by Matt Minor
“The guards.”
“The fucking guards?”
“Yeah, that’s right. They sold it to us. It was one of the only things they were useful for.”
“Is this how you used the money I sent you… for drugs?” I ask rhetorically, then comment, “I don’t know, Keith, I was there yesterday and they looked like they wanted us for lunch.”
“Not all the guards sold, only a few. One or two.”
Before I bolt out the door I tell him, “I’ll think about it.”
I have to meet my boss at his place of business in Wagoneer County. The Rep is a financial advisor by profession and his office is across from the county courthouse. When I get there, a strange car is parked where I usually park. I grab my briefcase and hurry inside. I’m late.
“He’s got somebody in his office. I have no idea who he is,” The secretary informs me as I dart past her.
“Ah, Mason, come on in,” he says, standing up from his desk.
“Have you ever met Jack Clark? Jack is a political consultant fresh back from Europe.”
Clark stands up to greet me. He is frighteningly thin and nearly bald. He’s wearing an American flag tie.
“I don’t believe I have. How do you do, Mr. Clark?”
“Call me Jack, Mason. You don’t mind if I call you Mason do you?”
“That’s the handle they gave me, Jack.”
I take a seat next to Jack. We both sit facing the Rep., who sits behind his sprawling, messy desk.
“Jack here was just telling me about England and Amsterdam and…where else did you work?”
“Bulgaria. I worked on the presidential election in Bulgaria. That’s one of the Balkan states.” He turns and addresses me.
“Yes, I know my geography,” I answer.
“Fascinating stuff!” My boss declares. “By the way, Jack and I have been discussing a possible run for Congress.”
“Congress?” I ask. The remark startles me.
“Yes, Congress,” Clark interjects. “The incumbent is very weak. Terrible really. I think your boss has a good shot. Besides, this redrawn House District 100 could revert back to what it was previously if the state loses its lawsuit with the DOJ.”
“That’s right, all these redistricting legal fights with the federal government make campaigning almost impossible because you don’t know where you’re at. That said…Congress is all about raising the money!” the boss interjects.
“We’ll work on that, sir,” Clark concludes. Standing, he shakes our hands, and then excuses himself, leaving the boss and me alone.
“You know, Jack was partners with the late Warren Jenkins.”
“You mean the consultant who was murdered by the cartel a couple of years ago?”
“The very one, although the cartel part was never proved.”
“If I remember correctly, that was pretty gruesome, wasn’t it?”
“Oh yeah, they dressed the sad bastard up in some strange clothing and cut off his balls. Tried to make it look like some deviant sex thing—I don’t really understand. People of your generation know about that kind of shit better than mine.”
“Yeah, that’s right…some kind of S&M thing, but it was a diversion.”
“What the hell does S&M mean?”
“Sadomasochism.”
“See what I mean…?”
“Yeah, I see. The world is pretty sick.”
“It’s always been sick, Mason…it’s just gotten sicker… and perverse.” He adds, “Jack might have suffered a similar fate if he hadn’t been hired across the pond. I think it was good for him all the way around. He used to be kind of chubby.”
I’m tiring of this tragedy turned self-help story and want to discuss what was just actually brought up by Jack Clark.
“So what’s the deal with this congressional run?”
“Oh, probably nothing. Just something I’m entertaining; probably a pipe dream.”
“Not if you can get the cash. I agree with Clark, our guy in the Federal House sucks. He’s a fucking patsy for the establishment. And I think you would have difficulty in the old HD 100, that is if it reverts back to the old lines.”
“It’s a two million dollar race, at least.”
“Holy shit!”
“Right.”
“What a joke. Don’t talk to me about representative government and democracy. It’s representation of the wealthy by the wealthy.”
“Pretty much, Mason.” There is a pause. It’s time to get down to business. “So what’s been going on?”
“Well, not a lot. However, I was alerted to an interesting situation in Bowers this past week.”
