Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista (53 page)

Those easy days lasted only until the old greenbacks had been swapped for New Dollars, at ten to one.  This momentous change occurred after a two-week “bank holiday” to allow the government to “restructure” the financial system to “ensure fairness and stability.”  (Somehow, “fairness and stability” meant that the banks came first, and ordinary people last.)  Congress also passed “FREMA Two” during the bank holiday, and loans were adjusted and repegged to the new currency, in order to keep the banks solvent.  Once again, their mortgage payments took most of their paychecks.

There seemed to be no way out of the ongoing financial mess.  From month to month, it was impossible for average citizens to make sane financial plans.  While you were looking for another sucker punch, your legs would be cut out from under you.  When you ducked the roundhouse punch of deflation, hyperinflation hit you with an uppercut.  If you had been responsible and saved up a little money, you woke up one fine day and found out that it was now worth one-tenth of the old amount, in crisp new blue dollar bills.

There was no escape.  He would just have to suck it up, and continue to hand over most of his paycheck to the bank.  But what about when he retired, and his pay was cut in half? Job opportunities for a former federal agent would be slim in New Mexico, but he couldn’t move out of state— not while he was caught in the mortgage trap.  If he defaulted and bolted, he’d lose his federal pension.  

Catch-22.

Like millions of Americans, Alex Garabanda was now effectively a slave to the banks because of his debt.  He might not be able to see the steel collar around his neck when he looked in the mirror, but he could feel it every waking minute.

Driving up Camino Del Cielo for the first time in two weeks, he noticed another empty house.  Had the owners sold it, or just taken off? Despite the risk of prosecution under FREMA, he knew that people were still walking out on their bank loans.  So many civilians had lost their corporate salaries and pensions, that the banks had little or no recourse against them when they took off.  Bolters usually had no other assets to go after besides the house, which the bank already owned.  Millions of Americans were voting with their feet, and walking away from their homes.  And no group more than the Anglos fleeing “Nuevo Mexico,” he thought.

Where could they go to begin their lives again, he wondered? He knew there was talk about the Rocky Mountain States and the Deep South being havens for mortgage bolters.  He had heard that retiring federal agents were heading to the so-called “free states” in great numbers.  Some compared the “mortgage migration” to a new internal exodus, debt slaves running away for what they hoped was a new Promised Land.

Millions of formerly solid middle class families were now living in their cars, or in low rent “campgrounds” in tents.  The lucky ones were in recreational vehicles.  It was hard to watch Americans, so recently on top of the world, existing in such grinding third-world poverty.  Who could blame them for taking off, for bolting out of state to escape their debts?

And to think that it had all happened in the space of just two years!

Alex pulled into his driveway, wondering if his remote control still functioned, if Karin hadn’t changed the code.  He pushed the button, and the garage door rumbled, rattled, and rolled up like it always had before.

He had to straighten out the garage before he could pull his car inside.  It was strewn with empty and full boxes, discarded clothes and the rest of the stuff Karin evidently didn’t want or couldn’t take. He unlocked the inside garage door into the house and wandered from room to room, taking stock of the furniture and household goods which she had left behind. The bed and some of their older, cheaper furniture was still in their former bedroom.  She’d left a television there as well, an old 19-inch model sitting on the carpet. He carried it out to the living room and placed it on a battered end table, and plugged it in to catch the local news.  What a day, what a weekend.

What a life.

He twisted the thin plastic handle to open the living room Venetian blinds, and as soon as he did, he noticed the car across the street.  It was an old Chevy Caprice, dark blue.  The four windows were down, and two men were sitting in the front.  He could see that the driver was reading a newspaper.  Alex Garabanda knew what was going on—he’d seen them plenty of times before.  Not these men or this car, but their kind.

They were from the state’s own
Grupo Especial de la Vigilancia
, the Special Surveillance Group.  When they wanted to, they could be halfway professsional, and stay out of sight while conducting their business. Obviously, they had followed him here, and he had not seen them.  Well, he hadn’t been looking…he had other problems on his mind.  Now they were not making any effort at all to hide their presence.  Their intention was only to intimidate him, and serve as a reminder of the state’s power over him.

