by Matt Minor
The District Manager
Copyright 2016 by Matt Minor
Printed in the United States. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author/publisher except by a reviewer,
who may quote brief passages in a review.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current or local events or to living persons is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Minor, Matt
ISBN 978-0-9906120-9-4
1. Texas Politics—Political Fiction 2. Texas—Culture—Fiction
3. Political Suspense
FIC Min
Cover Design Rebecca Byrd Arthur
Editor Mindy Reed, The Authors’ Assistant
Printed in the United States of America
SPECIAL DEDICATION
For Caroline and Sullivan
with love
OFFICIAL DEDICATION
To Madame Guillotine
Ay, that incestuous, that adulterous beast
— Ghost of Hamlet’s Father
The intellect of man must choose,
Perfection of the life or the work
— Yeats
And Hell is filled with the respectable
... The titles and trophies piled near by
To be melted and cast to commemorate
The trickery ever-legal: the lie.
— M. Minor
Table of Contents
Part I. JULY
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
Part II. AUGUST
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
Part III. SEPTEMBER
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Part IV. OCTOBER
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Part V. JANUARY
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Part I
JULY
Doing the right thing means you don’t eat.
I should have known this almost universal of maxims. But I refused to acknowledge it. I steered and stuttered my way through traffic, distracted along the way by a series of dead dogs that filled consecutive ditches. I love dogs.
After winding through an arbor of live oaks that shrouded the wealthy streets, I arrived at the scheduled meeting at the Fort Bryan County Courthouse.
I’ll say it again, “Doing the right thing means you don’t eat.”
I should have known this, given my recent experiences, but all I could think of was getting a drink and finding adequate air-conditioning. This was July in southeast Texas, it was not just hot as hell, but humid as a steam room. And the A/C on my fifteen year-old, white Expedition functioned like a martyr on her way to the scaffold—defiant yet hopeful…
CHAPTER ONE
A DISTRICT MANAGER?
I keep the engine humming and hang back after I roll into the slanted parking space across from the courthouse. I’m waiting…waiting for the politicians to siphon into the historical structure. I don’t want to get stuck talking to anyone I don’t have to.
I’m not wearing a suit—thank God—but a rather cheap, white, short-sleeved golf shirt and black slacks. Still, I can feel a significant sweat stain on my back as I enter the building. One of the benefits of working for a state official is that you can bypass nearly any security. I flash the sheriff ’s deputy my badge and skip the metal detector altogether.
The meeting is at the top, on the fourth floor. This is an old structure and the air-conditioning kind of sucks. As I climb the circular steps, I haven’t stopped sweating. I ascend upon a display of the Six Flags Over Texas. The cigarettes have caught up with me I guess, because here at the top I’m out of breath.
“You need to lay off those things, Mason!” the assistant prosecutor comments, his voice echoing into the recently restored rotunda. He’s loitering in the spherical lobby and thumbing his cell phone. Like all prosecutors’ side men, he lacks any sense of the political, he’s a plain asshole, in fact. We have an understanding: I don’t like him and he doesn’t like me. I enter the meeting room, squeezing past his suited, unaccommodating bloat.
My boss is already there and is sitting towards the front of an immense wooden table with other officials from the area. He nods in acknowledgment of my existence. The remaining seats are filled with different experts: a few cops and several county elected officials. The assistant prosecutor snakes the last available seat. I pull up a spare chair. After assessing this cabal, my attention is drawn towards the large expanse of bookshelves that line the length of the opposite wall. The shelves are filled from floor to ceiling with tan, hardback editions of the Southwestern Reporter, an old-school legal resource from the days before computers.
Introductions are in order, and when it’s my turn I stand and give my name and occupation. “Mason Dixon!” I declare, knowing that those in the room who don’t know me will think it almost strange, maybe somewhat comical. “I’m the District Manager for House District 100!” My boss, the state rep who I work for, signals discreetly with his hand for me to sit down.
I am distracted as the meeting fires up. From the corner of my right eye, I notice a figure enter the room. She pulls out a chair and gracefully sits down. I turn my head towards the entryway where she is presently sitting, as proper as in a pew. It’s Brenna, the county judge’s assistant. She’s staring right at me with a giant smile across her rosy cheeks. We have met before. Here at the courthouse, in fact. I felt something then. I feel it now.
By what I’m able to gather, this meeting has something to do with sex trafficking in the county. Seeping in from the city, just due east, this is a growing enterprise that has finally caught the attention of public servants.
