Chapter 7

7.

Jeff pulled his truck into the empty lot across from the shop.  He could still see the lines Henry’s phantom car cut into the gravel and across the grass.  He exited the cab and kicked through the stones looking for something that would tell him who was watching their shop the night before. 

As he surveyed the scene he noticed a red sedan turning off of McFarland.  The sedan slowed as it approached the McRoss facility.  Jeff didn’t recognize the car, nor could he make out the identity of the two occupants who were scrutinizing his business.  As the car pulled into the lot, and then into the disabled space directly in front of the door, Jeff stood by the front of his truck and observed.

“Closed, can we go now?” Jeff heard the driver declare as he emerged from the vehicle.

“Over there,” the other proclaimed as he pointed to Jeff across the street.  Jeff stood a little straighter as he recognized the thug from their dust-up in Atlanta.  “Over there Tony boy.”

“Anthony please,” Jeff heard the other protest as he turned his attention from the building to him and his dark blue truck with McRoss emblazoned on the door.  “Well hold on,” he shuffled his papers and quickly fell in line behind Ericson as he approached Jeff.

Jeff stood straight, but said nothing to the two approaching men.  His face showed no emotion as he studied them and considered the circumstances.  Henry mentioned the afternoon before that the thug flashed his gun in the shop.  He knew anyone dumb enough to reveal he had a gun had no idea how to handle it.  Still, someone holding a gun in any confrontation makes it an armed confrontation.  That was something that needed to be taken seriously.  Jeff sized up the trailing geek and immediately dismissed him as a nonfactor.

“Where’s your boss?  Where’s everyone else?” Ericson shouted to Jeff as he reached the middle of the street.  Jeff stood silently and stared down the man.  “Hey, yo hablo?” Ericson mocked.  As he reached the curb, his eyes suddenly widened, and a grin came across his face.  “Ah, jackass number two.  I didn’t see you here yesterday.  No tire iron around today tough guy.  Or do you have one hidden up your ass?”

Jeff’s hands hung easily at his side.  His face was calm and displayed no appearance of fear, or gave any indication he was under threat of danger.  He merely watched the loud mouth approach as he analyzed every inch of him.  Judging from the distinct right angle cut across his right hip through the loose fitting short sleeved oxford, Jeff noted he was carrying again today.

“Where’s your boss asshole?” he continued to approach, chest puffed out as he reached the bottom of the loose gravel drive.  “Why are you hiding over here?  Where’s your damn boss?  Where is everyone else?  Get your damn boss on the phone.”

Wow, Jeff thought to himself, this guy doesn’t shut up. 

“Do you talk or what?” Ericson said as he stopped about three feet in front of Jeff.  His chin was raised as a sign or aggression, but Jeff noted it only made him look short.

“We’re closed today.” Jeff responded calmly.

“Then what are you doing here?” Ericson poked.

“We were supposed to have a vote here today.” Renovitch piped in, shuffling his papers and adjusting his glasses. 

“I’m sorry, we’re closed.  You’ll have to come back another day.”  Jeff responded calmly.

“Who are you?” Ericson sneered.

“My name is Jeff Grant.  Who are you?”

“What’s your job here?”  Ericson disregarded Jeff’s question, making clear this was his conversation to control.  An uncomfortable silence followed as Jeff calmly looked back and forth between the two men. 

Renovitch stepped past Ericson and extended his hand to Jeff, “My name is Anthony Renovitch.  I’m an attorney with the Economic Justice Collective.  We work with some of the local municipalities to ensure workers’ rights, proper working conditions, equitable wage, reasonable hours…….” he trailed off realizing Jeff had no interest in him.

“And who are you?” Jeff asked Ericson one more time.

“I’m the guy who makes sure this little geek gets what he needs.”

“Hey,” Renovitch turned back to Ericson in protest.  As he began, all three turned their attention to the black minivan that had just turned off McFarland and was heading their way.  The windshield bore a large red circle on the upper left windshield.  Below the circle “60N” was painted in thick black strokes.  They all watched silently as the minivan pulled into the space next to the red sedan. 

Henry’s head popped above the van as he shouted, “Hey, what are you doing over there.”  He paused and squinted at the group. “Oh Jesus, what the fuck are they doing here.”

An arrogant grin spread across Ericson’s face.  “Hey look Tony, my new favorite guy,” he bellowed so Henry could hear him across the street.

Both men began to approach each other to meet in the middle of the street.  Jeff and Renovitch followed.

“What do you want?” Henry shouted back as he walked briskly toward the brute.

“So you tried to skip town, huh?  Didn’t get too far I see.”

“What do you know about it?”

“I see you got branded and stuck back in the corral.”  Ericson kept up a brisk pace toward Henry.  “What are you running from?  Can’t run far ya know.”

“Jeff, what the hell is going on here?”  Henry shouted over the head of the approaching Ericson.  “What are you doing over there?”

The two men reached each other in the middle of the service road.  As Ericson stopped, Jeff walked past him to Henry’s side.  Henry turned to face Jeff, giving Ericson his left shoulder.  “I was checking out the lot, seeing if I could figure out who was snooping around.  Mystery solved I guess,” Jeff shrugged, tilting his head toward Ericson and Renovitch.

