The District Manager (4 page)

Once out to my car, I discover a problem: I’ve never had to get someone crippled into an automobile. It ain’t easy.

As we head east towards H-Town, Keith and I sit silent. We listen instead to the Drive-By-Truckers, a favorite of his. When he doesn’t respond I throw on Son Volt. Still nothing. I roll the volume down after we pass Sealy.

“I got that Butterscotch Strat out of hock several years ago. It’s been sitting in my closet for quite a while. I bet you’d like to sink your fingers into that fretboard, huh?”

“Yeah, maybe. My hands burn all the time now. Nerves.” Not only do I not know what to say but I feel guilty for even bringing it up. Luckily, Keith continues. “I remember you telling me about that. I really appreciate it, Mason. I really do. You’re the only real friend I have. You really are…” Keith starts to tear up and now we both start feeling really uncomfortable.

I stop at a liquor store and buy the sad bastard a cheap bottle of vodka. We continue to my place in silence.

Getting into my apartment is our next challenge, as I’m on the second floor. There is a ramp, but it’s difficult to negotiate. The doorways of my apartment are not cut to accommodate the handicapped.

Keith sits up all night listening to music and quietly weeping. I have to get up for work in the morning so I go to sleep. But before I close my eyes… I worry about how I’m going to tell him about Ann. He thinks she’s away on business. He’s really looking forward to seeing her.

It was hard sleeping without Ann. It still felt unnatural even though I was now crashing on a fresh, smaller mattress. The fact that I knew where she was sleeping every night made it that much harder.

I’d been having some pretty gruesome dreams, of late. But on this night, it was over the top terrible. It was like one of those campy horror movies—only it wasn’t campy.

I awake like I’ve woken from a bad dream. The bad dream I awake from… I don’t remember. Upon waking I turn and find Ann’s softly curved naked body. Her hip is warm and she starts to moan as I caress its crescent. I nestle up against her and we lie in the spooning position. Her bare bottom is pressed against my groin and I’m getting hard. She releases herself from my right arm, which is pulling her tightly into my erection.

She turns around and looks me in the eyes, studying me. After some silence, she speaks in a strange repetitive tone, “Don’t worry, Mason…you’ll get your revenge. I promise, baby, you’ll get your revenge. I promise you, baby, you’ll…” But before she can finish she starts to profusely vomit chunks of blood.

Horrified, I wake. I sit up. This…this was a bad one.

I feel like I’m steeping in something…a hot dampness, not like sweat but more like…!

I fall out of bed and hit the flea infested carpet face-first. I can feel the little fuckers tugging on my legs.

The light through the blinds has faded into a paler shade of purple. I look at the clock: 6:15 a.m. It’ll be light soon. I realize that Keith is in the den. I can hear music faintly playing. He’s passed out with the stereo on.

“Mason…” Keith asks. He’s sipping a cup of coffee as I hurry about, getting ready for work, “Do you know anywhere I can get some weed?”

“What?” I ask, flabbergasted. I emerge from the tiny bathroom with a mouth full of toothpaste.

“Some weed?”

“Jesus Christ, Keith, you know I can’t do that. If I got nailed, not only would I lose my job but I would damage my boss big time!”

“Yeah, I suppose.” He sounds dejected.

“What do you need marijuana for anyway?”

“It helps with the pain.”

“What pain?”

“Why do you think I have those prescriptions, Mason? I live with chronic pain. It’s a medical condition.”

“So weed is supposed to help with that?”

“Yes. It helps more than anything; and, it doesn’t constipate me.”

“I knew you did drugs before prison…but how do you know it works on
this
pain?” I swish water in my mouth.

“Because I smoked in prison.”

“What?” I ask, spitting into the dirty, cluttered kitchen sink.

“That’s right. I smoked in prison. It helped with the pain. It helped a lot.”

“Goddamn, these places are worse than even I thought. How the fuck did you get weed in prison?”

“The guards.”

“The fucking guards?”

“Yeah, that’s right. They sold it to us. It was one of the only things they were useful for.”

“Is this how you used the money I sent you… for drugs?” I ask rhetorically, then comment, “I don’t know, Keith, I was there yesterday and they looked like they wanted us for lunch.”

“Not all the guards sold, only a few. One or two.”

Before I bolt out the door I tell him, “I’ll think about it.”

I have to meet my boss at his place of business in Wagoneer County. The Rep is a financial advisor by profession and his office is across from the county courthouse. When I get there, a strange car is parked where I usually park. I grab my briefcase and hurry inside. I’m late.

“He’s got somebody in his office. I have no idea who he is,” The secretary informs me as I dart past her.

“Ah, Mason, come on in,” he says, standing up from his desk.

“Have you ever met Jack Clark? Jack is a political consultant fresh back from Europe.”

Clark stands up to greet me. He is frighteningly thin and nearly bald. He’s wearing an American flag tie.

“I don’t believe I have. How do you do, Mr. Clark?”

