Chapter One
It was a hot Saturday night when Richard Greystone arranged the meeting that was worth several million dollars to him and nearly fifty million to the other party. Of course, there was the unfortunate consequence that what they agreed to on this night would go a long way toward ensuring that thousands of people in Birmingham continued to suffer. But sometimes collateral damage was unavoidable.
There, on the top floor of the Regions Tower, it was almost as hot in Greystone’s office as it was outside. That was intentional. While air conditioners were blowing full-blast across Alabama, Greystone had the heat on, just enough to cause discomfort for the oily man who sat in a small chair facing him.
Three lamps glowed like a trinity of flickering candles, light in the otherwise dark room: the corner floor lamp, the iron and gold leaf lamp on the credenza and the banker’s lamp on Greystone’s great desk under which he was reading a brief, one he had written months ago that was no longer relevant, while ignoring the oily man, who called himself Cunny. Or Cutney; whatever, this small man’s name was immaterial to Greystone.
Cunny cleared his throat before pointing to the Aleksandr Moravov that hung on the wall. “That’s a nice picture.”
“It’s a painting,” Greystone said from his desk, still focused on the brief.
“Oh, yeah, of course. I see those women are all wearing the same red head scarfs.”
“Those women,” Greystone said, finally looking up, and managing not to roll his eyes, “are Russian peasants. Have you read Dostoyevsky?”
Cunny, Cutney, or whoever shifted in the tight seat. He shook his head.
“Dostoyevsky wrote a novel where a man killed an old woman. Just to see if he could. I find that fascinating.”
Oily Cunny let out a sigh. He had a wart on his forehead that might have been covered if he wasn’t balding. A few beads of sweat were circling the wart. The heat didn’t bother Greystone.
“My wife is at a fundraiser for the Alabama Symphony tonight. I should be there.” Greystone let out a wistful sigh. “But you needed me. So who is you favorite composer?”
“Songwriter? I kinda like Toby Keith. He tells it like it is.”
Greystone rubbed his forehead, a perfect display of the earnest professor, dismayed at his obtuse student. He let go of the brief and looked at Cutney with a blank stare for a full minute. Then, appearing to rouse himself, he gave a single hand-clap. “So. You have a problem.”
“Well, not me, exactly.”
“I know. The entity you represent.” Greystone knew who the other party was and he was a bit insulted that they hadn’t contacted him directly, but he understood that they needed deniability. “You’re lucky you’ve come to me. I can solve the problem.”
Greystone stood and walked to the window. The lights of the city twinkled below, and to the south, the Vulcan stood high atop Red Mountain, overlooking the valley of downtown. Greystone allowed himself a sardonic smile. The Vulcan, god of fire and metallurgy, lit up like gold in the night, his hammer on the anvil, his spear stabbing the sky; he memorialized steel, the industry that built this town, the downside of which was going to make Richard Greystone a lot of money.
He turned, his hands behind his back now, Richard Greystone playing the Good Samaritan. He smiled, just enough. “This will require a good deal of effort on my part, and as you can imagine, my time is limited. And while I would love to help, just as a matter of friendship, I’m afraid I’ll need compensation.” He paused for effect. “One-tenth of one percent of the company should be about right.”
Cutney sat forward and the small chair squeaked. “That’s impossible. It’s a hundred million dollar company, maybe more. One-tenth of one percent is… is a lot.”
Greystone’s smile broadened. Richard Greystone, the benevolent patron. “I would so like to help.” He walked back to his desk, this time slowly, as though he was disappointed. He stood, gazing down at the document that glowed under the desk lamp, the brief he had read so many times he could probably recite it from memory. “Maybe someone else can help.” He rubbed his chin. “But who? The grapevine says the company has tried the right people in the legislature.”
Cunny’s forehead wart throbbed. “This, I don’t know, but they’ll say it’s too much.”
“Is it? The EPA is a serious organization. How much could a cleanup cost? Forty million? Fifty? That’s a lot of money, even for your friends.”
“They’ll never give up part of the company. Besides, transferring ownership, that would be public information.”