“I don’t snoop buddy.  I go where I want.” Ericson sneered back.

“Mr. McRoss, there was a vote scheduled for today,” Renovitch chimed in. 

“No,” Henry responded forcefully, “you had a vote schedule today.  I ignored you.  Now get the hell off my property.”

“Well sir, I think that’s one of the issues.”  Renovitch again pushed forward past Ericson.  He spoke with the cadence and disconnected nature of a college professor.  “When you venture to enrich yourself through the work of others, you necessarily open yourself up to public scrutiny, public oversight, and just the overall public interest in making sure corporations care for our most valuable and vulnerable resources,” he paused and smiled for dramatic effect, “people.” He paused again and raised one eyebrow, seeking acknowledgement from Henry McRoss. “When you open yourself up to use our resource, the public’s resource, can you really expect privacy?  Can you really expect to call this ‘your property’?  Isn’t this really the people’s property?”

Henry turned to Jeff “Get this asshole out of here.”  He turned his back on the pair and began to walk back toward his shop.

“Be part of the solution Mr. McRoss, or get run over.” Renovitch shouted at the retreating Henry McRoss.

Henry spun, his face red with anger.  “I am the God damned solution!”

Ericson began a brisk trot toward Henry, finger extended toward his target. “Listen here asshole, we’re taking this place whether you like it or not.  You’re a dinosaur.” As he reached Henry he jabbed his finger in his sternum.  “You’re done in this country, you’re done!” Henry instinctively shoved Ericson in the chest. 

As Jeff watched the aggressor reset and begin to come after Henry again, he noticed Ericson ball up his fist.  Jeff reached forward and grabbed Ericson’s left shoulder.  As Jeff began to spin Ericson toward him, Ericson raised his loosely fitted shirt and removed his .40 caliber subcompact.  Ericson swung the weapon wide to the right until it was about three inches from Jeff’s nose.  On instinct, Jeff slammed his right hand onto the side of the gun while his left simultaneously made contact with Ericson’s wrist.  Jeff quickly bent Ericson’s hand to a right angle pointing outward.  Ericson shrieked in pain, involuntarily opening his grip allowing the gun to dangle from his thumb.  Jeff pulled Ericson’s arm over his head causing the gun to be flung over his head onto the street.  Ericson’s left hand shot up in an attempt to render aid to the right.  When it reached Jeff’s arm Jeff pulled down hard on Ericson’s right thumb.  The left went limp in submission allowing Jeff to lock both of Ericson’s hands in a vice-like grip high over Ericson’s head.  Jeff extended his right leg behind Ericson and pushed.  Ericson’s feet were flung out from underneath him and he was taken to the ground, his full weight impacting without resistance. 

Renovitch leaned forward to help, but was quickly dissuaded when Henry took a step in his direction.

Jeff dropped his right knee onto Ericson’s chest, further depriving his lungs of air.  Ericson gasped for survival.  Jeff transferred the vice to his left hand, stretching Ericson out helplessly on the ground.  His right knee was inches from Ericson’s throat.  He patted down Ericson’s left side, then switched hands again and patted down his right.  As he switched sides he noticed the growing dark patch on Ericson’s pants.  “Ah, looks like you pissed yourself fat boy.”  Ericson was still gasping.  Finding his wallet Jeff removed it and threw it on the road surface next to his captive’s ear.  While pinning Ericson’s hands over his head with his left hand, Jeff riffled through the wallet with his right, pulling cards out and flinging them to the ground next to the wallet. 

“Joseph Ericson,” Jeff proclaimed, holding the driver’s license up to read.  “Michigan.  What are you doing down here Joseph Ericson?”  Jeff flung the license toward the other cards on the ground.  “You know Joseph,” he continued in a fatherly tone, “I’m not finding a permit in here.”  He tossed the wallet to the side and reached for his own wallet.  With his thumb he removed a white laminated card and held it to Ericson’s face.  “You need one of these,” he bent back the corner of the card and flicked Ericson on the nose, “to carry one of these.”  As Jeff replaced the card in his back pocket he retrieved the Kimber 1911 from the small of his back.  He pointed the gun in Ericson’s face and began to relieve the pressure from his chest.  He slowly lightened his grip on Ericson’s hands.  When he felt Ericson was suitably calm he began to stand, leaving the tough guy on his back in the middle of the road. 

The urine was beginning to wick outward across the front of his pants and down his legs.  The less Ericson feared for his safety, the more shame and anger started to set in on his face.

Jeff returned his weapon to the holster and walked to retrieve Ericson’s pistol from the road surface.  He casually leaned down and picked it up.  “Nice. An XD .40,”  he said while casually inspecting it.  “How much did you pay for this?” 

Ericson did not respond.  He lay defeated on his back.

“I got the M.  Very cool, but a little more money.” Jeff continued as if he were talking to a good friend.  Regardless of the situation, Jeff loved guns and he loved gun talk.  “I suppose if you don’t know how to use the damn thing it doesn’t make a difference if you get the XD or the XDM, huh?”  Jeff pushed in the magazine release and let the magazine fall into his left hand.  “Full metal jacket?  Really Joseph?  A hollow point gives you the take-down power, and they won’t easily go through walls.  More dangerous to the target and less dangerous for everyone else.”  He placed the magazine in his pocket and pulled back the slide slowly.  Nothing came out.  “Are you kidding me Joseph?  You didn’t even have a round in the chamber.  What were you gonna do, hit me with it?”  He tucked the pistol under his arm and removed the magazine from his pocket. 

