The District Manager (6 page)

The nicotine and the Jack are working their magic on my privates. I’m starting to relax.
Brandy,
I’m thinking,
what a fucking nut! She’s hit on me before, but this is ridiculous.

The hum of cars in the distance and the sound of the heavy summer night are suddenly penetrated by a voice…a familiar voice, utterly removed from the here and now: a voice like a blanket…I follow the winding path and find Brenna sitting on a stone bench, sipping a glass and talking on her phone. She is unaware of my presence, and I extinguish my cigarette so as not to alert her. I am concealed by several odd, exotic, unidentifiable plants. I decide to eavesdrop.

“I just couldn’t wait. I grabbed the contents of the donation jar. I just had to see what was in there. Well yes, we’re leaving it out all night, it might help if people see nothing in there at this point. They might donate just because they feel sorry for The Judge. Most of the checks are just a few hundred dollars each…but get this… one is for ten thousand! You heard me right, ten thousand…. Who is it from? It’s from a PAC I’ve never heard of. It’s called, ‘Victory Ballot’…. Who signed it? Well, the signature looks like ‘Jack… Clark?’ I think…”

My boot must have a pebble stuck to the sole, because when I slide my shoe a sound is made like chalk on a board. I have alerted Brenna. In a state of half-panic, I decide to make my presence known.

“Mason?” Brenna asks, her phone still up to her ear.

“Brenna! What a pleasant surprise.”

“I’m going to have to let you go, okay? Sure, I’ll call you after it’s over.”

Brenna hangs up and turns towards me like she’s posing for Michelangelo. The beautiful arch of her back, the curve of her ample ass, the gloss of the white gown hugging her every curve— this I observe as I walk towards her.

“Take a seat,” she suggests pleasantly.

“Thanks.” I’m buzzed at this point so I feel more confident about my conversation.

“You know, you’re not supposed to have drinks outside the barn,” she informs me with a hint of beguile.

“Look who’s talking. I guess they can arrest me if they like,” I playfully retort before taking a sip. My neck muscles clench and my face cringes as the straight liquor makes its way down my throat.

“Wow, I can smell that from here. Is that straight—?”

“…up…Jack Daniels!” The involuntary physical response has not yet abated. I’m having difficulty swallowing.

The weight of the tux on my body, coupled with the sultry night, is igniting my sweat glands.
Or is it Brenna?
I turn and look her in the eye. A spotlight some thirty yards away illuminates her features. Tiny droplets of sweat glisten in the florescence. I want so badly to kiss her. Judging by our mutual stare and silence, I feel that she wants me to do it. I scoot a little closer, our hips are now nearly touching.

“It’s hot out, Mason.” She begins fanning herself with her hand.

“Yes, it is Brenna.”

“I think the walkways have electric fans. It might be better if we take the tour.”

I’m secretly cursing the day Ben Franklin discovered electricity.
“Good idea!” I comment, perking up as if I’m really enthused.

Brenna lifts her beautiful bottom off of the stone bench and pulls her white dress down at the hip. When she turns from the light, I catch the subtle sweet shadow of her crack through the elegant, thin fabric.

Luckily, the trail is manned with intermittent fans serving two purposes: to cool visitors and deflect the smell of animals. It only modestly succeeds at both.

Brenna continuously falls back as if she’s urging me to take the lead. Grasping her hint, I stop faltering and take control. The first exhibit we happen upon is the peacock display. Zoo Ranchero is generous tonight with their lighting, which is motion controlled. Upon our approach, the entire pen comes into focus. We stop to witness.

“This must have cost The Judge a fortune,” I say, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“Not really. It kind of comes with the package.”

“I see. Then they get you in the package.”

She laughs.

Confidence is like money: if you’ve got it, it’s easy to get more. “By the way…” I say, turning towards her, “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation while I was walking up.”

“You weren’t spying on me were you, Mason?” Brenna teases.

“Innocent. It was an honest eavesdrop.”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing?” she questions, as she cocks her hip and places her hand on it.

“Most definitely. I think it’s a prerequisite to running for office.”

She’s laughing again!
“Anyway, what I’m trying to say…”

“Before I busted you, Buster.” She’s wagging her pretty finger in my face.

“Before you busted me…yes…”

“I forgive you.”

“Well, thank you.”

“What was it Mason? I’m just teasing.”

“Oh, I know,” I reply. I remove a tissue from my pant pocket. I pat my face and neck. “I have a fresh one in my other pocket if you’d like it, by the way.”

“Oh, I’m okay. I don’t have as much on as you do,” she answers as she rubs her flush, naked arms.

“Alright,” I declare, dropping the tissue in one of the trail trash cans. “I heard you mention the name, ‘Jack Clark.’”

“Yes, Jack Clark! He gave The Judge ten grand! But you already know that.”

“Yes, I do. And…I know Jack Clark,” I say with an air of importance.

“Really? I’ve never heard of him. Who is he?”

“He’s a political consultant, campaign manager, and fund-raiser; apparently not a bad one.”

“Apparently. I mean, ten grand may not be much in the big leagues, but for a county race it’s not bad. Particularly from someone you’ve never met. The Judge has had similar donations in the past, but they’re from rich people with whom he has created relationships. How do you know him?”

“He was in my boss’ office just the other day. You know who he is, or rather, who he worked with before, right?”

She does not.

“Does the name ‘Warren Jenkins’ ring a bell?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Remember that big legislative scandal from a couple of years ago?”

“You mean the secession thing that was blown open when that state senator went to prison?”

“Yes, State Senator Reed Jackson. He recently died in prison from cancer, by the way. That scandal was what sank our state leadership, all except the governor, that is.”

