Word
Count: 2000
...without
representation.
The banner-waving
crowd heaves in the sultry auditorium...
Pop! Pop!
My heart hammers as
I swing a glance at my principal, who continues booming his inspired
message. Relieved, I scan the throng until Martinez's voice
crackles in my earpiece, "Balloons, boss."
Damn! I'm getting
too old for this...
Unfazed, Marty
Gibson fills the podium as one born to political life. He'll be a
good governor, but not how his supporters expect. Like his
predecessors, Marty will do as told. The governorship a
stepping-stone for the big prize.
Front row, a
hysterical lady wears a MARTY-CAN-HAVE-MY-VOTE-AND-ME! T-shirt.
Young, good-looking, and magnetic, Marty draws women, like a rock
star's cult following, and he's not shy about tasting their
devotion. Having a wife and daughter should give him pause, even if a
loveless, political marriage. I screw my face in disgust. How many
career-ending messes have I cleaned up? Another Ray-will-fix-it duty
I detest.
"...everyone
has a right to affordable health insurance."
Deafening applause
greets the candidate. Several rows back, a ROMANS 8-28 placard lifts
above the bopping heads where my eyes slide past a black-suited
man...Wait! I know him, do I? My spine tingles. More like someone I
never want to know.
My breath catches
when, centre-stage, a pony-tailed hippy slips a hand inside his
jacket. Taking quick strides, I reach for my holster. When the idiot
removes a phone, a shaking sigh escapes my lips before I resume my
position.
... and so
together, we can hope for a cleaner and more sustainable future.
Thank you, God bless you and DON'T STOP BELIEVING!"
The candidate's
supporters thunder his slogan as Freemont's
High School Marching Band
strikes up Journey's, Don't
Stop Believin.
The crowd surges, crushing the front row against the barricade. My
heart thudding, I bark, "Eyes peeled," before leaping on stage to
shield my charge.
Carmen appears from
the offstage shadows, leading three-year-old Teresa to her father. In
the limelight, Marty cradles his daughter while Carmen encircles her
husband's waist. A picture-perfect family. The media's folly.
Sweat beading on my
forehead, I cup Marty's elbow, whispering, "Let's go." My
protectee complies, leading his wife by the hand. Silence descends in
the corridor backstage, leaching tension from my shoulders. For one
eyebrow-climbing-instant, I'm floored when instead of stalking off,
Carmen lingers. Listening to her man's chatter, a warm smile
twitches her lips. When we stop at intersecting hallways, the
reformed husband kisses her goodbye before his young family takes the
left passageway.
"You and Carmen
patching things up?" I ask while glancing down the opposite
flickering corridor. I exhale a relieved breath. Empty.
After returning
Teresa's over-the-shoulder wave, her father gives me his
I-screwed-up face. "Guess I took your advice." Some advice! I'd
shaken him till he pissed, screaming morality's finer points into
his face. Not exactly Counselling
101.
"Well, I'm
glad." I slap his back and look away, clearing my throat. "Say,
rousing speech. Almost sounded like you believed it,"
"'Cause I do,
Ray."
His words slice
through my discomfort, and I clamp his arm. "Say what?"
Marty's face
softens. So young. "Why not?" he says. "They're real issues.
People's lives. I could
make a difference." His eyes gleam a fervour I've not seen
before.
Unease clenches my
belly, and I drop my grip. "You nuts?" I hiss. "El
Patron
won't like that. Even your old man can't protect you."
The evangelised
contender knits his brow. "I'll deal with Dad..." Marty's
obese campaign manager backs into the corridor ahead, struggling to
shield us from a group of journalists. We share a grin before the
rebellious kid joins the fray with a smirked, "Better rescue
Boswell."
About to follow, I
squint at an insurance disclaimer stuck to the wall. It's
auditorium capacity of 3000 crossed out, 828 scrawled below. Strange.