Ericson moved into a seated position with his back toward Jeff.  Renovitch looked at his compatriot with concern but remained silent.  Ericson would not make eye contact with him. 

As Jeff popped the shells out of the magazine one by one he continued, “Henry, this illustrates the importance of training.”  He shook his fist full of shells over his head.  “I’m all about the Second Amendment, but with rights come responsibilities.”  He shoved the shells into his pocket.  “Right Joseph?”

Ericson sat silently, returning the cards to his wallet.

“Ain’t that right Joseph?”

Henry stood silent, not knowing what to say or even when to jump into the conversation.

Jeff walked around to the front of Ericson and leaned down.  He held Ericson’s gun by the barrel, extending the grip to the defeated man.  “Here you go.”  Ericson hesitated.  “Come on, it’s not mine.  I’m not thief.  It’s safe now,” he encouraged Ericson to take the gun.  As he reached forward to retrieve his gun Jeff continued.  “I’m really sorry I called you fat boy.  Uncalled for.”

Ericson nodded slowly, still refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

“Sorry about the pants too.”  Jeff continued.  “It’s the shock of hitting the ground.  That happens sometime.”  He looked up Henry with a big smile.  “Happened to me in training.  Hard to live down until it happens to the next guy.”  He returned his smile to Ericson.  “Yeah, guy number two doesn’t get as much shit about it.”  Jeff stood up in front of Ericson and extended his hand to help him up.  “Lucky for me I was the next guy.”  Ericson ignored Jeff and continued to organize his wallet.  Jeff shrugged and turned toward Renovitch.  “We’re not voting.”

Renovitch nodded slowly, remaining silent.

“We’re never voting.”  Jeff continued in a quiet, measured tone.  “The guys voted last night and we won.  This is our business.  We work for ourselves.  Our people work for themselves.  We will not be bullied.”

Renovitch continued nodding, nervously straightening the already straightened papers in his arms.

“Henry?”  Jeff deferred to his brother-in-law.

Henry paused briefly and attempted to shake himself back to reality.  His vacant look of amazement began to fade, and visible anger started to return.  “I want you two to get….” His voice increasing in volume as he continued.  Jeff held a hand up to Henry indicating that the battle was over.  It was now time set terms and walk away.  “Ah yeah, I mean,” he stumbled to find the proper attitude, “we’re done with this.  Everyone walks away.  The lift, the beat-down,” he instinctively raised his hand to his swollen face.  “all done.  I’ll run the lift through my insurance.  Let’s just leave it and walk away.”

Jeff turned his back on Ericson and started to walk slowly toward the shop.  Henry followed.  Ericson stood, briefly brushed himself off and began to walk several yards behind. 

Renovitch quickly fell in line.  “Don’t get in the car yet, let me see if there’s a blanket in back you can sit on.”  Jeff suppressed a chuckle.

“It’s a fucking rental,” Ericson murmured in response.

“I don’t know what the insurance covers.”

“Shut up Tony.”

Renovitch sprinted ahead, popped the trunk and began frantically looking.  Ericson went straight for the passenger-side door, opened it and sat down.  “Let’s go,” he bellowed. 

Renovitch poked his head out from the trunk lid and shrugged. “Gross,” he whispered to himself.  He dropped his papers in the truck, slammed the lid and walked to the driver’s side.  Once in the two sat silently, watching Jeff and Henry enter the front door of the shop.  “Well?” Renovitch queried.

“Dead.” Ericson muttered in a low growl.

“Huh?”

“Dead,” he repeated with more malevolence.  “Both of those guys are gonna be dead.”

“Well that’s pleasant.” Renovitch chirped.  “Glad they sent me such a rational guy to help reorganize the world.”

“Those guys are mine.”

“Yeah, yeah, gotcha,” the lawyer dismissed the machismo.  “You do realize the point is to pick off the big companies individually?  This guy is too small.”

“This guy is dead Tony.”

“There are other ways to take care of him.  After the big ones go down the small ones won’t survive.  Just relax.  In time he’ll go down.”

“There are other ways,” Ericson continued, “but we’re not waiting.  I don’t need your help.  We tried your law crap.  Now we go the easy way.”

“Whatever,” Renovitch started the car.  “This isn’t my district.  You’re welcome to it.”

West of Cumming, just off State 20 near a large Baptist church, a subdivision had been cut into the rolling wooded hills of Cherokee County.  The northern portion of the neighborhood was growing fast.  The southern portion, only in predevelopment, consisted of dirt roads and clay lots defined by dirty stakes adorned with pink plastic streamers.  These lots held various quantities of construction waste dump by the builders from the completed lots on the other half of the neighborhood.  The two sections were separated by a thick Georgia pine stand. 