“Bowers. What’s going on down in Bowers?” he asks, sitting up.
“Well, sir, it appears there’s an illegal dog fighting operation going on.”
“Dog fighting, what kinds of dog fighting are we talking about?”
“If you are referring to what types of dogs are being fought, then it’s pit bulls.”
“Pit bulls, aren’t they super-vicious, with jaws like goddamned bear traps?”
“They definitely have bad ass jaws, but I think they are bred to be vicious because of that very fact. I don’t think they are necessarily vicious by nature.”
“Well this is terrible, Mason! How in the hell did you find out about this?”
“A constituent: a man by the name of Julius Reynolds. A coon ass from the swamp lands.”
“Coon ass? Reynolds doesn’t sound like Louisiana to me.”
“Yeah, I know. By the sound of his voice I thought he was a Yankee, but he’s from New Orleans.”
“That’s an easy mistake to make, Mason. They sound similar. So tell me about this Julius Reynolds fella.”
“Well…”
I proceed to tell my boss all the details, including the part about Bowers Power, Inc.
“That’s interesting, Mason, very interesting indeed. I suggest you proceed with caution. But definitely proceed.”
“As I’ve told you, sir, I don’t know how to proceed, as all other governmental avenues have been exhausted. I guess we are Mr. Reynold’s last resort.”
“Have you tried the attorney general’s office?”
“No. Do you think I should?”
“Not yet, Mason. Before we do that we should try to figure out all we can ourselves…with the help of Mr. Reynold’s of course. Such as, who licenses dog kennels? That might be a good place to start.”
“Well, it would have to be the TDLR.”
“I’m not as good with these damn acronyms as you, Mason; who is that again?”
“The Texas Department of Licensing and Regulation.”
“Good thinking, Mason. See what they have to say. And remember…be discrete.”
Something’s been eating at me since I left the apartment; that something is Keith. I change the subject—again.
“We wouldn’t need so many of these acronyms if we legalized drugs.”
“The TD—whatever the hell they are—they don’t regulate drugs, do they?”
“No sir, if it’s legal then it’s the FDA, with edicts occasionally from the DEA. What I’m talking about is illegal drugs.”
“Christ NO! Jesus, Mason, we can’t do that. Are you out of your mind?”
“Not in the least bit, sir. Think about it…think about all the agencies that exist in law enforcement specifically because drugs are illegal.”
“Well, I know the DEA is a huge cost to the federal government.”
“And a fucking failure!”
“I love your passion, Mason. It’s one of the things that makes you so good at what you do, but no. It won’t work, think about the unintended consequences.”
“Like the destruction of our civil liberties? That’s one of the unintended—maybe unintended—consequences of the drug war. We have no fourth amendment rights. Well, maybe you do because you’re an elected official, but the rest of us most certainly don’t.”
“You are so insolent. Goddamn it…Mason!” The Rep is get
ting flustered. “First of all, yes, you are right…mostly. I say mostly because police do treat public officials with a disproportionate degree of regard. But that said, if you legalize drugs, what will you get? More drug use!”
“I can show you stats that negate that claim, sir. And, if nothing else, you shut down a substantial revenue stream to the cartels.”
“They’d just move into other areas, Mason. You’re being naïve, a crook is a crook.” I can tell he’s bored with our disagreement so he changes the subject, “Listen, the county judge over in Fort Bryan is having a big fundraiser this Saturday. The wife can’t go, I need you to go with me.”
This is the last thing I want to do. But, I know I have to. “Okay, where is it? I didn’t see it on the calendar, did I?”
“No, it was sent here to the office and I forgot to send the invite to the district office. It’s at the Zoo Ranchero. Can you be there?”
“What time?” At this point I’m desperately referencing the contact list in my brain, looking for an excuse. Then I realize a certain possibility.
“It’s at seven. Well?” he asks more assertively.
“Well…yes!”
“Great. I’ll see you at seven on Saturday night.”
