People Like Us

by J. D. Rhoades

  Rachel sat on the bed. “I don’t know. Something just seems…off. For one thing, this Aunt Sally.” She shook her head. “For some reason, this seems really personal to her. It makes me nervous.”

  Sam sat next to her on the bed. “She doesn’t like bigots, that’s for sure. And it looks like this guy fits the bill. Did you see the story about why he was in hot water?” When Rachel shook her head, Sam went on. “He apparently just published a book about how slaves before the Civil War were happy being where they were. And how slave owners always took good care of them.”

  “Well, of course that’s stupid. But we’re in this for the money, right? Not to make some sort of point about racism.”

  Sam shrugged. “Nothing says we can’t do both.” He put his arm around her. “We do kind of need a score right now, babe.”

  She sighed. “I know. And this is important to you, isn’t it? You feel like you owe her.”

  “I do. But I owe you more. If you say no, we don’t do it. We’re a team.”

  She turned to him and kissed him. After a long, sweet moment, he broke the kiss and looked into her eyes.

  “Strictly business?” she said.

  “Strictly business,” he promised.

  “Okay, then. Let’s get the rest of the tale.”

  Aunt Sally was in the front parlor, seated in an easy chair. She looked up from the knitting in her lap, her eyes expectant. “Well, dears? What did you decide?”

  “We’re in,” Sam said.

  The old lady beamed. “Excellent! Rachel, have a seat on the couch over there. Let me tell you what I have in mind.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Suddath pushed his way through the cheering crowd, flanked on both sides by a pair of glowering bodyguards who loomed over him. The applause washed over him like sunlight after a long winter. A man could get used to this, he thought.

  Hoffman was waiting for him at the exit to the small auditorium, a look of satisfaction on his broad face. It wasn’t exactly a smile, but it was the happiest expression Suddath had ever seen him wear. “Better than talking to a lot of hungover undergraduates?” he asked.

  “Much.” Suddath looked toward the lobby. “But why are we going out the front door?”

  “Because that’s where the demonstrations are. This is where the show really starts.” Hoffman turned and began pushing through the clump of new fans closing in. He was only slightly smaller than the bodyguards he’d provided to a bemused Suddath, and he formed the apex of a flying wedge that guided him through the lobby and out the double doors of the hall.

  If inside had been crowded and noisy, the outside was total bedlam. When Suddath had arrived a few hours ago, there had been a few protesters assembled. They’d been a mixed group, blacks, whites and a few Asians, dressed in jeans and T-shirts and carrying signs: BLACK LIVES MATTER; RACISTS OUT; NO NEW CONFEDERACY. Now, as he stood on the steps above them, he could see that their numbers had swelled to what looked like a hundred or so. They’d drawn a similar number of counter-protesters, just as young, but all white, wearing khakis and polo shirts and sporting shorter hair. This group was waving signs that said things like DIVERSITY=WHITE GENOCIDE and PRESERVE SOUTHERN HERITAGE. Confederate battle flags were everywhere. The two groups were shouting unintelligibly at each other from behind makeshift wooden barriers, the original protesters to Suddath’s right, the counter-protesters to the left under a line of trees. A thin line of unhappy-looking police officers in riot gear were keeping them apart, holding black Lexan shields in front of them.

  “This doesn’t look good,” Suddath shouted to Hoffman over the din.

  Hoffman looked back at him, and this time he did smile. A cold, frightening smile, but unmistakably a smile. “This, Doctor, looks exactly as we planned it.”

  When the crowd spilling out of the auditorium spotted the protesters to the right, they set up a howl of outrage. They charged down the steps, shouting curses and demands to “fuck off!” and “go back to Africa!” The line of police looked nonplussed about how to deal with the new geometry of the situation. At a barked order from whoever was in charge, they tried to reform their line. It was the logical thing to do, but it pulled them back from confronting the two lines they’d been facing down. Both surged forward, and in moments, Suddath and Hoffman were looking down on full-scale battle. Fists started flying, signs were swung against heads, and anyone who went down was immediately set on with a flurry of kicks. The police hesitated, then waded into the fray, swinging batons and battering combatants apart with their shields. They managed to drive some stumbling from the battlefield, but mostly they just added to the chaos. The original protesters fell back under the sheer weight of numbers, and the fray moved past where Suddath and Hoffman stood on the steps, Suddath aghast, Hoffman nodding with satisfaction before looking around as if searching for something in particular. In a few seconds, he found it. The bright lights of a television news camera were trailing the riot like a seagull on a fishing boat, taking it all in as a young and pretty reporter trotted alongside, giving orders to the cameraman.