Greystone knew this, but he also knew to ask for more than he wanted. “Do you have the authority to make this call?”
Cunny shrugged. “I’m just a messenger.”
Greystone placed both hands on the desk and leaned forward, boring into Cunny’s shallow eyes. “Then send your friends this message: I’m all they’ve got.”
The little man shrank, seeming to be enveloped into the dark.
“Two million dollars, paid in advance.”
Cunny blinked. “I’ll pass it along.”
Greystone straightened up and shrugged. “Fine. Don’t wait too long.”
“But how can you do it?”
“I have a plan. It’s multi-pronged. I’ll need a key man for much of it. I just have to find him.”
On Sunday morning, Sam Walker was standing near Storyteller Fountain on one of the corners of Five Points, the big circular intersection that formed a five-pointed star on Birmingham’s Southside, just on the edge of downtown.
High above on the hilltop, the sun flashed off the Vulcan’s hammer. This early, and the heat was already bearing down. Sam was almost ready to jump in the fountain and wade around the weird bronze animals: the ram-man that sat on an island pedestal reading a book to two turtles, a pair of rabbits and a frog, each on their own pedestals spitting out rainbows of misty water. Some people claimed Storyteller Fountain was satanic, something about five animals being pentagramy, on top of the horned ram-man looking the part, but it was an urban legend that was ridiculous, if for no other reason than the fact that the fountain stood in front of an old Spanish-style church.
Sam wiped sweat off his three-day stubble. A big-bellied guy with long stringy hair lumbered over, took a guitar out of its case, and sat down on the fountain wall, leaving the case at his feet, open for dollar bills. He began to play something that might have been bluesy or might have been rockabilly, Sam didn’t know because he wasn’t paying attention. He was thinking about the money. On top of all the crap he had been through this year, there was still the money. He had to come up with the money. Had to.
A handful of people were scattered around the guitar player now, probably having wandered over from the breakfast joint across the street. To Sam’s left, a hipster in a skull cap lit a cigarette. An older black guy in glasses stood near the front, holding hands with his gray-haired wife.
The music stopped. Stringy-hair was looking at Sam, for some reason. “Do you pray?” he asked.
Sam glanced around. Was this guy talking to him? He shrugged. “A little when I was young. Not so much now. Never got anything from it.”
Stringy-hair scrunched up his face. “Huh?” He held up the guitar. “Do you play?”
“Oh. Yeah, a little.”
“Come on then.”
Sam glanced at his phone. 9:40. He had to get moving. “Thanks,” he said. “Maybe another time.”
He started up twentieth street, headed toward downtown, and the church bells began to ring, to peal, to ring and ring.
It was almost ten o’clock when Sam reached Linn Park where a crowd of several hundred stood in the grass across the street from City Hall. People of all ages, mostly black with some white, were chanting black lives matter, just like they had last year after George Floyd’s murder. This time, it was for a little girl named Lyndale who was accidentally shot by police when they crashed into her family’s apartment on a no-knock raid. Lyndale was alive at UAB Hospital, but that didn’t lessen the anger, especially since the cops had busted into the wrong apartment.
Sam walked around the back of the crowd before he started to jog toward Ralph Abernathy Boulevard, which ran along the north side of the park. The man was there, strutting down the sidewalk. He was scrawny. He wore a camo cap with sunglasses and a COVID mask, and he held an assault rifle. Someone in the crowd saw him and screamed, and that scream led to another, then another, and suddenly everyone was in motion, scrambling this way and that, bumping into each other, all of them bursting into a stampede, rushing away from the gun.
Sam was running across the park, straight at the gunman, fifty yards away. The man raised the gun, pointed at the flying crowd, and now from twenty yards, Sam saw the finger on the trigger, bigger than life, death, the only thing in the world just then. He left his feet and dove, a linebacker in a stadium, tackling the man, thudding him to the ground.
A young black guy had turned from the fleeing crowd, and was running toward Sam and the gunman, who were both still on the ground. “I got you,” he yelled.
