by LE Barbant
A blaring television veiled the sound of his footsteps. An over-the-top action film, with explosions and gunshots, provided the perfect cover.
Tim peered into the living room to find two men slumped low on a couch, their eyes glassed over. Tim welcomed the pungent smell of marijuana. He grabbed a potted plant, the only decor in the room, and launched it at the television. Both men snapped to attention, their buzz killed by the trespasser and his missile.
“It’s time for you boys to stop dealing in Pittsburgh,” Tim yelled through the handkerchief.
Before he was done speaking, the men were on their feet.
The shorter of the two wasted no time. He charged and swung a sloppy hook, which was easily dodged. The man was slow and stoned, and Tim had trained in and out of the military for hand-to-hand combat.
It was hardly a fair fight.
Ford swung his brass fist into the man’s rib cage, it crumble under the force of his swing. With a wheeze, Tim’s victim dropped to the hardwood.
Seeing his friend felled with such ease, the other approached cautiously. A makeshift bandage was wrapped around his left wrist—Chem’s obvious handiwork.
That damned traitor.
The man’s wild eyes scanned the room. Tim held his ground, circling his opponent as if in an invisible ring. While he trusted his training, Ford knew full well that a trapped junkie was a dangerous beast.
Instead of moving for an attack, the man lunged for the bottom of the couch. Faster than his friend, he made it to the edge before Tim could cut him off.
Shit, Tim thought as the dealer pulled a blade just shy of a machete from under the sofa.
“We’ll deal where we damn well please.” The man grinned.
Tim’s hand found the back of a wooden folding chair that sat against the wall. He swung it in an arc toward his assailant.
Raising the blade, the man knocked the chair off its course. But his move opened him for attack. Tim landed a quick jab to the man’s gut and followed with a brass uppercut to the jaw.
Metal rattled on wood as the man released the knife and slumped to the floor.
He turned back to his first victim, who lay windless where Tim had dropped him. The mercenary pushed the heel of his Red Wing into the man’s broken ribs.
The dealer shrieked under the pressure.
“Keep operating around here and we’ll do this again. Understand?”
The man squirmed under Tim’s boot.
“Understand?” he asked again, leaning into it.
A nod and a grunt was all the man could muster.
Tim gave one last push, for good measure. He felt another rib crack. “Good. This is my city, and I’m taking it back.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Ladies and gentlemen, first, thank you for coming. There is nothing more beautiful than a late summer day in Pittsburgh. Standing here at the confluence of the three rivers [note: venue was moved—check with Kate] I am reminded by just how amazingly blessed we are by our home town [Too cheesy? Ask Paul about this one].”
Rhett propped the tip of his pencil between his teeth for a moment. Then, applying pressure to the yellow pad, he crossed out “amazingly,” and placed an exclamation mark in the margin. He imagined a crowd, and said, “But no matter how idyllic, today remains shrouded in loss. Bobby Vinton was a friend and a colleague. Though young enough to be my own son, he taught me more than I can explain. So, as we come together…”
Rhett stepped to his window and stared out at the streets. The speech was good. But good had never satisfied the young politico. It lacked a certain ring—lines that would dance in the audience’s mind for weeks to come. This speech aimed to frame the public discourse around recent events. The pithier the better—especially if he could manage some lines that were easily tweetable. The man grinned to himself as he propped his foot up on the radiator. Cicero never needed to worry about keeping his best lines to 140 characters.
“Crime is nothing new to Pittsburgh…” He stopped. His first assignment was a clusterfuck. Rhett needed to pen something for the mayor that mourned his Chief of Staff’s untimely passing while inciting fear of future attacks. Every politician has a platform, and this was Mayor Dobbs’. But he also needed to assure the people that the city government had everything under control—not to mention the need to stay within the good graces of the police force. Not too much fear, just enough. It was a balancing act on the scales of public opinion.
