askew beneath a Nebraska baseball cap.
“I don’t think he’s coming back,” Roger said. “I think he’s leaving forever.”
“Forever is a long time.”
“Yes, Dirk, forever is a long time. A very long time.”
Obviously those tutoring sessions hadn’t done much good.
Roger looked down at his drink. It was half empty. He’d gone through eight of them already, and now he knew that cola didn’t drown sorrows very effectively. He still felt shitty as ever. Maybe even worse.
Did anything feel worse than shit?
He didn’t know, but he also didn’t want to think about it. He just wanted to enjoy an afternoon with his friends and not have to worry about the future of his precious little town. But Sam’s last words kept ringing in his head, haunting him.
Take care of the town for me, okay?
They were like a busted alarm clock. They kept spinning and spinning and spinning and, just when he thought they were gone, they resurfaced once again.
Roger shook his head, hoping the thoughts would dislodge from his brain and slip through his ears. Then he could trap them under his glass and make sure they didn’t bother him again. But they didn’t budge, so he was forced to watch the little bar-side TV instead.
A female news anchor was talking about some kind of cancer awareness foundation. She had a pretty face, but an excess of makeup made her look like a creature from outer space. She was wearing way too much lipstick and eyeliner. Roger sighed. It was a sad day when television anchors had to dress like whores to get airtime.
Ben played around with his drink. He hadn’t said much all night, which was odd, because he was usually the more outspoken of the two.
“Got something on your mind?” Roger asked.
“Maybe,” Ben murmured. “Maybe I’m feeling a little guilty too.”
“About what?”
Ben slid the tumbler across the battered Formica surface and wet his lips, as if searching for the right words. “What if I voted for Salvador? Does that mean I made Sam leave?”
Roger grinned sadly. “No. That doesn’t mean you made him leave. Sam left because he wanted to. It’s not anyone’s fault. We just have to band together as a community and make sure nothing bad happens to Stone Creek.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” Roger said sullenly. “I just don’t know.”
“You guys want another drink?” Dewey, the bar owner, stopped by their booth. He had salt and pepper hair and a face that would put a bloodhound to shame.
“No. I think we’re good.”
“You three look pretty sad. How about a couple shots on the house?”
Roger shook his head. “I don’t drink, and these two have had quite enough. Would you mind turning the television up, though?”
Dewey nodded. He reached into his apron—or whatever one would call a grubby rag hanging from one’s waist—and produced a little black remote control. He stabbed at the buttons until the volume was loud enough to hear over the jukebox and several sloshed patrons.
The television flashed images of Stone Creek’s new mayor, a man wearing a pristine gray suit. He had a carefully trimmed mustache and close cropped black hair, which might have been attractive had he not been so grossly overweight.
Roger laughed. He liked the way Salvador’s pants hiked up when he walked, revealing a pair of super sexy knee socks. With all that money, you would think the Spanish bastard could afford a decent tailor, or at least a fashion-suave assistant. God knows he had enough bodyguards with him. Was he expecting a riot at the press conference or something?
Roger took another swig of his soda and listened to the anchor recite a line of dreary dialogue. Something about how Mayor Salvador was going to bring new life to a dead city, resurrect the great name of Stone Creek or some shit like that.
He was tired of hearing how his town was a worthless pile of dung, and how Salvador had descended from heaven to redeem it. Personally, he didn’t trust the fat fuck. That was the bottom line. He didn’t care if Salvador had descended from the heights of heaven or crawled up from the lowest depths of hell. The man was a miserable parasite and, unless Salvador proved him wrong, Roger was going to do everything in his power to bring him down.
“Are you okay, man?” Ben asked. “You look like you’re about to throw up.”
“Yeah, I’m okay. I just had a long day, that’s all.”
“You look like shit,” Dirk said.
What an observant pair of youngsters.
“Funny. I feel like shit too.”
“Maybe you should go home and get to bed.”
Roger nodded and stood up from the booth. Was it just him, or did the whole room tilt sideways? He couldn’t tell and, before he knew it, he was on the floor, cheek pressed against the greasy hardwood, dry heaving like a crippled dog on the side of the highway. He didn’t think it was possible to throw up from drinking too much cola, but then again, he’d been wrong before.