The gunman bolted to his feet, grabbed the gun, and barreled away, onto the street, and in seconds he vanished, so suddenly that it was almost like he had never been there at all.
The black guy reached Sam. “Bro, you just saved a bunch of lives. You’re a hero.”
Sam nodded, hoping he looked humble. At that moment, a white cloud eased over the sun, and it wasn’t quite so hot.
Richard and Silvia Greystone lived in Mountain Brook because if you were important in Birmingham, that’s where you lived. Just over Red Mountain from downtown, Mountain Brook was mostly old money, the decedents of the original coal and steel barons, with some newer wealth mixed in. Greystone’s money was old all right, but it was Connecticut old, which was fine since, after all, money was money no matter where it came from.
The original Greystones had settled on the island of Manhattan in the 1600s. Charles Greystone had taken the role that was appropriate to second sons of English landowners and became an Anglican Priest. Shortly after New Amsterdam was surrendered to the English, he was sent there with orders to establish a diocese. By the time Charles was made a Bishop, all of his sons were engaged in business around the city. The most successful of the bunch was Henry who was an active trader at the Wall Street slave market. By the time the slave trading was closed in 1762, Henry and his sons had migrated to trading securities of the new businesses that were cropping up on the island.
The Greystone family had moved to Connecticut several generations back, although they still maintained an apartment in Manhattan for when a Greystone man missed the train after a long day on Wall Street or when a Greystone woman wanted to doing some shopping in the city.
Richard was the first Greystone to venture out of New England, although that was not by choice. He and Silvia lived in a home that was hidden from the road by an acre of maple and dogwood. It had been built over one-hundred years ago with stone from The Dickens Quarry by John Williams, a coal magnate, an irony that, after last night’s meeting, was not lost on Greystone. Eight-thousand square feet was more space than necessary for two people, and it had always been just two, but Greystone understood that a large home was as important to success as a nice suit.
On the morning after Richard’s late night meeting with Cutney/Cunny and Silvia’s fundraiser at the symphony, the Greystones missed their regular service at the Cathedral Church of the Advent. Their spot in the third pew between the Fowlers – Jake was the CEO of a hospital chain – and the Ruffins – Candice ran a non-profit and Herman was a bank Chairman – would be empty, as no one would dare encroach.
Greystone was in the leather easy chair in his study, the walls paneled in deep wood, sipping a cup of coffee – pure black – while listened to Claude Debussy's Afternoon of a Fawn, when Silvia stuck her head in the door. Her eyes held that faraway look.
Richard raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“I’m out. Meeting Margaret for brunch.”
“Wonderful. Have a nice time.”
Silvia blinked and then she was gone. Greystone switched the music to Flight of the Valkyries and flicked on the TV, scrolling until he found the Cage Fighting channel. His nostrils flared as he watched a black man kick a tattooed man in the face. The jawbone crack seeped the taste of blood onto his tongue.
The phone rang. Caller ID: Olivia.
“Hello.”
“Turn on TV.”
“To?”
“Local news. Any station.”
Greystone flicked on Channel Six. A young man with sandy hair and a three-day stubble was wearing a t-shirt and cargo pants while a female reporter held a mic to his face. She gazed at him with a big eyes, as though he had just come down from Red Mountain with a scroll of commandments.
“Weren’t you afraid?” Her voice was breathless.
He shrugged. “At that point, it’s just adrenaline. You do what you have to do.”
“He could have killed you.”
“The main thing is that everyone is safe.”
The reporter turned to the camera with a big smile. “There you have it. Sam Walker. A true hero.”
The man in the newsroom started bantering with the reporter, and Greystone muted it. “What do you have on him?”
“Grew up in a small town near Gadsden.”
“Family?”
“Sister in Atlanta. Brother still in the hometown. His parents are there too.”
“That’s all you have? That’s useless.”
“This isn’t: he was arrested when he was seventeen.”
“For?”
“I haven’t been able to find out. Yet.”
Greystone cradled the phone on his shoulder and flicked off the TV. “Now that’s useful. So he’s a neer do well.”