Rhett had spent hours combing the speeches following the events of 9/11 in search of the perfectly turned phrase that had allowed a speaker to appear strong and confident, but also heart-broken and wise. This was no easy task. Mayor Dobbs had strength, but in recent years he failed to appear that way. Rhett believed that Dobbs, though not an Andrew Jackson or a Teddy Roosevelt, was the smartest man in contemporary politics—in the Steel City and beyond. The word slinger knew that the Mayor had his sights set beyond Allegheny County, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he and Paul would soon be moving back to the nation’s capital.
But things weren’t looking good. Polling had placed the race for Dobbs’ reelection on shaky ground. Pittsburgh was a city of change, emerging as one of the most thriving medium-sized cities in the country, despite, many believed, Dobbs’ policies and appointments. Popular sentiment began to sway toward Dobbs’ challenger—Peter Kinnard.
Kinnard was young. A transplant to Pittsburgh from the West Coast, he cut his teeth on Pittsburgh politics during a summer internship at a community development corporation. The non-profit was committed to urban renewal that didn’t take the form of gentrification—a policy the young politician now ran on. Peter fell in love with the city. It captured his heart and imagination. When it was time to return to Stanford, he decided to stay and finish his last year in the Steel City.
The young idealist had only worked in the city for ten years before people started positioning him for political office. Humility kept him out of it for some time, but he finally relented. After a term on the City Council, Kinnard began his campaign for mayor with a platform against business as usual. Thankfully, for the young politician, many citizens held that the old-time politics of the Dobbs administration represented everything wrong with the status quo. He had the backing of the urban youth, the artists, and the students—just about anyone under sixty—and that enthusiasm was beginning to trickle up through the voting base.
It would take a perfect run to beat Peter Kinnard, and to Rhett that translated into perfect messaging. Those were nearly the exact lines he used when he walked into the mayor’s office and requested a job earlier that week. He was rarely denied what he wanted. Rhett Johannes spoke, and people trusted him.
A light tap on the door interrupted his writing. Without waiting for a response, Kate, the Mayor’s office manager, stuck her head in. “He’s ready for you.”
“Is everyone else here?” Rhett asked.
Kate stepped into his office. Everything about her was perfect. Rhett loved the way her dirty-blond hair fell over her shoulders. She was young, funny, and recently single. While he’d never dated a divorced woman before, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.
“Just about.”
“Alright,” Rhett said. “Let’s do this.” He gathered his things for the meeting and stepped toward the door.
Kate coughed. “Um, Rhett…”
“Yeah.”
“Shoes.” She pointed at the speechwriter’s feet.
Rhett smiled. “Of course.”
****
The conference room was hotter than hell, but Rhett was getting used to it. Some swore that Dobbs would turn up the heat, just to mess with his staff. Rhett wouldn’t put it past him. Eight white men and Rhett sat around the oval table. Each of them had a role, and they were all good at their jobs—very good. The walls were littered with color-coded maps, outlining voting districts, donor lists, and major events. Most of the time the conference room was used for important meetings, but for the past half year it operated
as the war room, a dedicated space for Mayor Dobbs’ reelection run. Less than three months away from Election Day, and the team was starting to get nervous.
Peter Kinnard’s numbers were going through the roof, and the Mayor’s fund-raising efforts had stagnated.
Dobbs, a fit and attractive man in his late fifties, paced in front of a white board. He pivoted and leaned on the end of the oval table. “We have this. That little West Coast shit isn’t going to run my city. It’s embarrassing that he’s even doing so well. Jason, what’s the update on the polling?”
Jason Harris was a well-dressed twenty-something with clear-framed glasses and an iPad. He passed around a couple of sheets of paper with graphs and charts. “The latest polls suggest that Kinnard is gaining the confidence of older voters. We’ve lost some ground in the 35-50 range. People are scared, they think you…”
“They think I’m failing them. They think I’m weak.”
“Yes, sir. And Kinnard’s confident that the youth will actually turn out to vote this year. Their passion seems actionable.”