The boss has a client meeting waiting so I rise to go. Following me out into the lobby he introduces me to his CPA and waiting client.
“…and Mr. Slone here is in shipping, runs a sizable enterprise down at the Ship Channel.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir.”
I can’t stop thinking about Keith the whole way back to the D.O. I have always had an instinctual outrage regarding brazen injustice. God knows I’ve seen my share of it doing this job. A rage is building underneath me and I’m finding myself increasingly at its mercy. I went into government because I believed the system could ultimately work for the vast majority. The further I get into this, the more it seems that a minority has secured things to work exclusively in their best interest at the expense of that majority.
Fuck it. I decide I’m going to get Keith some weed. The only problem is, I’ve never bought drugs, ever. I have no idea where to start. The only place I can think to start is to ask Keith. I dial him on my cell from the road. While it rings, I stare out at the squatty coastal brush that stretches off the road, broken only by sun-parched cotton fields and cattle pastures.
“Mason, what’s up?” Keith answers.
“I have a question.”
“Sure, but before you ask your question, I have to tell you… I think Ann’s cat has fleas…”
CHAPTER FOUR
ZOO RANCHERO
The four gaudy columns of Zoo Ranchero become visible through the thinning haze of a tired day. This place is sort of the Tammany Hall of local politics here in District 100. But it’s more than just a symbol of the infamous political machine…it’s an actual zoo. The grounds are sectioned off by a maze of trails that intersect pens and enclosures.
I can’t afford to valet park, so I find a shadowy nook towards the back of the parking lot. From the driver’s seat, I sit nursing a stiff Jack and Coke and watch sycophants and wannabes grow smaller in my rearview mirror as they head towards the brightly lit entryway. I savor the burn of forty-proof dregs and then toss the empty plastic cup in the backseat. It’s time to rock-n-roll.
I generally loathe these things, but this one is different, there is someone I wish to see. It is my understanding that The Judge’s coffers were cleaned out in a contentious primary, so this is kind of a big deal. Before I stroll in, I check my tie in the reflection of a Mercedes window.
I’m not very good at strolling, so the minute I am swallowed into the giant colonial barn I feel my heart start to race. This place is packed.
When I don’t see a nametag for me at check-in, I start looking for my boss…and the bar. I locate the bar first.
“Jack straight up, please.”
“There you go, my man,” the bow-tied, Latino bartender says as he hands me the glass. We don’t know each other’s names, but we’ve been in this exact situation so many times that we recognize one another. There is an understanding between us; it’s the kind of understanding that exists between underlings. It is an understanding that transcends race. “That’ll be four tickets.”
“Four tickets! That’s all I was granted at the badge table. This drink better be strong!”
“Here,” he says with a smile as he spikes it with another shot, then hands it to me.
The drink’s not bad, and again I savor the burn. I drift to the rear of the lobby and peer into the immense dining area. I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder.
“Hello, Mason.” It’s a voice as cozy as a comforter, wrapped around one nestled next to a warm fire on a cold night.
I turn to find Brenna. She is beautiful; dressed in her white cocktail dress, her hair up in a bun. Though I have seen her several times decked out in business casual, I’ve never witnessed her dressed up.
“Hi…” I’m kind of speechless, “…what’s up…? You look great.”
“Thanks, likewise. You look good in a tux. And, it’s good to see you again, thanks for coming out. Where’s your boss?”
“That’s a good question.”
“Well, The Judge will be grateful if he shows.”
“Oh, he’ll be here. That’s for sure.” I know I sound lame.
“Well, enjoy yourself, Mason.” With that, she vanishes like some other worldly creature.
I don’t know if it’s the Jack or Brenna, but I’m burning up under my tux. I head to the restroom to splash some water on my face. I’m staring at my tired eyes in the mirror when my boss emerges from one of the stalls.
“Ah, Mason,” he says as he washes his hands. “Thanks for showing up at this thing tonight. We want to keep the Fort Bryan County Judge in our corner, just in case I make a run for Congress. I suggest you give him a hundred dollar donation—I’ll pay you back, of course.”