“Not these days, he’s not. He started a restaurant. That’s hard work. The place was called Masque Elégant. It means…”
“Cool Mask. Did you really think I don’t speak French? That’s a nice place, by the way. Sylvia and I ate there once.”
“Was a nice place. It went under. Another COVID victim.”
Greystone rubbed his chin. “Restaurants take a big outlay of capital. Family money?”
“Hardly. They were blue collar, and barely that. His dad was laid off years ago when a plant closed.”
“Find out where the money came from. As soon as possible. Anything else?”
“Don’t you want to know what was going on in that park?”
Greystone sighed. “Olivia, please. We’re not on Jeopardy. Get to the point.”
“They were protesting about a little black girl who was shot. Guess where she lived.”
“Olivia.” Greystone drew out her name, highlighting his irritation.
“In north Birmingham. Collegeville, to be specific.”
Richard Greystone sat up. He looked out the window at his tennis court, and just then, for the first time in years, he felt like running outside and swinging his racket. “Olivia,” he said. “Olivia, Olivia. We have our man.”
Chapter Two
Sunday
It was mid-afternoon when Veronique drove to Linn Park. She wasn’t sure Sam Walker would still be there since all the action had happened four hours earlier. When she hiked up the stone steps into the park, she found that it had thinned out considerably since that morning, with a handful of people sitting on benches under the spreading oaks and a couple of kids running in the grass. You would have never believed that there had been a crowded protest here that morning.
The sun was scorching and it was humid, but it wasn’t quite as bad in the shade of the wooded park. Strolling along the sidewalk that wound through the trees, Veronique was surprised to see that he was still here, Sam Walker, sandy hair and blonde stubble, white t-shirt and cargo shorts, sitting with arms spread across the back of the bench, his legs kicked out and crossed at the ankles.
She approached him. “Nice day isn’t it.”
“It is.”
She held out her hand. “I’m Veronique.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Veronique.” He reached out and shook her hand. “That’s a pretty name. I like it. Kind of a fancified version of Veronica.”
“It’s a Frenchified-version.”
“Is your family from France?”
“My mom. She wanted to give me a French name.”
“How about your dad? Does he wear a beret and eat snails?”
“A baseball cap and chicken wings. As Alabama as they come.”
“Roll Tide.”
“Oh no.” She rolled her eyes. “Not another one of those.”
“You’re not a fan of Big Elephant?”
“Big Tiger.”
He nodded. “Suits me either way. I didn’t go to college.”
Veronique knew this. She had checked his social media on the way there.
“Have a seat. Here, I’ll brush it off for you.” He winked and brushed away pretend dirt before she sat down next to him.
“Are you from Birmingham?” she asked. She knew he wasn’t.
“I grew up in Resurrection, up I-59, near Gadsden. We had one industry. A factory that closed about ten years ago.”
“What did they make?”
“Paper goods. Paper plates, cups, trash you see on the side of the road. You know those Big Gulps they have in gas stations? Sixty-four ounce drinks. They make those.”
“I’ve never drank one.”
“Well you should. They say you need sixty-four ounces of liquid every day.”
“Sixty-four ounces of water.”
Sam shrugged. “Just sayin’.”
There seemed to be a smile in his eyes and she didn’t know if he was joking or not. “So what led you to Birmingham?”
“Opportunity. I wanted to be a business owner. Anyway, what about you? What’s the Veronique story?”
“Nothing interesting.” She glanced at some kids throwing a frisbee before turning back to Sam. “Tell me, what did you do, coming to town, wanting to get into business?”
He shrugged. “I tried to get into something construction-related. But that was right after the ‘09 housing crisis and they weren’t hiring. So I tried some restaurants. There were openings for waiters, but I wanted to get into the kitchen. You have know the kitchen if you want to own a restaurant.”
She knew about his restaurant, about how it went, but she led on. “Restaurants. How did you do?”
“The only kitchen job for a guy with no experience was washing dishes so I took that. At J. Paul’s.”
