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MOMMA ROSE PATTED ME on the shoulder and said, “Good luck,” which sounded more like “My condolences,” and left the room. Franklin Rogers invited me to sit in one of two chairs while he dropped into a seat on the couch facing me. The leather creaked when I shifted, but the cushions cradled my ass with tender, loving care.
“So tell me about yourself, Joe.” Rogers crossed his legs and lounged one arm on the back of the sofa. His attitude indicated he would find every word I spoke fascinating, and there was no one else in the world he’d rather hear from right now than Joseph Warren.
“Nothing much to tell.” I gave him an edited version of my life to date. I left out the major felony at Huateng Tower but included the bit about being arrested and jailed with Millie and her gang. I stumbled a little when I spoke of Chelle’s death—or conversion to Revivant. I wrapped with, “So that’s how I wound up enjoying your hospitality.”
Before he could ask another question, I hit him with one of my own. “So what’s the deal here, with this place? You... your guys out front all dressed alike... this building... I mean, it ain’t exactly how I always pictured Cabrini-Green.”
“The short version or the long one?” Rogers pursed his lips and consulted a real old-fashioned wristwatch—a timepiece and not a netphone—with a steel band and a complex face, filled with dials. “The short one would be best.”
He cleared his throat and tilted his head to study the ceiling. “What you see today is the result of a two-hundred-year-old attempt to free my people from slavery. The Civil Rights movement, desegregation, and an enlightened population sowed the seeds of true freedom for the African-American. And then...” Rogers aimed a forefinger at me like a gun. “We got the Great Society, which added some addictive drugs that destroyed the black family, destroyed our incentive to better ourselves, and created a cycle of dependency. You don’t believe me?” he asked before I’d said a word. Rogers bounded up and sprang to a bookcase. He ran his finger along a row of books before selecting the one he wanted, which he brought back and dumped in my lap. “Here.”
Rogers and de Galvez were made from the same cloth. Born lecturers.
“Black and Tired,” I read from the spine, “Essays on Race, Politics, Culture, and International Development.”
“Dr. Anthony Bradley. A prophet. And here’s another: Liberty Versus the Tyranny of Socialism by Walter Williams.” Rogers resumed his seat after dropping another book in my lap. His butt barely touched the edge of the couch, as if he would leap into action at any moment. “So what happened to people of color?”
Something Alex de Galvez said during one of our jail-time debates came back to me. “They voted for the party that would give them the most stuff.”
“Hah! True that. No, the cycle of dependence began. No fathers in the home, generation after generation of restless, angry young men in gangs. Drugs, violence, and ignorance characterized neighborhoods like Cabrini-Green for many years thereafter. To the point that here, at least, the authorities have written us off. Sealed the border and said, ‘You stay there and we’ll stay over here.’ ‘Let the inmates run the asylum’ was their new motto. Well, we did.”
Rogers’ eyes glittered. It was obvious he’d been dying to tell someone this story. Oh, lucky me.
“Generalize much?” I quipped.
“A small group of my people,” Rogers continued past my question, “grew disenchanted with the promises and the lies and—guided by thought leaders like Ben Carson, Thomas Sowell, and Walter Williams—developed a new paradigm for the black man. We gathered our resources behind the scenes, consolidated power and made plans. Thirty years ago, I was a major in the US Army and one of twenty such men hand-picked by our leaders to reclaim our people’s dignity. At the right time, we invaded Cabrini-Green, Mr. Warren. Infiltrated it, set up an ops base, brought in logistical support, and we kicked the living shit out of the bangers, building by bloody building. Since we began, we have taken over two-thirds of the C-G Zone of Operations. We established our own democracy, elected leadership, created jobs, laws, and the infrastructure to put my people back on their feet.”
“Democracy, huh?” I couldn’t keep the disbelief out of my voice. “Sounds more like a military dictatorship.”
“At first it was,” Rogers admitted. He didn’t seem bothered by my challenge in the least. “Order and safety were more important, as was changing the culture to one of self-sufficiency and enlightenment. The process is far from over, young man. Even here, where we have held elections for the past fifteen years, our people sometimes revert to their old habits. However...” He held up a finger to quell my objection. “However, I have relinquished my authority to our duly elected leadership. They decide what happens in matters related to internal discipline, law enforcement, and what have you. In fact, you had the pleasure of enjoying the company of our highest elected official, the Honorable Ms. Dalrymple.”