Rhett looked the data whiz up and down. The man had a certain confidence that betrayed his years. Where is he getting this data? The speechwriter didn’t doubt that he was right, but the nuance in his report required a level of polling unheard of in local elections. Rhett made a note to ask him about it after the meeting.
“Kids are fickle. We should start running targeted ads, talking about Kinnard’s privileged upbringing. That will turn them against him,” Frank Boyd interjected. Boyd was as ruthless as he was ambitious. It was no secret that he wanted Vinton’s spot as Dobbs’ right-hand man.
The mayor nodded toward Boyd. “The level of media presence involved in that kind of campaign requires significant resources. Ken, where are we at with that?”
Ken Richards, a pasty man with a pockmarked face and a receding hairline, leaned back in his executive chair. Sweat had already gathered on his forehead. “It’s not good, sir. I wish I could say differently, but our numbers are down again this week. Our real hope is after the events tomorrow and the Mayor’s Gala we’ll be able to gain momentum. But you need a message. Something that will inspire people to open their wallets.”
Rhett’s heart stopped. He knew he was next.
“Rhett? What do you have for us? Can you turn the ship around?”
Rhett straightened the legal pad in front of him and aligned the pen perpendicular to its edge. Not wanting to portray the same countenance as Richards, he stood to address the mayor. “My hand’s on the rudder, sir. The speech is nearly done, and I think it’s some of my best work. They’ll eat it up.”
All eyes were on him.
The rest of the cabinet hated the speechwriter—because Dobbs loved him. He’d showed up only days earlier and the mayor already placed a higher level of trust in him than in some of his more senior staff. Though their jobs were on the line, most of the men in the room wanted to see Rhett fail—which he never did.
“Give us the broad strokes, son.”
“Sure.” Rhett picked up the legal pad and pretended to read his notes. He didn’t need to, he knew them by heart. “It starts as a eulogy to Vinton.” Rhett glanced at the vacant chair at the end of the table opposite Dobbs and paused for effect. “You’ll praise his gifts, go on about his family and his dedication to the city of Pittsburgh. Everyone loves a dutiful servant. Vinton had been in Springdale late, trying to raise support for your new crime plan. Working hard—naturally.” Rhett could feel half the room grimace. “So he basically gave his life for all of us, for the city. At least that’s what the crowd will believe.”
“We damn well don’t know what the hell he was doing out there,” Boyd interjected.
“Yes, but no one else knows that, Frank.” Rhett scribbled nothing in particular on his yellow, pissed at the interruption. “Then we pivot to the coup de grâce that will ensure your reelection. Kinnard will never see it coming.”
All eyes were on him.
Rhett kept them waiting, working the room.
“Oh? What was that?” Boyd asked.
Rhett forced back a smile. “The Mayor hasn’t told you his plan yet? We’re taking a stance on the monsters.”
****
Rhett crossed his right leg over his left and looked up at the man in charge. Fresh out of the District, he expected the Mayor’s office to be a bit more regal, but Dobbs’ digs were more like a high school principal’s workspace from the 90s. The floor-to-ceiling drapes were a bit gaudy, and the furniture, while not threadbare, had seen better days. The whole place smelled like the back room of a public library—one part mildew, two parts old paper.
“Are you sure you can pull this off?” the Mayor asked.
“You’re the one pulling it off sir. I couldn’t claim something so adept. I’m just a humble writer.” Rhett gave a subtle closed-mouth smile, knowing everything he said was a lie. “But I’m sure that my speech will convey everything you asked for. Harris’s polls confirmed your instincts. The people want a strong leader. When fear and scarcity are the primary motivating forces in a man’s life, he will cast aside anything else for the sake of survival. History has proven this to be true since the beginning of time.”
Dobbs nodded. “Vinton’s death has got me thinking. What if they blame me for the monsters? This all happened under my watch.”
“It’s foolish to change leaders in the midst of battle, sir.” Rhett got to his feet. “And with my words, they’ll see this for the war that it is. Monsters will always exist. They’re certainly not your fault, but you are the one who’s going to stop them. Trust me, by the time I’m done, they’ll make a damned statue in your likeness on the steps of this building. You’re going to be a superhero.”