She had eaten at J. Paul’s once with her date and friend group the night of her high school prom. The food was incredible and she would love to go back, but it was so expensive.
“I worked pretty hard, and then they made me a Porter. It’s a low-rung job, but it’s critical. You keep the kitchen moving. Anyway, after a while, I made it to Head Chef.”
“After a while? If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“So you went from dishwasher to head chef before you hit thirty. That’s impressive,” she said and she meant it. She was beginning to understand how someone like this could take down a gunman.
“Thanks,” he said. “But really, it’s just what you do. If you’re born poor, and you sit on your butt, you’ll stay poor. You’ve got to pull yourself up by your shoe strings.”
“You mean bootstraps.”
“I don’t wear boots.”
There were those smiling eyes, again. “And then you started your own restaurant.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You know about that? Who are you?”
“Sorry. I should have told you. I’m a reporter.”
“AL.com?”
She shook her head. “The Alabama Sentinel.”
“I haven’t heard of it.”
“I just started it three months ago. It’s an online publication.”
“So you’re starting something for yourself. That’s great. Maybe one day you’ll be like Drudge, making big money.”
She shook her head. “That’s not why I’m doing it. I want to fix things. Local news has died. And what news there is just repeats whatever a politician says. They never look into anything. I want to do real journalism, investigate, and hopefully bring things to light that make our community a better place.”
“That’s noble of you. I can’t imagine why you’d want to interview me, though.”
“I’m not sure myself. Just writing up what happened here is useless. People will have already seen it on local TV or online. My strength is to go deeper. I was hoping to maybe get a feel for you. You know, your story. Maybe that would provide some depth into how you could charge a gunman, the whole thing.”
He shrugged. “I don’t think there’s too much depth to find.”
“Your restaurant, Masque Elégant” she said. “I heard it was great.”
“Then I’m sorry you didn’t get the chance to eat there.” He sighed. “I started it two months before COVID hit. We held out as long as we could.”
“And now the vaccines are here.”
“It wasn’t the best timing.”
“What now?”
“I’ll get another job. It’s a little tough right now since so most restaurants are barely hanging on. But once business starts to swing again, I’ll get hired. I’ll do just like before. Save my money. It’ll take a few years, but I’ll be back.”
“That great,” she said. “Really. You sound resilient.” Across the park, kids were running around the big fountain. “Isn’t is weird? Here we are, and just this time last year, they took down that confederate statue. You remember it?”
He shook his head. “This is my first time at this park.”
That gave her a start. How weird. His first time ever at Linn Park was within seconds of a gunman opening fire on people. That was life though, wasn’t it? Right place at the right time. Wrong place at the wrong time. Those one in a million chances that would twist the axis of a life, and set the rotation in another direction all together.
“It all happened within a few blocks of here,” she said.
“It?”
“This was the heart of the Civil Rights movement. It was all here.” She pointed to the street. “Walk a few blocks that way, then turn left and you’ll come up on the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church where the bomb went off, killing the little girls. Just a few blocks from there is where they arrested Martin Luther King.”
“The little girls.” His voice dropped a notch. “That was horrible.”
She nodded. “And now, there’s this little girl.”
“You know how it goes: the past is never dead. It's not even past.”
“William Faulkner. I’m surprised you…”
“Read? Product of running a kitchen. That, and Carlos.” He looked into the distance and then back at her. “Carlos was a Guatemalan guy who worked for me at J. Paul’s. Way he learned English was to read. That’s all he did. Got to the point where he probably could’ve taught literature. He got me started. And when you’ve spent all night in a noisy kitchen, you love the quiet when you get home. So I ended up yanking the TV out of the wall, and putting it out on the street. I’d go home, sit in the quiet, and read until my adrenaline settled down and I could go to sleep.”
She nodded. She was trying to decide if there was a story here. What he had done today was already on the news, and his restaurant background would be out too, if it wasn’t already. Was there anything else to add?
He turned to her. “Listen, it’s been nice meeting you. Really. But it’s been a long day.”
“Of course,” she said. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you know I was a reporter right away. I guess I thought you might talk a little more freely, you know.”