Further to the west lay a large farm whose main house and out buildings were located off Chamblee Gap Road.  The farm’s large fields were irregular in shape, surrounded by more thick pine stands, and accessed by paths cut between each.  This was the farm owned by Karl Molving, grandfather of Marcus Tanner’s best friend from 4^th grade, Tom Molving.  Marcus had spent many afternoons riding dirt bikes along the paths skirting the cash crops.  Just a couple years prior the farm had extended into the present subdivision.  Eventually the price was so good even Grandpa Molving couldn’t turn down the offer.  He sold off 40 acres, farming the remainder until the market was ready to consume that too.

Marcus had parked his car at the western end of the cul-de-sac and walked through the path cut into the trees.  He had the child’s back pack slung over his left shoulder.  Despite his confidence in the location, he remained self-conscience of the princess pink.

Emerging from the path into the eastern most of Molving’s remaining wheat fields; he found a dry patch with matted grass.  He laid the backpack down and began to fish out its contents.  He placed the gun at a neat right angle to the trees, two magazines lined up under the barrel, then the box of ammunition.  He pondered the objects in front of him and began to make his plan.  He needed to be a self-taught expert by night fall.  If not an expert, he thought to himself, at least competent and not afraid of the weapon. 

He removed his smartphone from his front jeans pocket and opened the YouTube app.  He hoped to find some online instruction to help guide him.  In the past he’d used YouTube to learn a few yo-yo tricks, some skateboarding moves, and even how to wire a line of firecrackers to the starter of someone’s car.  Why not the proper use of a handgun?  He entered his search terms “how to load a gun” and waited patiently.  The “working” indicator at the top of the screen continued to turn, with no apparent result.  The internet had been down since the power outage.  It appeared that it had not yet returned.  Marcus slumped his shoulders in defeat and returned the phone to his pocket, resigned to the reality that he was on his own in this endeavor.

He looked over the new acquisition one more time, sighed, and lowered himself to his knees.  He grabbed the gun by its grip, keeping the barreled pointed in the general direction of the tree line.  He turned it back and forth, inspecting both sides and the top.  The gun was black.  The left side bore large letters etched into steel that spelled out “KAHR”.  Below that in smaller letters was scrolled “Kahr Arms, Worcester, MA.”  CM9 was etched into slide near the end of the barrel.  He bobbed his right hand up and down, getting a feel for the weapon.  Its weight felt nice in his hand.  He smiled; he felt empowered.

He set the gun back down and picked up both magazines.  One had a plastic, vaguely triangular piece attached to the base.  He wasn’t sure of its purpose.  He pushed his thumb into the magazine depressing the plastic inside, releasing it and letting it push his thumb back out.   He set the one without the plastic triangle back on the ground and grabbed the gun.  He pushed the magazine in through the grip. It stopped halfway in, leaving the triangle pointing inelegantly to the back of the gun.  He decided not to force it, paused, inspected the weapon, then smiled slightly as he recognized the problem.  He removed the magazine, flipped it over so the triangle faced forward and pushed it back in.  It slid easily this time, showing slight resistance near the end.  Marcus applied a little more pressure and the magazine clicked into place.  He again gripped the gun tightly, extended his right arm in front of him and looked down the sights.  His pinky was supported by the little plastic triangle at the base of the magazine.  The rear of the grip ended midway down his palm. 

He brought the gun back down and held it sideways in his open palm.  With his left hand he gave a tug to the magazine.  It wouldn’t budge.  He inspected the gun, ultimately noting a spring loaded button south of the trigger.  He pushed that and the magazine sprang from the grip. 

He next inserted the shorter magazine and “retested”, pointing the gun out in front of him, looking down the sights at the imagined bad guy.  He decided he liked the extra length on the grip, discarding the shorter magazine in the backpack.

Next he tugged on the slide like he had seen in movies.  The spring action was firmer than he anticipated.  It took some effort to draw it back fully.  As he let it slide gently forward he caught the fleshy part below his thumb in the gap between the slide and the barrel.  The instant he felt the pain his left hand reflexively let the slide go, tightening the guns hold on his palm.  He squealed slightly as his eyes widened from the pain.  He couldn’t get a decent grip on the slide, so he resorted to brute strength in removing his flesh from the trap.  Once release he dropped the gun and shook his hand furiously in pain and frustration.  “Don’t do that again,” he admonished himself. 

His hand still smarting, he looked the gun over one more time, noticing the serration at the rear of the slide.  Clutching that portion between his thumb and base of his index finger, he drew back the slide and let it return without injury.  He had learned his lesson.

He next returned the empty magazine to the grip and pulled back on the slide.  This time the slide stayed open.  He fidgeted with the gun until he found the slide release lever on the left side.  Pushing hard on the lever, the slide banged forward into position.  The force of the slide nearly spun the gun out of his hand.  He made a mental note, magazine in, slide locks open, magazine out slide moves freely.  He pulled the slide back to lock several more times, looked down the barrel and activated the release.  The gun slammed forward.  He felt like he was playing a part in an action movie. 

Once that fantasy was satisfied, he removed the magazine and lay both the gun and the magazine in front of him, the magazine lined up below the grip as if it were about to be pushed into place.  He did this so he could visualize which direction the bullets should face.  Once he figured that out he removed the box of ammo, 50 rounds of 9mm.  The brass glinted in the sunlight.  He shook the rack; it clicked in unison like a tray full of ball bearings. 