As pretentious as this collection might be, as they banter around the table, all talk is loaded with good intentions. The only problem is that these good intentions mean suspending civil liberties. The worst is the local congresswoman. She even suggests spying on one’s neighbors. Yes, the helicopter mentality spins in mysterious ways. If a child scrapes their knee on the sidewalk, then the abrasiveness of concrete must be regulated, or at least investigated. If those diabolical shoe-laces were complicit in the fall, then…something must be done about that as well! Followed to its logical conclusion, said child will never be allowed to leave the playpen, that too bereft of playthings—too dangerous.
When this meeting mercifully ends, I’m left with the impression that given another fifteen minutes someone was going to suggest a law banning men—any man—from coming into contact with children under thirty. To his credit, my boss has said very little.
Brenna has vanished.
The Rep. and I make conversation as we filter out into the blazing heat.
“So how do you like living in an apartment?” he asks, shielding himself from the offensive elements with this hand.
“It’s taking time…getting adjusted. At first it was so claustrophobic, having lived in the country for so long.”
“Are you gonna sell the place?” he asks, tugging on his clothes a
s if he’s on fire. The boss is huge, not fat but tall and big boned. If he weren’t so uncoordinated he might have played basketball.
“I don’t know. The taxes will go up without the homestead. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it.”
“Well, Wagoneer County will miss you if you pull up stake for good.”
This is so obviously a false claim that it is difficult for me to pretend otherwise. “Yeah, maybe.” I shrug, squinting my eyes. I’ve left my sunglasses in the car.
“How long has it been?” This question is even more awkward, exacerbated by his twitching under the sun.
“You mean since Ann…?”
“Yes.”
“Coming up on a year.”
Before parting, we are interrupted by the congress-woman from the meeting. She still fails to acknowledge me, although I have met her probably seven-hundred times. It doesn’t matter, I’m ready to go. Though this is a Thursday, tomorrow is the Fourth. Besides, she’s had so much plastic surgery at this point she looks like a freak and I don’t feel like faking it.
I can’t help but dwell on the meeting I’ve just left as I head east into the big town. No matter what its good intentions, government is a bully. The collateral damage nearly always disproportionate to its benefits. But something happens to people after they get elected to office. In reality, there are no good guys. Maybe at some point in the past there were, but not anymore.
The closest thing to a good guy is me.
And what is it that I do?
I’m Mason Dixon—really. I’m the District Manager for House District 100. Nobody knows what I do, and that’s the beauty of it. Nobody sees me coming. And what do I do? If you’ve got a problem with a government agency and can’t get anywhere …if you’re tied up in red tape…maybe I can help. It doesn’t matter if you are having trouble renewing your driver’s license or a family wants to see a loved one, one last time before they die in prison. I will go to bat for you. It isn’t political—far from it. Some English author once said, “Heroism begins where politics ends.” That’s me. Nobody knows what I do. I can help anyone, anyone but me that is.
Back at the apartment, I shed my slacks for shorts, my golf shirt for a wife beater, and my cowboy boots for flip-flops. The A/C is inadequate everywhere I go at this point. This apartment being an all bills paid complex, it means they skimp. The place is pretty barren, as most of my furniture is still at the cabin in the country.
I open the refrigerator and savor the cool, crisp air. I rub a chilled bottle of beer over my sweaty forehead. But I don’t dare open it.
The cat makes her appearance. She hops up on the counter and looks at me in her enigmatic peculiar fashion. It’s like she’s studying me. Clarissa is her name. She was my wife’s cat. We never really took to each other, but lately the two of us seem to be growing on one another. I open a can of pungent Fancy Feast and she gobbles it up. I now think we might have a special relationship. Growing up, I never had cats, only dogs. After my wife was gone, my boss said I should get rid of her. I just couldn’t. So when I split the country, I brought her with me to the apartment. I think we’re helping each other adjust.
I’m ready to chill. Even though I don’t have anyone to spend it with, I’m on the cusp of a three-day weekend. I pour some Jack over a few ice cubes. I light up a smoke after I plop down on one of the only pieces of furniture I brought from the country. Clarissa is perched on the leather arm, her nostrils flaring and contracting in disapproval.
I’m flipping channels when I realize I left my wallet up at the District Office, which is some thirty minutes away. What if I need more Jack? I wonder. I start to worry when I realize I’m only four fingers full. I’ve got to go retrieve it.
The traffic outbound is awful. I sit behind a propane truck, my mind wandering. I start thinking about Brenna. An interesting observation I’ve made: since Ann departed, women seem to be everywhere—checking me out. I’m anything but the lone, hungry wolf. It’s an odd paradox, because since Ann left, public officials, other than my boss, want nothing to do with me.