The last thing he remembered was seeing Dewey rush across the bar, and hearing a gasp flutter across the room. Then everything got a little fuzzy. He’d heard of teenagers passing out from caffeine overdoses, but he never imagined that such a thing could happen to him. That was his last rational thought. Then he puked.
Chapter 3
Ignacio Salvador smiled, posed. Cameras flashed and television crews scrambled for position, trying to snag that one last interview. But he wasn’t going to give it to them. That was how you played the media: build hype, and leave them wanting more.
Behind him, the Stone Creek County Courthouse stood solemnly in the shadows. It was nothing special, just an old bank that had been renovated in the 1960s, but Ignacio could tell that it was enjoying its time in the limelight. Every now and then a camera flash would light up its face, and he could have sworn it swelled with pride.
Stone Creek was a proud city. He’d sensed it ever since he moved here last January. It was also a city yearning to see the steady march of change. It was a city trapped in a time warp: shackled by tradition, religious superstition, and fear. Fear that it would somehow get washed away by the tide of progress, like a sandcastle on the beach. But with a visionary leader behind it, Stone Creek could burst out of the dark ages and into the Great Awakening.
Or so to speak.
“Mr. Salvador! One last question! How do you plan on dealing with your critics in Stone Creek? Are you aware that there are some citizens who consider you to be the political Antichrist?”
Ignacio smiled. Not a real smile, but a smile that said, trust-me-I-know-what-I’m-talking-about. The one he used on all his campaign posters. It would look dazzling on the cover of tomorrow’s newspaper.
“First of all,” he said cordially, “that was two questions. And second, I’m not worried about the critics. Do you know why? Because after I’ve been in office for a month, they will realize how much I love this town, and how much I want to help it grow and blossom into a beautiful flower. Thank you.”
Cameras flashed, and the television crews struggled for position as he stepped into his white stretch limo. He could almost read the headlines now: New Mayor To Bring Prosperity To Dying Town; Media-Savvy Mayor Promises Bright Future; Christ Reveals Himself To Stone Creek. They all sounded like music to his ears, although the last one was a little over the top.
Ignacio settled down into the plush leather seats. He could hear the media outside, screaming his name. He felt like a movie star, like that guy who played a gladiator as he walked into the academy awards. His name wasn’t important.
“Nice show out there, boss,” Enrico said. He was the leader of Ignacio’s personal security core, or his “muscle�
� as some put it. He’d been escorting Ignacio in and out of press conferences for almost five years now. And he never went anywhere without his trusty Bowie knife.
“Thank you,” Ignacio said, loosening his tie. “As much as I love press conferences, I fucking hate the press. God. Talk about a bunch of wolves in sheep’s clothing. Did you hear their questions out there? They called me the Antichrist, for Chrissake!”
Ignacio wiped his face with a towel. He was sweating like a pig, and not a police officer, either. One of those barnyard animals. It was the floodlights that the camera crews used; they were always so fucking hot. You could roast a sausage in those things. He’d roasted his on numerous occasions.
“So what now?”
“Excuse me?” Ignacio looked up.
“What happens now that you’re mayor? Are you going to take all their funds and skip out like you did in that little Texas town?”
Ignacio considered for a moment. Even though he was all in favor of underhanded political moves, he was tired of skipping from town to town. Just this once he wanted to settle down and not have to worry about angry political opponents or nosy FBI agents or, even worse, crusading newspaper scumbags. He couldn’t stand those guys. They were the ones who snooped around his office late at night, spread lies (or sometimes truths) in the media, and kicked his PR to shit.
If he had a dime for every small-town journalist who’d written a scathing article about him, he would be fucking rich by now. Not that he wasn’t rich already, but he could give a certain stuck-up rapper a run for his money. He might even be able to buy himself a little entourage.
“You know what? I like this town. More than that shit-splat Texas town, at least. I think it has potential. And I like potential.”
“Then we’re staying?”
Ignacio smiled. This time it was a real smile. “Yes, Enrico. We’re staying.”
~*~
By the time the limo pulled up to the motel on Main Street, Ignacio was ready to catch a few Z’s. It had been a long day. A day filled with media mobs and interviews out the wazoo. So he wasn’t paying attention to the shady black SUV or the three men inside.
Anthology of Ichor III: Gears of Damnation Page 7