  Hoffman grimaced. “Asian,” he muttered. “Still, they have their uses.”

  He started down the steps, the bodyguards falling into cadence with him. Suddath had no choice but to go along. The reporter caught sight of them as they reached the bottom of the stairs and gestured to the cameraman. They changed direction and the two groups approached each other, stepping around the people who were beginning to stream away from the battle raging down the street. Some of the former combatants were crying and bleeding, held up by shell-shocked-looking friends. Some were red-faced, with tears and snot running down their faces from the tear gas Suddath could now smell faintly on the light summer breeze. As they got closer, Suddath saw that the reporter was indeed Asian, someone he’d seen on the local news before. He was still trying to place her name when she stuck out her right hand. “Doctor Suddath,” she said. “I’m Adele Chou, WRNC news.”

  He took the hand, briefly. As he released it, she deftly shifted her microphone into it, the camera light flared, and he realized he was on camera. “Doctor Suddath, did you expect that there would be such a vigorous pushback against your speaking to a campus group at a state university?”

  Hoffman looked as if he was ready to push his way into the conversation, but Suddath resisted the not-so-subtle attempt to hip-check him out of the eye of the camera. “This is just the latest example,” he said, “of how the American left tries to stifle free speech and honest debate. First by trying to shout me down, then with violence.”

  Chou never lost her smile, but her next words carried an edge. “But, Doctor, it seems as if the actual violence was started by your supporters coming out of the hall.”

  “I’m sure that’s how you people in the liberal media are going to spin it,” he snapped. “Fortunately, thanks to sites like my new one, SouthernTruth.com, there’s a way for real facts to come out. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” As if on cue, the bodyguard shoved Chou and the cameraman out of the way and headed to where a large black passenger van had pulled up to the curb.

  “Very good,” Hoffman said as they got in. “You’re a natural at this.”

  “Thanks.” Suddath took his cell phone from his inside suit coat pocket and checked the number. He had message from a number he didn’t recognize. He activated the voicemail. “Doctor Suddath,” a female voice said. It was a voice to make a man sit up and take notice, a smoky contralto that invited memories of Lauren Bacall. “My name is Angela Morrison. I understand my grandmother has been in touch with you about a family heirloom.” She paused, then went on with a slight catch in her voice. “I’m sorry that she led you to believe the item was for sale. We may have had some…trouble in our lives lately, but that particular item is not something the family intends to part with. Thanks for your interest.”

  Suddath shut off the phone and tapped it against his thigh, looking out the window thoughtfully.

  “Problem?” H
offman asked.

  Suddath turned back to him and smiled. “Opportunity.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Sam was sitting in the kitchen, studying a book on Civil War artifacts, when the phone rang. He hadn’t seen a phone mounted to the wall in years, but Aunt Sally said she didn’t like or trust cell phones. “They can track you with those things,” she’d warned. “You need to remember that.”

  Yeah, you can tap a landline even easier, Sam thought, but he didn’t say it.

  Aunt Sally walked in and took the receiver from its cradle. “Hello?” Her normally sweet drawl was now cracked and frail sounding. When she heard who was on the other line, she gave Sam the thumbs up sign. “Oh? She did? I swear, that girl…no, no, I’m still very interested in selling it, but…” She sighed. “I guess I have to convince Angela. And she’s hard-headed…yes, I know…maybe you could talk to her. I’m sure once you told her how much money…Mm-hm…maybe we could talk it over at dinner…Oh, that sounds lovely. We’ll see you there. Thank you.” She hung up the phone and beamed at Sam. “Like shootin’ fish in a rain barrel.” She gestured at the book. “You gettin’ a good education?”