My neck hairs rise before movement in the empty hallway catches my
eye. Under the blinking fluorescents, the man I'd recognized
earlier leans against the back wall, studying me. As I march towards
him, the trespasser mock-salutes and disappears around the corner. I
break into a sprint. When I round the corridor, he's vanished, the
passageway ending in locked doors.
"We've an
intruder," I hiss into the mike. "He disappeared down the
right-hand hallway backstage. short blond hair, six-one-or-two, black
suit, white shirt, scar on left cheek..." My mouth clicks shut,
fingering my own scar. No wonder he looked familiar...
"Eh, jefe,"
Monica's throaty voice cuts in. "You lookin' in da mirror?"
*****
In the murk, my
seared cheek pulsates. Burnt flesh and thick cigar smoke fill my
nostrils, weakening my nauseated bowels. A door slams, jolting me
from a drooling stupor before a bright light blinds me. Squinting
across a bare, chipped table, I focus on El
Patron's
smouldering brown eyes. A mirthless grin cracks the old man's
weathered face while he fists a cigar, puffing clouds of smoke. Dread
climbs my spine.
"So, Ramon.
Eight months and twenty-eight days. Time to be our insurance," he
rasps, placing a Magnum on the table. I follow his flicked glance
towards the head of the table where someone materializes. My heart
stops. Marty.
"You know what to
do," the old devil hisses.
Retrieving the
weapon, I aim at the candidate's dull, lifeless eyes...
Strangled in
sweat-soaked sheets, I lean over the edge of the bed and retch. The
alarm clock's green digits glow, 8:28. Gasping, I run trembling
fingers across my throbbing scar. What the hell's wrong with me? A
decade since losing a year of memories to the Columbian Jungle, and
always the same dream. Except, now Marty's there.
*****
The
nightmare's vestiges cling like a fine spider's web as I slink
into Marty's hectic campaign headquarters where a conversational
buzz dominates, punctuated by ringtones. Barely acknowledging brushed
good-mornings, I pour a cup of java
while scanning the open-plan bedlam. Nothing's wrong, but something
lingers...
"Ray!"
I jump, sloshing my
coffee, and glare into Boswell's porky face. "You look like hell.
Late night?" he says, placing a thick arm around my shoulder to
guide me into his office. As I sink into a chair, the campaign
manager eases onto a couch and links his fingers across an ample
belly. Jest falls from his face. "You gotta step up security.
Marty's been getting more death threats."
My
cup of joe loses its appeal. "You thinking, El
Patron?"
"Who
knows, but we got this Town
Hall Debate
tomorrow night and Marty's gone off-script. I gotta bad feelin'."
"How
'bout we change his itinerary. Maybe stay in town afterwards."
Boswell
nods. "Good idea. I'll set it up." A grin touches his plump
lips. "After he demolishes Governor Weylen, he'll have a clear
run for office." He jabs a pudgy finger at me. "You remember the
date, August 28, the night Marty won the governor's race." Bile
rises in my throat as sweat pinpricks my neck: 8-28, again.
*****
Like an
over-protective hen, I shadow Marty as we cross Mutual
Insurance Plaza,
the slow revolving doors of the Hilton
high-rise beckoning. Since leaving the Town
Hall Debate,
a smile plasters the candidate's face. No one doubted his empathy
for each person who addressed their concerns. A gentle touch while he
stood with them. His warm, attentive listening ear. The
compassionate, measured response. He felt their pain, and that makes
me nervous.
When I receive the
all-clear from the advance security detail, we push through the wide,
marbled foyer. I narrow my eyes at the receptionist, frown at his
assistant. Tanned, floppy-haired, and dressed to impress, the
Hilton's frontman ignores me, focussing an oily smile on Marty.
"It's a pleasure to have you staying with us, Mr. Gibson. We've
put you in our executive suite, 828..."
My jaw unhinges. I
push Marty aside, grabbing the mewling swine by the collar. "We're
not taking that room!"
The receptionist
morphs from cocky-tanned to pasty-white. "It-It's the suite you
asked for."
"I don't care,"
I scream. "Get us another."