He maneuvered the magazine into place and forced the first round butt-first against the pressure of the spring-loaded plastic stop.  Once in place he forced the next on top, and then the next until he had forced 8 rounds on top of each other.  The spring would give no more. 

He carefully returned the magazine to the gun.  He surveyed the empty field, and considered his surroundings.  He scanned about 20 feet in front of him to a dirt clod laying at the edge of the plow-line.  He raised the gun, looked down the sights, braced himself for the kick and slowly pulled the trigger back.  A rush of excitement flowed through Marcus’ and his blood ran cold.  He was rewarded with a slight click.  Nonetheless, he blinked hard, imagining a more violent response.

Confused, he pulled the trigger again, but it wouldn’t move, locked tightly back.  He gripped the slide and drew it back.  Looking into the chamber he saw the round drawn upward, and easily slid into the barrel. 

Understanding now, he pointed the barrel at the clod of dirt and pulled steadily on the trigger.  The explosion of the 9mm round cut through the air.  His ears rung, but the thrill of the kick and burst of dirt several yards in front of him sent a wild energy coursing through him.  He scanned the horizon quickly, then located another benign target in the field.  Quickly he squeezed off another two rounds.  Counting in his head, he located another dirt clod and sent the last 5 rounds into the ground.  The slide locked open as he kept wrenching on the locked trigger. 

Recognizing that the fun had ended, he drew the gun down.  A foolish grin crept across his face.  He was tempted to reload and have another go, but thought better of it.  The report of 9mm rounds might have been lost in the hillside and trees, but if not, the rapid succession of each could not be mistaken for a backfiring car.  He thought it would be best to pack up and make himself scarce. 

He removed the magazine and tossed it in the bag along with the gun.  He closed up the box of ammunition, a row and a half shy of a full box, and threw that in with the rest of his goodies.  He looked forward to the day things got back to normal.  He just identified a new hobby and he wanted to do it somewhere he didn’t have to worry.

Marcus slung the backpack over his right shoulder and slid back through the opening in the trees.  He would no longer be a helpless bystander.  He was an armed protector.

Chapter 6

“How much sleep did you get?”

“I got none Jeff, not a second,” Henry stormed past his brother-in-law into his house.

“Lisa made you some sandwiches,” Jeff shouted in after him.  “She wanted to do a tuna fish, but I told her they stink up the other ones.”  He paused looking at the brown paper bag in his hand.  He knew Henry was worried to the point of being slightly irrational.  He was definitely irritable.  Jeff wasn’t sure what he should say to calm his friend. 

Henry reemerged from the garage service door with a small carry-on-sized suitcase.  “I’m sorry to give you Max again, but I should be back in a couple days.”

“What if you don’t come back?”

Henry placed the case in rear of Karen’s black minivan. “Then congratulations, you own a dog.”  He slammed the rear door shut.

“No, seriously Henry.  What if you guys don’t come back.”

“Why wouldn’t we come back Jeff?” Henry snapped back.  “Why on earth wouldn’t we come back?”

Jeff propped the bag of sandwiches on the passenger side windshield wiper and walked to the rear of the van.  “Suppose this is something big.  Suppose the police don’t come back.  Would you rather live down here in urban hell or up there in north woods paradise?  I know what I’d choose.”

“What do you mean something big?  Come on Jeff, get real.”  Henry shook his head and started back into the house.

“Well maybe we should go with you,” he said with earnest concern.  “That’s all I’m saying.”  Jeff shouted back into the house to his brother-in-law.

“Good morning Jeff!” chirped the platinum blonde next-door neighbor from her driveway.  Jolene Platz had lived in the neighborhood with her orthopedic surgeon husband Dan, before Karen and Henry bought their place.  Dan and Jolene divorced a year after Henry moved in.  From the gossip Karen heard, Jolene discovered Dan was having an affair with one of the receptionists at his clinic.  It couldn’t have come as a surprise to Jolene; that was how she wrested Dan from the arms of his first wife Wendy.  Apparently Jolene could not abide being bested by a younger, prettier woman.  Much to Dan’s chagrin, Jolene hired Wendy’s divorce attorney and secured a nice settlement for her efforts, including the large house on the golf course.

Dan’s relationship with the receptionist didn’t turn into marriage like it had with Jolene.  In fact, Dan was a frequent visitor to his old home.  Jolene was fine with their current arrangement.  The maintenance payments were a redundancy given Dan still bought anything Jolene desired.  She reaped all of the benefits of being a doctor’s wife while retaining the privilege of playing the field.

“Good morning Jolene,” Jeff turned to see her prancing across the front lawn toward him. She was dressed in a light silk robe loosely tied in the front to reveal a leopard print nightgown cut a little too high for a public street.

Lisa was terminally annoyed by Jolene’s obvious advances on her husband.  Of all the husbands in the neighborhood, she seemed to set her sights on the ex-military man.  Jeff liked to play into the flirtation as much as possible in front of his wife.  He thought it kept her on her toes.  When Lisa wasn’t around, however, he became visibly uncomfortable in Jolene’s presence, worried she’d mistake his comical flirtation as true reciprocation.

“Did you have an exciting night last night?” She asked, still charging toward Jeff.