He got to his feet. “That’s no problem at all. I enjoyed it.”
“As far as a story goes, right now, I can’t see much I can write about that’s not already in the news. Can I get your number, in case I think of something else?”
“Sure.” He texted her, then nodded, and walked down the sidewalk.
She watched as he hit twentieth street and vanished. She found herself wondering about Sam Walker. He had an easy attitude, but she suspected that somewhere deep below, it was different, maybe troubled somehow. Then again, maybe that was just what she wanted to think.
Chapter Three
Monday
Veronique was at Lemmings where she sat at a corner table by the kitchen. She had scooted to her car as soon as the 2:45 bell rang at Avondale Elementary where she taught first grade, and rushed to Lemmings to be on time for her 3:00 appointment, yet here it was 3:20 and she was still waiting for the manager.
As she took a sip of water, the kitchen double doors pushed open and a man barreled out. He had dark hair that was a mess and he was out of breath.
“I’m sorry. We’ve been slammed.” He reached out and shook her hand. “I’m Nick,” he said as he sat down. “Wow. I love your eyes. Light green offset by your skin tone.”
“Thanks.” He was studying her and she knew exactly where this was going. Her skin was as light as his, but it had a beige tone compared to his pink.
“Are you from South America?”
She shook her head and readied to answer the question she was bothered with every time she met someone new, whether they asked it or not. “My grandfather on my mother’s side was black. From Algiers. He met my grandmother in Paris.”
“Well, you’re pretty. And I swear I’m not trying to flirt with you.” He held up his hand to show his wedding ring.
She did her best to smile. “I’m glad you took the time to meet with me. Did you look at our website, The Alabama Sentinel?”
“I did. There’re some interesting stories on there. Looks like you wrote them all?”
“Yes, I started The Sentinel site a few months ago, so I pretty much do everything.”
“Is Hamrick’s your only advertiser?”
“At this point, yes.” She didn’t mention that she gave Hamrick’s a free ad after Mr. Hamrick had re-set the Amethyst that had come loose in the setting on her ring. She did it partially because he was so nice, but mostly because she needed it to look like someone was advertising.
“My wife shops at Hamrick’s.”
“It’s a nice place.” She realized that she was tapping her foot and tried to stop. Selling ads was hard. “Well, like I said on the phone, we’re growing and last month we had almost two thousand views. I can get you an ad under Hamrick’s at a good price. We can run it for $250 a month if you sign up for three months. What do you think?”
Nick cleared his throat. “I mean, I’m interested. Thing is, though, I saw you wrote a piece about the city health inspectors. Made them look bad; which you should have done, it was true, they cut corners left and right. But I’m a little worried that if they see me advertising on your site, they might give me a hard time. Find all kinds of BS crap to hassle me.”
The back of her neck was getting moist with sweat, and she struggled not to wipe it. What could she say to turn this around? “The Sentinel is so small, I bet they haven’t noticed it.” She bit her tongue. Saying her site was small didn’t help.
“Knowing them, I’m sure they’ve seen it.” He sighed. “Look, I think you’re doing good work, and it’s needed, but I should at least wait until the health department forgets about that article.”
Her stomach sank. Three months, over twenty sales calls, and she still hadn’t sold an ad. Not a single one. For a second she thought she might cry. It was so frustrating. She couldn’t bear to think of closing her news site, dead before it even started.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I really will consider it in a few months.”
That’s what they all said. No one wanted to just say no. They all needed a few months. When the time came, would they put it off another few months?
“Can I get you something?” Nick asked. “We have great cheesecake. It’s on the house.”
She swallowed and shook her head. “Thanks for meeting me.”
As he was sliding his chair back, ready to stand, she had a thought.
“By the way,” she said, “since you’re in the restaurant business. Do you know a guy named Sam Walker?”
His faced lightened. “Absolutely. I worked with Sam at J. Paul’s. Good guy. He saved a crowd of people yesterday. That was crazy.”
Veronique explained how she had met Sam, thinking of writing an article on him.