“Was Jackson not in on it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. My understanding is that the recently deceased Reed Jackson, along with Representative…Martinez, I think was his name…were the masterminds. My boss thinks that the governor, the former lieutenant governor, and the former speaker were all just bullied. Senator Jackson was by all accounts a powerful personality.”

“So what about Warren Jenkins?” she asks, genuinely intrigued.

“Warren Jenkins was business partners with Jack Clark. The two worked for the former Rep. of
this
district,” I say, pointing to the ground. “JD Dothan.”

“He’s the guy who had the stroke?”

“Right. Anyway, I’m not sure of the details, but apparently the people responsible for the border terrorist attack that happened shortly before the last legislative session, had Warren Jenkins killed. And it was not a merciful bullet through the head.”

“And who exactly are ‘they?’”

“That has never been determined. Senator Jackson always maintained that he did not know. And Martinez vanished in Hurricane Dante, on his way to take out Representative Dothan.”

“What happened to Jack Clark?”

“Jack Clark works on campaigns all over the world. He had left to work on one in… England, I think…when all this blew open. If he’d not landed the gig over the pond, he might have ended up like Warren Jenkins.”

“And how did he die?”

“What? Warren? You don’t want to know. It was gruesome.”

“How, Mason? You can’t leave me hanging.”

“You’re one of those chicks who likes the gory horror, aren’t you?”

“I’m not a chick. I’m a woman, and I can handle it.”

“Okay, you asked for it.” Per her request, I tell her the gory details. I regret that choice when I see her face, as I say, “…he bled to death. It took him over a day to die, reportedly.”

“Oh my God, that’s horrible.” After a pause she says, “We need to get back, Mason.”

I follow her down the trail towards the barn, knowing that I’ve blown it.

What a fucking idiot I am, bringing that up.
I can’t help feeling that the only woman for me, ever, is gone. I’ll always be alone.

When I get back to my shitty apartment, I catch Keith jerking off to Internet porn while seated at my desk.

“What the fuck!” I demand, pulling his wheelchair out from it. The only light in the room is the glow of the monitor.

“I’m…I’m…I’m…so sorry, Mason! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to!” he pleads while zipping up.

“Didn’t mean to?”

“The feeling goes in and out of my groin. I had feeling tonight. It’s been so long since I’ve had a woman! I probably won’t ever be able to be with one again.”

“I understand.”

It’s starting to drizzle as I race the long straight highway towards Bowers. I switch the windshield wipers on, but they’re the cheap kind you get at Walmart, and don’t exactly do the job. I’m apprehensive; this is my first drug deal. Yes, I resigned myself to helping Keith, no matter how ill-advised.

I’ve got Skynard’s
Nuthin’ Fancy
stumbling through the speakers.

I’ve never bought drugs before, so I had no idea where to get them. Keith took care of that with a few phone calls—from my landline—to one of his third-rate underground friends. I’m to meet a fellow called Spider Monkey—whatever that means—at a convenience store at the corner of Bowers Highway (the road I’m presently on) and the only cross street in the entire town. I faintly remember the place from when I visited Jules earlier in the month.

The rain intensifies as I move along the highway. I’m nervous.

A downpour ensues as I approach the intersection in question. The wipers are moving so fast, I’m worried they’re gonna fly right off the car. I slow the Expedition. It’s hard to make out, but as I slide into the ergonomically ill-conceived parking lot, I swear I see a cop car parked on the side of the store.
Holy fuck!

Panic grips my chest.
What should I do? Do I drive off and risk suspicion or do I park and go in?
I kill the music. I stop dead in my tracks—frozen stiff. I’m idling in the middle of the lot.

Someone pulls up behind me, headlights off. A horn blows. Then a Wagoneer County Sheriff ’s deputy emerges from the establishment and sees that I’m holding up traffic.

“Hey!” he yells, “make up your mind white Expedition; you’re holding up traffic!” From the passenger’s window I see him pointing at me fiercely.

Is it him? The man who took everything from me?
I throw the car into drive and bolt into a gas stall. I don’t need gas. My heart is racing, but my sense of principle is suddenly enflaming my instinctual indignation. I want to tell this cop to go fuck himself. I turn around in the driver’s seat and see that he’s gotten into his vehicle. The lights come on so I know he’s leaving.
What should I do?

My nerves say,
Split you dumb motherfucker!
My mind says,
You’ve come here for a purpose. You have a responsibility.

The cop pulls out of the parking lot and into the driving rain. Mind overcomes paranoia. I’ve now got my nerve up again. I take a deep breath.

My instructions are to enter the store, buy a pack of Marlboro Golds specifically, and then ask the clerk, “How’s Spider Monkey these days?”

I follow those instructions, and the large Hispanic man behind the counter answers flatly, “He’s in the back.”

The back? I don’t know where the back is! Do I ask? What if he thinks I’m a cop or a narc because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing? I have no choice.
“The back?” I ask.

“Yeah, the back,” he says, pointing to the restroom sign. “You’ll see the men’s and the women’s. It’s the third door with nothing on it. Here’s the key,” he concludes and slides it across the counter. It makes an unpleasant high-pitched scratching sound. I put the smokes in my back pocket and turn towards the restrooms.

“Eh Hoss, you gonna pay for those?” he asks, again flatly.

How bad can this thing go?
I wonder and then turn and I slap a ten on the counter. Without making eye contact with him, I turn and make my way towards the door with ‘nothing on it’.

My hand is shaking as I slide the key into the lock. An image of me gunned down on this nasty, once-white tiled floor, pictured on the front page of the local paper, splatters across my mind. The headline reveals that my boss has had to resign because of me.

The rust-pocked, heavy metal door greases open. I’m met by a single, dim, dirty light.