“It was a little concerning, yeah.  How about you, did you have an exciting night?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe.”  Jeff regretted taking her bait.  She sidled up next to him at the rear of the van and began her tale of “The Night Crystal Lost Power”, along with everyone else.  “Well, I was so scared about those riots.  And then the lights went off.  And Dan was at the hospital so he wasn’t home.”  She continued to ramble.  “I tried to call him, and my cell wouldn’t work.  And then our house phone wouldn’t work.  And then…” she exaggerated the word “then” and let it hang for effect.  She patted her right hand on Jeff’s chest.  Yep, still very muscular she thought to herself.  “and then……” she paused once more, “then the lights when out.”

“Well I think that was all pretty much at the same time Jolene.”  Jeff said awkwardly.  “I think the power went out when the lights went out.  I think it all went out at the same time.”

“And I was so scared.” She ignored his correction and continued telling her story as if it was unique to her.  “Oh Jeff, I get goose bumps just thinking about it.  Just look,” she placed all her weight on Jeff’s chest and separated the front of her robe lifting her exposed right thigh for Jeff to inspect.  His eyes went wide as he stammered for something to say.

“Good morning Jolene.” Henry said as he walked through the door into the open garage.  He shot Jeff a caustic look as he walked past the pair.

“Oh good morning Henry,” she smiled and batted her eyelashes.  “I was just showing Jeff my thigh.”

“I’m helping Henry pack,” Jeff blurted out, jumping back from Jolene.  The quickness of the move caused her to lose her balance and fall forward indignantly onto Karen’s minivan.

“Jesus Jeff,” she shouted as she regained her balance.  “That’s no way to treat a lady.”

“No way at all,” Henry interjected, rolling his eyes at Jeff.

“Karen made you sandwiches.”  Jeff attempted to change the subject. 

“Yeah, you told me that already.  No Tuna.  I heard you.”

“Where are you going Henry?”  Jolene regained her composure.

“Wisconsin.  Karen and the girls are up with her parents and they can’t get a flight out.”

“Dan called this morning.  He was heading home from the hospital,” she still referred to it as his home.  “He says 400 is completely backed up.  There are military checkpoints at almost every exit.  I think they’re trying to make sure they keep the riots downtown.”

“You got a call through to him?”  Henry asked in dismay.

“Well yeah, once the power went back on, I….”

Henry ignored the rest of what she was saying and ran back into the house. 

“What’s his deal?” Jolene asked Jeff.

He was still trying to recover from the thigh incident.  “Don’t know.  Anyway Jolene, what happened next?”

Henry came back out with the phone to his ear.  After a second, he grimaced, “Same message Jeff.  Same message.  Why doesn’t my phone work?”

“Maybe it’s not your phone.”  Jeff thought out loud.  “Jolene, go get your phone.  Henry call Jolene’s house.”

Jolene shrugged and walked back to her house.  As she reached her front door she shouted back to the pair, “It’s ringing.”

“Go answer it Jolene,” Jeff ordered.

“It didn’t ring at all when I called Karen.  Just that message.”  Henry stood silent, looking to the sky as he waited for Jolene.  His eyes lit up when she answered.  “Thanks.”  He hung up the phone and called his wife again.

Jolene walked through the front door with her cordless phone in her hand.  “What’s going on?”

“He can’t get through to his wife’s phone but yours works.”

“Same message dammit.”  He cursed.

“Maybe it’s cells.”  Jeff again thought allowed.  “Jolene, can you get your cell?”

“I’m on a cell Jeff.  That’s not it.”  Henry concluded.

“Maybe it’s cell to cell?”  Jeff tried again.  “Please go get it Jolene.”

The two waited in the driveway.  “You’re lucky Lisa wasn’t over here.”

“You’re telling me.”  Jeff conceded.  “Did you see that?” 

“How could I miss it.  A little obvious.”

“Yeah, Lisa better watch out.”  Jeff said proudly.

“You better watch out.”  Henry admonished. 

“Got it!”  Crystal declared, her robe completely open and waving in the breeze for all the neighbors to see.  Henry looked at Jeff and shook his head.

“What’s your number Jolene?”  Jeff asked.

“770-742-8900”

Henry punched in the numbers and Jolene’s phone immediately rang.  “What the hell is going on?  How can they just block me and my wife.”

“Call her parents,” Jolene joined in on the detective work.

Henry nodded and gave it a try.  “Same message.”

“Maybe it’s long distance,” Jeff opined.

“I’ve got to get going.”  Henry said, resigning himself to the situation.

“Don’t go back through town!”  Jolene restated her warning.

“Sandwiches,” Jeff reminded for the third time.

The midmorning sun crept through the closed drapes, drawing a line across the light-carpeted floor.  The room contained one leather recliner and a small wooden table upon which sat a large flat-screen television.  The open floor plan led through to the sparse kitchen.  A few empty bottles of beer were lined up neatly on the counter next to the side of the refrigerator.  An empty circle of cardboard sat on the extended cutting board, the only remaining evidence of a frozen pizza consumed the night before.

In the back room, a suitcase laid open on the floor next to a wooden chair.  Some clothes were neatly folded in the case; others hung over the back of the chair.  A dark blue wool blanket was affixed over the large window, held into place by a row of thumb tacks pushed into the new drywall.  The black digital clock displaying 9:58 sat on the carpeted floor, its face turned toward the wall.