“I don’t know if there’s much I can tell you. The main thing is he was always focused. He had a plan. That’s different from everybody else in the business. For the most part, restaurant people are partiers. Sam even broke up with his girlfriend – she was a hostess at J. Paul’s – because she just wanted to party. And let me tell you, she was hot.”
Veronique hoped she wasn’t blushing. “Well,” she said, “I was surprised at how laid back he was for a guy who had just faced off a gunman.”
He shrugged. “I’ve seen him be pretty composed, even in rough situations. I remember him putting out a fire in the J. Paul’s kitchen when everyone else was freaking out. But, truth be known, he worries as much as the next guy. He’s just figured out how to hide it under a cool exterior.”
They shook hands, and as Veronique walked to the door, she considered the name of his restaurant, Masque Elégant.
Sam spent Sunday evening and much of Monday returning phone calls, texts and tweets. His parents called first. His dad was matter of fact, while his mom was freaking out – not a big surprise there, but it made Sam feel bad and he did his best to calm her. They put Jason on and he was pumped up. He swore that he was coming to Birmingham so he could tackle a gunman too.
By Monday afternoon, Sam had repeated the story so many times that he was sick of it. He left home and stopped by a few restaurants, catching up with old colleagues, finding that he had to still had to retell the whole episode, right down to what it felt like grabbing the gunman’s legs, even for people who had already heard it. The main thing he did, though, was to make sure they’d all let him know if any openings came up.
After the last restaurant stop, he picked up a chicken breast and some asparagus at Piggly Wiggly. He reached home as it was getting dark. Just before turning into his driveway, he slammed on the brakes.
Fourteen or fifteen men and a couple of women were standing in his yard with a couple more on his front porch. One big guy was carrying a homemade sign that read Only guns stop bad guys. What the hell did that mean and what were all these people doing here? Sam stared straight ahead, and drove past the house. He took the first left turn, then another left and parked on the street than ran behind his. Thankfully it was fully dark now so he wasn’t noticed as he jogged between two houses into the yard that backed up on his. He jumped a small wood fence and landed in his back yard. When he made it to his house, he grabbed the handle on the back door and realized it was unlocked. What did this mean? Had some of these people broken in?
The house was dark inside except a light on up front in the kitchen. Had he left it on? He couldn’t remember. He began to creep up the hall, picking up each foot and setting in down as slowly as possible, straining not to make a sound. A hardwood board let out a groan and he tensed. Still no sound so he started moving again. Now the cased opening to the kitchen was just ahead on the right.
He strained to listen. What was that? Breathing? Did he hear breathing? Okay, options. He wasn’t about to turn around and leave his house. Inching his way into the kitchen sure wouldn’t work. So he did the only thing he could. He launched himself and shot through the framed opening into the room. And there he was - Mark Strahan. Mark.
“What the fuck? How did you get in here?
Mark shrugged. “You left the back door open.”
“Like hell I did. You picked the lock.” Sam pointed to the front window. “What’s going on out there?”
Mark flipped his palms open. “Hell if I know.” His slick hair was poofed up and he was wearing a navy suit with a red tie. “So, you were big news yesterday. Was that why you were too busy to answer my texts?”
“Come on, man. I’m working on things.”
Mark nodded. “I appreciate that. But thing is, you know I just brokered that loan. The lender is starting to breath down my neck.”
“I gave you all the money from the equipment sale. And I was lucky to get that. There’s not much demand for heavy duty ranges and commercial freezers right now.”
Mark glanced at his fingernails for a second. “I’m sorry. I really am. But you still owe over a hundred K.”
“How about I talk to the lender myself?”
Mark breathed deep. “That’s not a good idea.”
“Alright, listen. You saw the news. I’ve got some local goodwill right now. I’m thinking of doing a gofundme page to raise money for the loan.”
Mark nodded thoughtfully. “I like that. Good idea. Let me know how that goes. And look – I need to hear from you. Keep me in the loop.” With that, he strode down the hallway and vanished into the night.