You’ll have to take a number and get in line, thought the FBI man. Everybody has power over me…

He felt a sudden urge to just walk across the street, pull out his Sig, and blow them both away.  It would be pleasant, amusing really, and it wouldn’t matter much if they drew on him as well.  Who cares? He’d lost his friend and informant yesterday, and his son today.  So what the hell? Why not?  The Sig was still in its holster on the right side, unconcealed now that he had taken his vest off inside the house.  He could simply open the front door, walk a dozen paces toward the street, and start shooting.  

Why the hell not?

The front door was only a few steps away, but he made no move toward it.  Maybe because he was just too tired to care. What possible difference would it make? Why bother? Why shoot those two nobodies? They meant nothing.

He shut the blind, and stood by the window.

Maybe later he’d go back to his apartment, clean it out, and get his things.  He could clear out his furnished one bedroom rental unit in a single trip, if he loaded the Crown Victoria up, if he really packed it in tight. Consolidate.  Get all of his things under one roof. 

Maybe later…if he had the energy.

He wandered into the kitchen, and flipped through a tall stack of mail with no real interest.  There was half of a jug of orange juice in the fridge. Karin was addicted to the stuff, and she spent a fortune on it, when she could find it. He was surprised she’d left it behind, a rare oversight.  But then, she’d probably been staying with the Beast, Gretchen Bosch.  In the back of an upper cabinet, he found an open bottle of Smirnoff, half-full. He poured the entire contents of the vodka bottle straight into the plastic container of OJ.

Alex Garabanda was home.  For what it was worth.

***

Ranya was the only customer
in the combination convenience store and gas station on Tramway Boulevard.  The establishment had no name. There had once been a sign atop a steel pillar, but now the plastic face was missing, revealing only a row of fluorescent bulbs.  Another business with an Anglo name, bowing to the new reality.  A line of parked cars snaked from the gasoline pumps outside and down the side street, evidently awaiting the next fuel delivery.  Professor Johnson’s anemic solar car suddenly seemed less pathetic to her.  At least it was still capable of moving under its own power.

The shop was dirty inside, there was no air conditioning, and the dusty shelves were only half-stocked.  The solitary clerk on duty hardly glanced up to take her money and make change.  She didn’t want to make possibly memorable eye contact with anyone, and so she left her sunglasses and hat on inside the store. 

The cashier didn’t blink when she slid over a crisp blue $500 bill, taken from Basilio’s safe.  Not when a box of donuts cost $39, and a one-gallon plastic bottle of
agua purificada
went for $19.  The total with tax was $73, which Ranya now understood would have been $730 in the old pre-conversion green money.  What the hell had happened to the dollar, in the five years since she had been arrested?  No wonder they had to grow their own food at D-Camp!  She glanced at the bill before it disappeared into the cash register, and saw the smiling face of Franklin D. Roosevelt. Didn’t he say that prosperity was just around the corner, or was that Herbert Hoover?

At the end of the transaction, she still didn’t know if the cashier spoke English or Spanish.  After the recent events, she realized that both sides of the divide had good reason to be guarded about their linguistic leanings. Speaking the wrong language to the wrong person could spark a confrontation, or worse.

Ranya walked back across Tramway against the flashing red light.  It seemed like there was very little traffic, even for a Sunday morning.  The extent and depth of the potholes in the asphalt were beyond anything she had ever seen before.  The road was more a collection of interconnected potholes than pavement.  After drinking some water and checking the area around the playground for any signs of surveillance, she put her shopping bag in the back of the Solaris.  If Basilio Ramos were sending anyone out to search for her, they would be homing in on the professor’s solar-powered wagon.  It was hard to imagine that he would be pursuing her so soon, not with the surprises that she had left for him.  Still, the possibility could not be ruled out, so she took appropriate precautions.

The sun was now above the mountain, and the car was in direct sunlight.  She wondered how long it would take to charge up.  How many hours of sitting in the sun would put how many miles of driving into the batteries?  She locked up the little car, and left it to do a walk-by of the Garabanda house.