Joey Ericson lay snoring on the mattress on the floor.  He was wrapped tightly in blankets to fight the chill of the air conditioning system which he had set to 66 degrees.  In his mind, it was easier to fight the cold than beat the heat.  For the first time since his arrival he had enjoyed an uninterrupted night’s sleep. 

When he agreed to help with the Atlanta project he was promised a nice accommodation.  He even helped the district supervisor pick the condominium.  They settled on a gated community of single-story units, nicely landscaped private back yards, each with a built-in grill and hot tub.  In almost all respects it was much nicer than Ericson’s ranch home back in Ann Arbor, Michigan.  Unfortunately, he did not realize his temporary paradise was only a couple miles west of Hartsfield-Jackson Airport.  During his first two weeks the locals assured him he would eventual get used to the jets roaring overhead.  He never did.  Not only was the air workers strike an essential part of the project, it was a Godsend to Ericson, allowing him to catch up on some much needed sleep.

 The line of sunlight crept slowly across the bed toward his exposed face.  He winced as it came in contact with his closed right eye.  He rolled over to his back and stretched, emitting a long and low groan. 

Even though he’d been in Atlanta for a little over a month, he still had to familiarize himself with his surroundings each time he awoke.  Once he regained his bearings, he pawed the floor next to him searching out the digital clock. “Shit!” he exclaimed, jumping from the covers and darting for the bathroom in one fluid movement.

He planned on picking up Renovitch from the district office at 11:00 and be at McRoss by noon.  He only had a half hour to shower, eat and get to the office.  It would be tight.  As he jumped into the cold shower he hoped Renovitch had completed all the necessary paperwork.

Henry decided to take Jolene’s advice and stay off 400.  He worked his way up to Highway 20, then began travelling westward to the interstate.

It all seemed to work well for him until he got within a few miles of Canton.  Westward traffic began to slow while east bound traffic seemed to be moving fine.  At first there were as few slow-downs, then some brief stop-and-starts.  Eventually the traffic just ceased moving.  Every few minutes the line would creep ahead a few car lengths then stop.

Henry nervously tapped his dashboard along with the music on the radio.  Still, the vehicles coming in the other direction were not held up.  They moved quickly to the east.  As they passed, he began to take note that some of those vehicles had a large red dot painted on the windshield in the upper corner of the passenger side.  Under each dot was a large black number.  He noted Most vehicles had a 28 or 58.  He also saw an occasional 80 pass by. 

After slow moving down Highway 20 for about a half hour he noticed some folks in front of him began to exit their vehicles and congregate into small groups.  When the line lurched forward they would jump back in their cars, move ahead 20 feet, then regroup.  After this occurred a few more times Henry decided he was not getting anywhere fast, he might as well join them.

After Henry stepped out of Karen’s minivan he heard a woman call from the pick-up truck behind him, “What’s going on?  What’s the hold up?”  Henry shrugged in response and jogged to the group of people gathered beside the car in front of him.

As Henry got within ear shot a man wearing a dark suit and bright tie made eye contact with him, “We have no idea.” The man shouted at Henry.  “We’re trying to figure it out.”  The rest of the group turned to greet him as he slowed to a brisk cantor.  Henry noted there was always a certain sense of camaraderie in mutual inconvenience.

“Any word from the front of the line?”  Henry asked.

“Nothing,” a nice looking middle aged lady responded.  “We were debating stopping the cars in the other direction, but they all seem to be moving pretty quickly.

What’s with the numbers?” Henry asked.

“We don’t know anything.” The business man yelled over Henry’s shoulder to the pick-up truck lady jogging toward the group.

“Moving again!” said an elderly black lady.  She stepped into the vehicle right next to the group.  The rest scatter up the line to return to their rides.  Henry and the pick-up truck lady returned to their vehicles.  The line pulled forward, moving Henry just about to the spot he had previously stood.  He placed his car in park, then jogged back up to the old ladies car.

Renovitch stared at the small stack of ballots on his desk.  Under the ballots was a thin manila folder.  He placed his hand on the ballots and tapped his index finger slowly, but steadily.  He continued tapping, watching the second hand on the white office clock tick slowly by. 11:09. Nearly ten minutes late. He thought to himself.

At 11:14 he finally heard the loud mouthed Ericson enter through the reception area.  “Hey Kim, missed you last night, thought you said you were coming out?”  he boomed.  Since Kim spoke at the volume of a normal human, Renovitch could not hear her response to the obvious come on.  “I feel like shit this morning.” Ericson bellowed to no one in particular. 

“Hey Tony,” he exclaimed and he jumped through the door.  “You ready for this?”

“I was ready fourteen minutes ago, yes.” Renovitch retorted dryly.

“Well then, let’s get our shit together and get out of here.” Ericson dodged the barb.

Renovitch didn’t’ move.  “Sit down Joe.”

“Joey.” Ericson corrected.

“What?” Renovitch spat back.

“Joey.  My name is Joey.  You called me Joe.”  Ericson took a seat across from Renovitch.