After Mark left, Sam turned off the kitchen lights and peeked out the blinds. The crowd had dwindled down to eight people. The guy with the sign was sticking around, there for the long haul it seemed.
After brushing his teeth, and sliding into bed, Sam thought about this crazy day. He still felt adrenaline. The crowd, the screams, the chaos, the newspeople. And then there was the girl. Veronique. He kind of wished she still wanted to write about him, just so he could see her again. But, of course, a woman that good-looking had a boyfriend for sure. She was stunning – coal-black hair, olive skin with light green eyes. He sighed and turned onto his side, and eventually his adrenaline waned and he fell into a deep sleep.
It was after midnight when his phone rang. He didn’t wake during the first call, although it slipped into his dreams. He was vaguely aware of the second call. With the third call, he picked up the phone, groggy.
After a minute on the phone, he struggled to his feet and pulled on a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and laced up his trainers. He walked out the back door and to his car at the end of the driveway where he looked and saw the people, whoever they were, had cleared out.
He drove down Laura Lane and turned onto twentieth, headed toward the Vulcan. The night was quiet, the streets empty. As he was cresting the hilltop, a SUV turned off a side street and onto the road behind him. He blinked at the bright lights in his rear view mirror. He turned right onto Valley Avenue and the SUV continued straight. He pulled over and started walking up the winding road that led to Vulcan Park. Crickets chirped as his footsteps scraped the pavement. Moonlight rippled on the leaves of the tall oaks that seemed to sway in the dark.
When he reached the hilltop, he was alone. He looked up at the Vulcan, the giant Roman God who stood on the one-hundred and twenty-five foot brick pedestal, lit up against the night, holding a hammer in one hand while pointing his spear skyward in the other. When he was ten, Sam’s family had driven here, and taken the elevator up to the observation deck. Sam had been fascinated by the view.
He heard a rustling and saw Conley emerge from the darkened bushes.
“It’s after two a.m. Con. Couldn’t we have done this tomorrow?”
“I’m sorry, man. I’m just freaking out a little bit.” Conley was thin and small. He wore a stained white t-shirt.
“Everything’s fine.”
“No, it’s not. Did you hear Samurai Bob?
“Who?”
“Bob Samarin. He goes by Samurai Bob. He’s got a youtube show. He’s got a big Japanese sword on the studio wall behind him.”
“What the hell does that have to do with…”
“He’s onto us. Today on his show, he said you saving the crowd was fake.”
“What? Who does this guy think he is, claiming it was fake?”
“Well, it was.”
“I know that, but he doesn’t.” Sam narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t tell anybody, did you?”
“Hell no,” Conley said, throwing up his hands. “Samurai Bob does his show from Atlanta and it was on the news over there. He said it was a false flag, that you’re trying to make guns look bad.”
“Oh my God. That’s why these guys were camped out at my house.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Maybe we should go to the police. If we explain it to them, let them know the gun wasn’t loaded and all, they’ll probably let it go.”
Sam looked up. Only a few faint stars flickered in the night sky. “No, Con. I promise you, they won’t let it go.”
Conley cleared his throat. “Well, here’s the thing – you got to be a hero and I’m the bad guy. It seems like that’s worth more than a thousand dollars.”
Sam put his hands on the small man’s shoulder. “Con, that was my last thousand bucks. I don’t even have money for this month’s rent.”
Conley struggled away from Sam. “I don’t know if it’s worth it, you know?”
Sam could see where this was going. He would need to pacify Conley, give him some hope of more money down the road. “Okay. I’m going to start a gofundme tomorrow. If I raise enough money to pay off my debt, I’ll give you another thousand.”
“What if you don’t?”
Sam took a deep breath and let out a long exhale. “Just stay with me, Con.”
The small man took a minute, then nodded his head, and looked up at the Vulcan. “He makes me laugh, you know? Seeing his butt sticking out from under that cloth. Why didn’t they cover him up?”
Sam didn’t reply. He wasn’t listening. He was focused on the brick building, the Visitors Center, about fifty yards away where he would have sworn he saw something move.
The night was humid.