“Sure, but I think I left my checkbook in my car.”
“We’ll go get it.”
I’m about to exit the restroom when he stops me.
“By the way, Brandy decided to come after all. I’ll have the waiter get another chair to our table so you can sit next to us.”
Brandy is my boss’ wife. I think she’s twenty-five, some thirty-five years younger than him. She’s a gym-tart who wears way too much makeup, but takes really good care of herself and is really hot. I wouldn’t have said this ten years ago, because I’ve always preferred more natural women with a little more meat on their bones. (Strangely, Ann was the one exception with regards to the latter. She had a lovely face but was a rail. It was her mind that was enormous). But as I get older my tastes become broader. Brandy is really aloof, that is until she gets drunk.
After dropping a check into the donation jar, I grab another drink and locate the boss and Brandy. She’s sitting alone, fanning herself with The Judge’s push card. Her husband is chatting with some folks who are seated a few tables away.
“I just hate these things, Mason,” Brandy states in her heavy Southern accent, which gets heavier as she gets drunker (she’s about halfway there).
“I thought you weren’t coming. You really didn’t have to, you know.”
“Crane, just made such a big deal out of me not coming that I gave in.” (FYI, Crane is my boss. Representative Haliburton Crane. Everyone, including his wife, calls him ‘Crane’.)
“Well, I’m glad you’re here, Brandy.”
“You mean that?” She sounds like Scarlett O’Hara at this point.
“Of course.”
“So tell me,” she asks, her tone more serious. “What’s going on with all that ‘Ann’ business?”
“The decision is still out.”
“It’s been what, now…?”
“A year ago.”
“Have you thought about getting another attorney?”
“Yes and no. I don’t know what to do.”
“I understand, sweetie,” she says with a c
arnivorous grin.
It’s starting. She puts her hand on my knee under the table. She just leaves it there! Holy fuck!
“Well, this might be easier than I thought!” Crane abruptly interrupts.
“What on earth are you talking about?” Brandy asks. Her hand is gradually moving towards my crotch.
“A congressional run, Brandy—what we talked about earlier.”
“Oh, Lord. Can we just try and have some fun and not talk about another damn political race?”
“You don’t have to participate in the discussion if you don’t wish, honey! You can sit quietly while Mason and I go over it!”
“Like the hell I will!” With that, in a lightning quick move, she grabs my cock and balls through my thin slacks, squeezing them tightly. Her fingernails bite into my scrotum. I’m in mid-swig on the Jack and Coke, and her violent grope causes me to spit booze all over the table cloth. Alcohol is running out of my nose! This is not the kind of burn I enjoy.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” The boss asks, sitting down. Without another word, Brandy sharply rises and exits the table. I presume she’s heading towards the bar.
The boss is talking about something, but I can’t concentrate because my nuts are screaming in pain. I’m trying to hold my shit together but really all I want to do is pour this glass of ice water that’s sitting on the table in front of me into my lap. I feel sweat pouring down my face. I kill my drink in one ferocious gulp and excuse myself.
“Mason, where are you going?” my boss asks as I’m walking away.
“Be back in a minute. I have to use the restroom,” I answer over my shoulder. I make a hasty retreat.
I take a seat in one of the stalls and begin to examine my manhood. The left one is throbbing like mad and I’m worried… really worried. I can see the beginnings of bruises both on my shaft and my sack. For a moment I gaze into nothingness. I hoist up my ass and zip up. Politics is war and this is merely a casualty of being in a constant state of war. I know that the only thing that can help me right now is another Jack and Coke—only this time I forgo the Coke.
I know that I am not to exit this place with a beverage, but I need a smoke. It’s not too terribly difficult to get away with mischief when you are decked out is a suit, let alone a tux. To get out of harm’s way, I detour out of the lights and down one of the pathways that leads to the zoo.