  He closed it. “There’s a lot to take in.”

  “I ain’t worried.” When she was relaxed, Aunt Sally lost her genteel demeanor. She reached into the handbag on the kitchen counter and pulled out a pack of Marlboros. “You always were a quick study.”

  “I guess. How long do you think it’ll take to set the hook?”

  Aunt Sally sat down and opened the pack. “Not long. We’ve already got him convinced that this is somethin’ he might not get. Fella like that, this just makes him want it more. And when he sees that gal of yours, somethin’ else pretty, just barely out of his reach…hell, that old racist fucker’ll be like a greyhound at the track seein’ that fake rabbit runnin’ out ahead. He’ll run hisself to death tryin’ to get it.”

  Sam kept his voice neutral. “The sword or Rachel?”

  She lit the cigarette, looking at him shrewdly. “Both.”

  “But the sword is all he’ll get, right?”

  She didn’t answer right away. She pulled an ashtray across the table to her, took a long drag and kept looking at him. “Would it make a difference? If she had to fuck him to close the deal, I mean.”

  He picked up the book and opened it without answering. She reached out and gently took it from his hand. “Would it?”

  “You didn’t say that would be part of the plan.”

  “No,” she said, “I didn’t. But you know how it goes, Sammy. Things change. Sometimes you have to improvise.” She leaned forward. “So answer my damn question. If she had to fuck that…”

  “Yeah,” Sam broke in. “It would bother me. A lot.”

  She leaned back, flicked a bit of gray ash into the tray. “Well, I’ll be damned. I’d heard you’d gone soft, but I never believed it.”

  “I haven’t gone soft!” He felt the heat rising in his face.

  “Bullshit.” Her face had hardened. “Goddamnit, boy, how many grifters have we seen taken down when they got involved with some bitch who sold them out for some other swinging dick? Or just to save their own asses? Didn’t I teach you anything?”

  “It’s not like that with Rachel.”

  “Oh really?” She raised her voice and added the sweet-old-lady tone back in. “Rachel, sweetie, would you be a love and come in the kitchen for a minute?”

  Rachel appeared in the kitchen doorway. She caught the expression on Sam’s face. “What’s going on?”

  Aunt Sally was smiling that daft-granny smile. “We were just talking about things that might happen, and what we might need to do if they did.” She was speaking to Rachel, but her eyes never left Sam’s. “We were wondering. If you had to sleep with the mark, would you do it?”

  Rachel’s face went blank. She looked from Aunt Sally to Sam and back again. It was obvious that there was some kind of test going on, but she clearly didn’t know who was putting it on or why. “That…would depend on the circumstances.”

  “Really?” Aunt Sally took another puff, still looking at Sam. “What circumstances would those be, hon?”

  “What’s this about?” Rachel demanded.

  Sam’s jaw was tight, his eyes narrowed in anger.

  “You can answer the question,” Sam said, his voice low.

  “Thanks, babe, but I don’t need your permission.” She looked at Aunt Sally with steel in her gaze. “I’d do it to save Sam’s life.”

  “That all?” Aunt Sally said.

  Rachel smiled thinly. “That’s about it.”

  Aunt Sally stubbed the cigarette out. “What about my life?”

  Rachel’s smile grew wider and less sincere. “Sorry, no. Don’t take it personally.”

  “Land sakes, girl. Why would I do that?”

  “It’s not that I don’t like you.” Rachel went on, “I just don’t totally trust you. You want to know why?”

  “Do tell.”

  “Because,” Rachel said, her voice still calm, “you never drop that stupid accent when you’re talking to me. Which is a weird thing to do when you’re dealing with someone who’s supposed to be your partner.”

  The two of them stared at one another for a moment. Finally, Sam spoke up. “For the record, I’d fuck another woman to save your life, Rachel.”