Dobbs flashed a million-dollar smile. “Alright, kid. Get out of here, and I’ll order a cape.”
Rhett walked past rows of cubicled civil servants, answering calls or responding to emails. He remembered his first job as an intern, phoning for donations at a state congressman’s office in South Dakota. It didn’t take him long to rise from that position. He entered his private office, pleased to shut out the noise of the lesser staffers.
The silence was broken by his brother’s voice. “It won’t work, you know.”
Rhett loved his brother, even if he were a pain in the ass nine times out of ten. “Aren’t you supposed to be out finding a job or something?”
He looked at this brother, who lounged in the corner chair of Rhett’s office. “That’s not important right now.”
“Well, brother, according to our landlord, it is. Why is it that I’m always working to support you?” Rhett paused, taking in his twin’s goofy smile.
“Not sure, but you keep taking me with you, so things seem to be working just fine for me.”
Rhett laughed and responded to Paul’s opening comment. “What do you mean it won’t work? Dobbs is a genius to cash in on these monster attacks. And I’ve orchestrated the plan perfectly. This strategy is based on research. If the nation bought it in 2001, these backwoods hicks masquerading as urbanites will too. You’ve got to remember, we’re not in D.C. anymore.”
“They may fall for your tricks now, but he’ll be unmasked in the long run.”
Rhett dropped his notebook on the desk. “Who cares about the long run? My job is simple, get the man elected. It’s not our job to judge him.”
“Then what? What happens when your masterpiece is disrobed?”
Rhett picked up the Pittsburgh snow globe left behind by the previous speechwriter. He gave it a shake and watched flurries fall on PNC Park. “It’ll be fine. I’m sure by then you’ll have figured out what our next move is. You’re the one who led me here, by the way. Have you forgotten—”
But when Rhett looked up his brother was gone.
Dammit. Can’t persuade someone who isn’t listening.
CHAPTER NINE
“What the hell were you thinking?” Chem had a short fuse, but Tim had never seen him yell like this befor
e. Cat sat on the ex-mercenary’s lap, waving its tail as if all was right with the world.
The louder Chem yelled, the smaller the living room felt. The tall man paced back and forth, covering each length with only three steps.
“Those guys were assholes,” Tim said. “So I ripped them new ones. You talk a big game about making the city better and then you just go stitch ’em up and send them back on the streets. You’re…what’s the term? Aiding and abetting.”
“What the hell’s going on?” Elijah asked as he came out of his room. He held a book thicker than Tim’s head.
Chem stopped pacing. “Nothing.”
Tim laughed. “So, Eli here doesn’t know about your side business? Easy to justify it to yourself, but…”
Tim turned to Elijah. “Our doctor here runs a clinic for all the drug dealers and wannabe gangbangers running around Pittsburgh. I just made sure he has repeat customers.”
“Tim, what if you need my help someday?” Chem pointed his finger as he talked. “You want to come pull me off my night shift at Walmart? I have to pay the bills. And a few stitches on some low-level criminals keeps me researching and taking care of my friends.”
“Ends justify the means? You should get a tour with Blackbow. You’d fit right in.”
“They might be criminals, but that doesn’t give you the right to put them in the hospital.” Chem got to his feet. “And you’re asking me if the ends justify the means? Really?”
For a moment, Tim wondered if the academic was dumb enough to engage in fisticuffs with the seasoned veteran. “Justice justifies any means necessary. I’m afraid personal profit cannot command the same allowances.”
“You didn’t kill them, did you?” Elijah asked.
Tim ran his right palm over his left knuckles, watching the skin go white. “I’ve had my fill of killing. But that doesn’t mean I can’t stand for what is right. A few broken ribs go a long way.”
Tim knocked Cat off his lap and stood. Grabbing his keys off the table, he moved past Elijah toward the front entrance. “I’d love to stay and debate the finer details of vigilante ethics, but I have a date.”