When I finally pull up to the District Office it’s getting dark out. This sucks. Why? The D.O. is haunted. No bullshit, it’s creepy. Our office is housed in the center of Fort Bryan, in the historical district. The building we rent is as old as anything for fifty miles. It’s situated in a complex of buildings, constructed around the turn of the last century. The D.O. is in an old bank, in fact. The walls are several feet thick. They had to be, so as to withstand a dynamite attack. The place looks like a citadel. All the buildings on our block are connected in typical early twentieth-century fashion. What’s interesting is that they are connected by a labyrinth of internal passageways as well. I’ve only ventured their stairwells on one occasion— too creepy. Anyway, according to local lore, the building that the D.O. sits in was once held up, with several people getting killed. It’s said that it’s haunted by these victims. I fucking believe it. We share the place with an oil and gas company, but this late nobody’s here.
I nervously hunt for the right key under a friendless light. Even in this quasi-urban environment I hear the crickets and frogs crescendo and die in perfect rhythms. When I get inside there are no lights on. It is dead silent. I’m too stupid to have remembered a flashlight. I run my hand along the wall, searching for an otherwise familiar switch. The sudden illumination is initially as terrifying as the preceding darkness. The hallway to our D.O. is only sparsely lit, and guarded by French doors. There is no hall light. Before I’m engulfed, I’m smart enough to locate the correct key to our office. Blackness that could rival oblivion awaits me. Expecting to find a maggot ridden visage ready to tear my face off, I hit the office light immediately.
Not this time. I begin rummaging through my desk, looking for the mislaid wallet. It is nowhere. Fortunately, I have a pistol stashed in the one of the drawers of one of the filing cabinets. Not for the ghosts, mind you…but for me. If that fails, I can always slit my wrists with one of a multitude of knives that decorate the conference room across the hall. That’s right: knives as decorations (remember, this is politics).
I feel my boot hit something beneath the desk. Luckily, it’s my wallet and not a severed hand. I exhale my anxiety. The relaxed air has barely passed my thirsty lips when I detect a flashing light on the phone. Someone has called.
I’m officially on holiday at this point, but I scored and kept this gig because I work hard. How hard is it to pick up the receiver and dial the voicemail? Packing a cig on the desktop, I listen. The voice sounds Yankee:
“Yes, Mr. Dixon, this is Julius Reynolds. I’m calling about an issue concerning a pit bull farm not more than a few hundred yards behind my home. I live just outside of Bowers, in Wagoneer County. The farm is actually an old rodeo arena. The arena is open air so you can hear them barking. I have some pictures I’ve taken that I have mailed to you at the address I found on the Texas House website. I hope this is the right address. Will you please call me regarding this issue? We have several families with small children in the area. I have contacted the county and they say there is nothing they can do, as no laws are being broken. Again my name is…”
The cigarette I’m handling between my thumb and index finger beckons for a light. The liquor store is in need of my patronage. Why do I feel compelled to call this man right now?
“Yes, this is Mason Dixon, District Manager for House District 100, I just listened to your message about the pit bulls…How can I help you, Mr. Reynolds…?”
“Yes sir, I am so glad that you returned my call. I really don’t know where else to turn. I’ve contacted just about every county official there is and no one seems to think this is of interest.”
“Have you contacted any animal cruelty organizations?”
“Yes, yes I have, but they said that no laws are being violated as the dogs are on leashes and have access to food.”
“I see. What would you like us to do?” I continue to pack the cigarette on the desktop. It’s no
w that the absolute darkness of the hallway starts to work its black magic.
“Well, Mr. Dixon, I’m not sure. Have you received the packet of information I sent to your office?” I peer over at the inbox and see it sits unopened.
“Not yet, but I haven’t checked the P.O. Box in a few days,” (an obvious lie). “The post office is closed by now, but I’ll check in the morning.”
“They won’t be open tomorrow, sir. It’s the nation’s birthday.”
“Right, I’ll run by on Saturday, I mean.”
“Well, frankly, I’d like to show this place to you if you don’t mind. I think after you actually see it, you will be shocked. It really is a perversion, Mr. Dixon. Not to mention a threat to the public. We have families with small children in the area.”
“Yes, I heard your message.” I’m now paying more attention to the hallway than to the conversation at this point. “If you like, I’ll review the materials and give you a call this weekend.”
“Yes, yes, yes, that would be wonderful. I really appreciate your attention to this matter, Mr. Dixon.”
“It’s both my job and my pleasure, Mr. Reynolds.”
I hang up the phone and stuff the well-packed smoke between my lips. The whole path down the dark hallway has me feeling like there’s something, or someone, right behind me. As I unlock the rear door, a breath of cold air suddenly slaps the back of my neck! I jump. I shriek—shamefully… …it’s the air conditioner kicking on.