In five minutes, she was striding up the sidewalk on the right side of Camino Del Cielo, the opposite side of the street from the Garabanda residence.  The garage at 4875 was now rolled up, and as she drew near, she saw with relief that the dark Ford from the playground was parked inside.  Well, hallelujah, something was going right for a change!  Alexandro Garabanda was home.

Then she noticed a new car parked at curbside directly across from the Garabanda house.  It was an ugly blue American-made four door, facing away from her.  She had been so intent on studying the Garabanda house that she was almost next to the car’s rear bumper before she saw that its windows were rolled down, and two men were sitting in the front seat.  

Her mood went from elation to near panic as the realization hit her that another group was watching the Garabanda house! Shit!  How could that be, unless the Milicia somehow knew about the connection between herself and the Garabandas? Could Basilio Ramos have already recovered from the Libidinol overdose, and sent a posse out after her? But how could he know about her link to the Garabandas? It seemed impossible, but what else could explain the two Hispanic men sitting in a car, directly across from his house? Were they just waiting for her to show up?

Ranya continued up the sidewalk at the same steady pace, her head turned slightly away from the street.  She was dreading to hear the sound of a car engine, or doors opening, or a voice calling to her from behind. She dared not look back, imagining the two men studying her, comparing her to their search profile.  But there was no sound, no shout, no footsteps, and no engine noise as she put distance between herself and the blue sedan. Damn!  Now there was no way that she could approach the Garabanda house, not while there was a team staked out across the street, watching it!

***

The jug of orange juice and vodka
was getting lighter each time that he lifted it from the floor to refill his plastic tumbler.  Orange juice seemed to go with Sunday morning, somehow.  The vodka…well…it was as good a painkiller as any.  

Karin had left his favorite living room armchair.  She’d hated it and had wanted him to throw it out for years.  He was mildly surprised she hadn’t put it out on the curb to be taken away, just for spite.  It was just covered in cheap plaid fabric, but it fit him like a glove from his head to his knees.  When he sank into its padded contours, he was finally, truly all the way home.  The chair had flat hardwood armrests on either side.  They were wide and level, perfect for holding remote controls, paperback books, magazines, snack bowls…or a large glass full of orange juice and vodka.

His pistol always dug into his side in this chair, so he unholstered it and laid in on the right side armrest.  That used to drive Karin mad.  She couldn’t stand to see his pistol out in the open, afraid that Brian would pick it up.  Well, today that was a moot point.  No Brian.  Now he could leave his gun right where it was until the next ice age, and not be nagged about it.

He used the remote to flip between the Sunday morning talking-head shows, while sipping his vodka screwdriver.  The latest Secretary of the Treasury, a weasel-like man with a whiney nasal voice, was explaining the new bank account withdrawal regulations to a skeptical host.  The Treasury Secretary seemed to think that Americans should be grateful that the withdrawal limits were being doubled from their current $4,000 a month maximum.  The catch was that in order to withdraw more than that amount, depositors would have to “invest” an equal matching amount of their New Dollars in “USA Patriot Bonds,” with a minimum ten-year maturity.  This was “a vital element of the NEP, the New Economic Plan,” he said.  “All
real
Americans should welcome the chance to support this vital national recovery effort…”

Alex Garabanda couldn’t stand watching the man, or hearing about the administration’s New Economic Plan.  He clicked the remote control’s “up” button.  TOP News was showing a rubble-strewn crater in the middle of a city street, with burning cars and blasted windows radiating for a block all around it.  A suicide car bomb had gone off on the street outside of the Dearborn Michigan police headquarters. An audiotaped threat had been issued, and was being played.  A foreign-sounding voice demanded that the police siege of the Muslim Quarter of Detroit be lifted immediately, or more car bombs would follow.  In response, the President had issued her own written statement.  “The United States Government will never cave in to threats by terrorists.  Furthermore, the misguided bombers were not acting in the name of true Islam, but only a small, twisted fragment of that great religion of peace. We must not…”