“Call me Jack, Mason. You don’t mind if I call you Mason do you?”

“That’s the handle they gave me, Jack.”

I take a seat next to Jack. We both sit facing the Rep., who sits behind his sprawling, messy desk.

“Jack here was just telling me about England and Amsterdam and…where else did you work?”

“Bulgaria. I worked on the presidential election in Bulgaria. That’s one of the Balkan states.” He turns and addresses me.

“Yes, I know my geography,” I answer.

“Fascinating stuff!” My boss declares. “By the way, Jack and I have been discussing a possible run for Congress.”

“Congress?” I ask. The remark startles me.

“Yes, Congress,” Clark interjects. “The incumbent is very weak. Terrible really. I think your boss has a good shot. Besides, this redrawn House District 100 could revert back to what it was previously if the state loses its lawsuit with the DOJ.”

“That’s right, all these redistricting legal fights with the federal government make campaigning almost impossible because you don’t know where you’re at. That said…Congress is all about raising the money!” the boss interjects.

“We’ll work on that, sir,” Clark concludes. Standing, he shakes our hands, and then excuses himself, leaving the boss and me alone.

“You know, Jack was partners with the late Warren Jenkins.”

“You mean the consultant who was murdered by the cartel a couple of years ago?”

“The very one, although the cartel part was never proved.”

“If I remember correctly, that was pretty gruesome, wasn’t it?”

“Oh yeah, they dressed the sad bastard up in some strange clothing and cut off his balls. Tried to make it look like some deviant sex thing—I don’t really understand. People of your generation know about that kind of shit better than mine.”

“Yeah, that’s right…some kind of S&M thing, but it was a diversion.”

“What the hell does S&M mean?”

“Sadomasochism.”

“See what I mean…?”

“Yeah, I see. The world is pretty sick.”

“It’s always been sick, Mason…it’s just gotten sicker…
and
perverse.” He adds, “Jack might have suffered a similar fate if he hadn’t been hired across the pond. I think it was good for him all the way around. He used to be kind of chubby.”

I’m tiring of this tragedy turned self-help story and want to discuss what was just actually brought up by Jack Clark.

“So what’s the deal with this congressional run?”

“Oh, probably nothing. Just something I’m entertaining; probably a pipe dream.”

“Not if you can get the cash. I agree with Clark, our guy in the Federal House sucks. He’s a fucking patsy for the establishment. And I think you would have difficulty in the old HD 100, that is if it reverts back to the old lines.”

“It’s a two million dollar race, at least.”

“Holy shit!”

“Right.”

“What a joke. Don’t talk to me about representative government and democracy. It’s representation of the wealthy by the wealthy.”

“Pretty much, Mason.” There is a pause. It’s time to get down to business. “So what’s been going on?”

“Well, not a lot. However, I was alerted to an interesting situation in Bowers this past week.”

“Bowers. What’s going on down in Bowers?” he asks, sitting up.

“Well, sir, it appears there’s an illegal dog fighting operation going on.”

“Dog fighting, what kinds of dog fighting are we talking about?”

“If you are referring to what types of dogs are being fought, then it’s pit bulls.”

“Pit bulls, aren’t they super-vicious, with jaws like goddamned bear traps?”

“They definitely have bad ass jaws, but I think they are bred to be vicious because of that very fact. I don’t think they are necessarily vicious by nature.”

“Well this is terrible, Mason! How in the hell did you find out about this?”

“A constituent: a man by the name of Julius Reynolds. A coon ass from the swamp lands.”

“Coon ass? Reynolds doesn’t sound like Louisiana to me.”

“Yeah, I know. By the sound of his voice I thought he was a Yankee, but he’s from New Orleans.”

“That’s an easy mistake to make, Mason. They sound similar. So tell me about this Julius Reynolds fella.”

“Well…”

I proceed to tell my boss all the details, including the part about Bowers Power, Inc.

“That’s interesting, Mason, very interesting indeed. I suggest you proceed with caution. But definitely proceed.”

“As I’ve told you, sir, I don’t know how to proceed, as all other governmental avenues have been exhausted. I guess we are Mr. Reynold’s last resort.”

“Have you tried the attorney general’s office?”

“No. Do you think I should?”

“Not yet, Mason. Before we do that we should try to figure out all we can ourselves…with the help of Mr. Reynold’s of course. Such as, who licenses dog kennels? That might be a good place to start.”

“Well, it would have to be the TDLR.”

“I’m not as good with these damn acronyms as you, Mason; who is that again?”

“The Texas Department of Licensing and Regulation.”

“Good thinking, Mason. See what they have to say. And remember…be discrete.”

Something’s been eating at me since I left the apartment; that something is Keith. I change the subject—again.

“We wouldn’t need so many of these acronyms if we legalized drugs.”

“The TD—whatever the hell they are—they don’t regulate drugs, do they?”

“No sir, if it’s legal then it’s the FDA, with edicts occasionally from the DEA. What I’m talking about is illegal drugs.”