  Rachel looked at him in amazement, then she started to laugh. Aunt Sally joined in, and that broke the tension. Aunt Sally got up, crossed the room, and held her arms out to Rachel, who stiffened for a second, then accepted it, her own arms going awkwardly around the older woman’s thick body. Aunt Sally broke the hug and stepped back. “Point taken,” he voice was her normal country twang. “And thanks for being honest.” She looked at Sam. “You too. And maybe you ain’t as big an idiot as I thought.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Seriously. Now we all know where we stand. That’s important.” Aunt Sally turned to Rachel. “Now come on, we’re goin’ shoppin’.”

  “We are?”

  Aunt Sally nodded. “Yep. We’re goin’ out to dinner tomorrow. The Capital Club. High class. We need to dress you up. Somethin’ demure that’ll still have that boy’s tongue hangin’ out of his mouth.” She turned to Sam. “Don’t worry, Sammy. Remember, those ol’ greyhounds never do catch that rabbit.”

  “What?” Rachel said.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Suddath had picked the restaurant to dazzle the old lady and her granddaughter, and it seemed to be working. “My goodness,” Mrs. Morrison said, “this is so fancy.” She looked at her granddaughter, Angela. “Isn’t it nice, dear?”

  “Yes,” the younger woman murmured, “it’s very nice.”

  Truth be told, it was Suddath who was being dazzled. Angela Morrison was a stunning woman, with an air of glamour that was slightly old-fashioned, like a 1950’s movie star. She wore just a hint of perfume, subtle, but it made a man want to lean in closer. He realized he was staring and tore his gaze away as the maître d’ approached. “The table will be ready shortly. In the meantime, would you care for a drink at the bar?”

  Mrs. Morrison looked startled. “Sit…in a bar?” She leaned over slightly to look past Suddath at the wood-paneled bar. Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of the antique lamps and exposed brick walls. “Oh, my. That does look cozy.” She leaned back and looked at Suddath over her spectacles. “Now,” she said in a teasing voice, “you aren’t trying to get me drunk, are you?”

  Angela sighed. “Oh, for God’s sake, Grandma.”

  Mrs. Morrison put her hand on Suddath’s arm and leaned in as if not to be heard by her granddaughter. “Maybe we need to get a drink or two in this one to loosen her up.” She giggled like a schoolgirl, pushed past them both and strode toward the bar, her wooden cane thumping on the hardwood floor. “Come on, sweetie,” she said over her shoulder. “Let’s live a little.”

  Angela’s face was set and expressionless as she fol
lowed the old lady into the bar. This one’s a real ice princess, Suddath thought. That just made him look forward even more to the challenge of thawing her out.

  The diminutive Mrs. Morrison struggled a bit to get herself onto one of the tall barstools. Angela slid smoothly onto hers, not looking at Suddath before addressing the bartender. “Vodka martini.”

  “Just a glass of white wine for me,” Mrs. Morrison said. “A small one.”

  “Blanton’s, neat.” Suddath wanted to swing around Mrs. Morrison and take up the seat next to Angela, but he reminded himself that he was here on a mission. The old lady continued to chatter mindlessly, and he nodded and made sounds of assent at the right moments, sneaking glances from time to time at the granddaughter, who continued to stare at the mirror behind the bar. The drinks arrived just as the maître d’ appeared to announce their table was ready. There was a bit of awkwardness until Suddath scooped up Mrs. Morrison’s wine glass and carried it with his own drink to the table.

  The main dining room was softly lit by candles, the conversations from the packed house a low murmur. As they sat down, Mrs. Morrison quickly stood back up. “If y’all will excuse me,” she said in the always slightly too loud voice of the hard of hearing, “I have to go to the little girl’s room.”

  She looked at the still unflappable maître d’, who simply nodded. “This way, ma’am.” They headed off through the roomful of diners, the thump of the old lady’s cane cutting through the sound of the other diners and drawing a few stares.

  Suddath found himself alone with Angela, the awkwardness intensifying. “It was good of you to agree to meet with me.”

  She took a sip of her drink, looking out across the room. Then she sighed and put her glass on the table, looking at him for the first time. “You must think I’m a complete bitch.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “I understand that you feel protective of your grandmother.”

  She nodded. “I do. She and my grandpa…well, I spent a lot of time at their place when I was little. My dad…” she trailed off.