"Cut it out, Ray,"
Marty hisses, shouldering me away. I drop my grip, and the cowering
hotel staffer runs a finger along his collar. The candidate pats him
on the shoulder. "Sorry about my friend. He's under a lot of
strain." My pal
shoots me a glare. "And we'll have that suite."
Crossing
the lobby towards the elevator, Marty gives me an exasperated, "What
the hell's wrong with you?"
"828
pops up everywhere..."
"Coincidence!"
he gasps before a supporter steals his attention. The elevator door
bings open, revealing the black-suited blond man. Nausea constricts
my throat as I stare into my face. He grins, raises an
index-finger-gun, and pulls the trigger before the door closes.
"The
intruder from the other night's in the elevator," I yell into the
mike. "All units, each floor, converge on the elevator." The
elevator display counts through floors, stopping at eight.
Silence. My earpiece
rasps Martinez's exasperated voice. "Iss empty, boss."
*****
With the suite
checked, inch-by-inch, and both Martinez and Monica posted outside, I
begin to relax. My Latino henchmen shared that boss-is-losin'-it
look, but I know what I saw.
Marty flops on the
couch, easing his tie off while perusing a report. The teasing
layabout chuckles. "Hey, Ray. Here's that number again. Says
there's been 828 fraudulent insurance claims..."
Am I going nuts?
Scrubbing my eyes, I flee to my bedroom and lean against the shut
door, controlling each breath in blissful silence. Calmed, I remove
my jacket, throw it on the bed, and place the Magnum on the small
spindled corner table. After switching on the bathroom light, I
splash water on my face, the cold shock tempering my tension. The
mirror reflects my smile. Hard to admit, but Marty made me proud.
Swish.
Imperceptible. A stealthy step. Poised, I slip into the doorway,
scanning the room. The .357 lies only three feet away. Leaping
towards it, I'm hit from behind, someone's weight barrelling me
into the rickety table. Wood splinters beneath us, and we crash to
the floor, my assailant crushing my face into the carpet. Grappling,
I hook an arm around his neck, roll, and straddle his chest. One hand
clamping his throat, I reach for the gun lying beside us. With the
muzzle pressed against his head, he stops struggling. I reel as blue,
hate-filled eyes pin me. My
eyes. My
face.
The door bangs open,
and Marty shouts, "What the..."
"Get Martinez in
here before I shoot this piece of shit."
"Ray. Take it
easy. It's just you and me."
"What? My gun's
in his face..."
"Ray. Put it down.
We can talk about this."
My lookalike grins,
whispering, "You
know what to do, Ramon."
He shimmers, melting into me. My vision blurs.
Blink.
Blink.
Cold steel rests
against my temple. Easing the Magnum from my head, the nightmares
become my reality. My past. My terror until devotion for El
Patron exerts
control. I stare at the weak, stupefied nominee we controlled. Our
Judas. A breath passes my lips as I train the weapon on my target.
Marty raises his
hands, retreating a step. "What... Ray! Why?"
I clench my jaw,
hissing, "Why'd you
change?"
Pounding on the
hotel door causes my trigger-finger to falter. The candidate spreads
his palms, begging understanding. "You, Ray. I've been selfish.
With Carmen, with the campaign. These people need me. You
made me see that."
Me?
Memories flick. Marty and Carmen's sprouting love. Hope blooming in
the Town
Hall Debate.
My aim wavers, and a weak whispered, "I warned you," escapes.
"You don't know what these people will do-what they did to me."
"Please. We'll
work this out. We're friends." Honesty saturates his rounded
eyes.
A murmured "My
friend,"
echoes deep inside me as a tear slips down my cheek.
"No!" I wail, hardening my grip. "It'll never stop!"
Marty's face blanches, his lips miming as though in silent prayer.
My gun-toting
colleagues crash through the door, shattering my resolve. Screaming,
I force the Magnum away from my
friend. Gunmetal
tingles my lips before I pull the trigger.
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