“Whatever.”  He shook his head in mild frustration and continued.  “I don’t think this is a good idea.  This guy hasn’t been a problem up until now.  We’re just pushing when we don’t need to.”

“Look, Carl was my guy.” Ericson leaned forward across Renovitch’s desk.  “Carl came down from Michigan with me.”  He jabbed his finger into the desk with each syllable.  “And now he’s laid up in a hospital bed because of these rats.”

“We don’t pick fights with people because your idiot friend decided to jump on the back of a pick-up truck.  It’s not our problem.”

Ericson stood and placed his hands flat on Renovitch’s desk, leaning forward menacingly.  “I was brought down here for a reason.  I organize people.  I’m good at it.  And you all need me.  Now,” he paused for affect, leaning in a little closer to Renovitch, “when someone hurts one of my people, I hurt back.” 

“How very tough of you.”  Renovitch said, completely nonplused.  “Let me clarify something for you.”  Apparently someone above me likes you, which I find very difficult to believe.  Nontheless, I have been asked to follow through on the McRoss acquisition.  The understanding is that once complete you will get back to work on the South Fulton campaign.”

Ericson sat back in the chair across from the desk and folded his arms over his chest. 

“Is that understood?”  Renovitch pushed.

Ericson stared back with a slight smile.

“Is that understood?”  Renovitch tried again.

Ericson uncrossed his arms and leaned back in toward the desk.  “I know who I work for.  I know what I can and can’t do.  I’ve been doing this shit a lot longer than you have.  While you were busy preaching, or theorizing, I’ve been doing it.  I’m allowed to take McRoss not because I’m given a little treat for my loyalty.  I’m taking McRoss because that’s the way to keep people following.  When you get shoved you don’t just shove back.”  He leaned further in and let the words hang in the air for a moment.  “You destroy!”  He roared directly into Renovitch’s face. 

“Now get your shit together and let’s get out of here,” he said casually as if the confrontation hadn’t just occurred.  With those words he pushed off the desk, turned toward the door and began walking out between the cubicles. 

Marcus stared at his right forearm, mentally playing connect-the-dots with his freckles.  Summer always brought them out in full bloom, accentuating his ginger complexion.  He could hear the cars through the trees passing quickly by park.  He sat on the top of the picnic table, head down nervously tapping his foot on the bench.  The parking lot nearest the picnic area was empty except for Marcus’ car.  Occasionally he lifted his head to quickly scan the park.

The phone in his hand buzzed with a text message.  “U thr?”  With one deft hand he quickly replied “yup.”  After a quick second the phone buzzed back. “2 secs.”

Marcus put his phone back in his pocket and stood up from the picnic table.  He placed his hands on his hips and squared his shoulders in an attempt to look menacing.  It did not work.

Within the minute a silver/green rusted Kia coupe scrapped across the parking lot apron and sped across the lot, taking the empty space closest to the park pavilions. The engine rumbled to a stop and the driver, a lanky boy with greasy long dark hair, bounced out of the driver’s seat.  “Hey Marco!” he shouted, waiving wildly.  Marcus frowned and nodded uncomfortably.

The greasy kid half jogged to Marcus’ side, “So, do you have it?”

“$200, right?”

“Yep, $200.  Please don’t count it here Tim.”

“He’s gonna want it counted, but he can count it in the car.”  Tim said, indicating to the shadow seated in the front passenger seat. 

Marcus handed over a binder clip with ten 20 dollar bills pinched tightly in half.  “Whatever, just hurry up please.”

Tim ran back to the car.  Marcus watched the two shadows through the glare in the windshield.  Tim flipped the passenger Marcus’ clip.  The passenger opened the clip, counted the money, then passed Tim a small children’s backpack.  Tim jogged back over to Marcus.  “Here you go, backpack is complimentary.”  He flashed Marcus a goofy smile.

“Nice.”  Marcus shook his head, wondering how he could explain having something so stupid.  “Bullets?”

“No, bullets are extra.”

“Bullshit Tim, you said everything for two hundred.”  Marcus began walking toward the car.  He noticed the passenger sit up in his seat.

Tim held up his hand indicating for Marcus to stay put.  “Hold on, hold on,” he said as he jogged back to the car.  He opened the driver’s side door and stuck his head in.  Marcus could see the passenger wagging his finger at Tim.  Tim pointed toward Marcus, then at the floor of the Kia, then back to Marcus.  He stood and shrugged, then slouched back toward the car.  Marcus wasn’t sure if he was pushing his luck.  He contemplated taking the backpack and slipping into the woods.  Before he could make a move he saw the passenger throw Tim a box. 

Tim jogged back toward Marcus.  “Fifty rounds of 9.  Don’t blow it all in one place.”

“Thanks Tim.  Please keep your mouth shut about this.”

“That’s just good business Marco,” he smiled, clicked his cheek and flashed him the two-fingered-pistol-salute.  He returned to the waiting car, backed out of the parking space and sped from the lot. 

Marcus went to one knee and opened the front pocket of the backpack.  He placed the brick of ammo in the pocket and zipped it shut.  He then opened up the main compartment and looked in.  The pink fabric of the backpack illuminated the black gun inside.  Marcus instantly shivered; a cold sweat broke out on his back as he contemplated the new world he had just entered.