“Momma Rose? Momma Rose is the... what?”
“Mayor.”
“Mayor of Cabrini-Green?”
He grinned, well-pleased with himself and my surprise. His eyes shifted to a spot behind my head. “Yes?”
I twisted to find a young, fresh-faced man in the doorway, wearing the black-on-tan uniform of Rogers’ soldiers. “Visitors, sir,” he said.
“Excellent, son, thank you. Please, show them in.”
Rogers stood, as did I. My heart thudded, and I had to put my hands in my pockets to control a small tremor. I wished I’d asked Momma Rose to let me take a bath; I was keenly aware of my own sweat. Footsteps and murmured voices sounded from the hall.
Millie came in first, followed by the giant, John Marsh. Tim, the walking hairball, brought up the rear.
“Hey, Millie!” I plastered on a megawatt smile and held out my hand. “Great to see you!”
Millie paused in the door, scanned me from head to toe, and ignored my hand. Her mouth pinched shut, like a woman who’d bitten into a sour apple and didn’t know where to spit it out. “Joe Warren,” she said. “They told me you were here, and I still didn’t believe it. What possessed you?”
“I’m... I, uh—”
“We were waiting for you, Millie,” Rogers interjected, “so we could address that very subject.” To the soldier by the door he said, “Bring some coffee, would you, Mr. Perkins?”
“Hello, Sasquatch,” I greeted Marsh, who at least acted glad to see me and shook my hand. Tim glowered with radioactive distrust, and I left him alone.
Millie circled the long way around me and hugged our host, telling him how wonderful it was to see him again, and how much she’d missed his company. Rogers returned her warmth with a charming line of bullshit. Together, they gave off uncle-and-favorite-niece vibes. I studied her while they spoke; this was the first time I’d seen Millie outside of county lockup.
Tinkerbell leads the resistance. This is who Ramirez is afraid of?
The top of her blond head didn’t reach Rogers’ chin, and wearing a short-waisted denim jacket and a white T-shirt and jeans, she could have doubled for a high school teen playing hooky. Or a gymnast, as her sturdy, compact body exuded vitality and athletic strength. Maybe because all the jailhouse drugs were out of my system, it came as a surprise for me when I noticed the round firmness of her ass filling the cotton seat of her jeans. A mental image of that same butt, naked and wet in the communal shower, flashed into my head. Oh, hello. My dormant dick lurched awake. Lucky me, with my hands already in my pockets, I could shift my badly timed interest to a safe place.
“Sit, sit, sit,” Rogers commanded when Perkins brought a carafe and cups, along with sweetener and creamer packets, and deposited everything on the low table between us. “Coffee, anyone?”
I settled into my chair, Rogers settled on the couch. Millie sat beside him with John anchoring her left side. Tim plopped his hairy butt into the chair next to me, on my right. Nothing was said as we all went through the sacred ritual of coffee preparation. In my jacket pocket, the sack of cornbread muffins crinkled. Should I offer everyone a Momma Rose treat? There wasn’t enough for everybody; however, I was not above bribing the jury. Since sexual favors seemed unlikely, maybe food would work. I opened the sack and found a pile of broken muffin crumbs.
Maybe not a good thing to share. It’s back to offering sex.
“All right, Joe.” Millie’s blue eyes examined me over her cup. “Why were you following Tim?”
I sipped a hot shot of courage, gathered my wits, and launched into my story. “It’s like this. Ever since jail, I’ve been knocking around the streets, living hand-to-mouth, you know? Chelle... died... while I was locked up. That sucked because I lost her, but it also left me homeless. Suffice it to say, over the past few weeks, I’ve taken a real strong look at how things are being run these days.”
I collected reactions. Mild interest from Rogers, a twinge of sympathy from Millie when I mentioned Chelle, an encouraging smile from John, and glaring mistrust from Tim. Mixed signals, Momma Rose would say. Time to ham it up a little. “Add to that, I’m disappointed in the current, uh, political environment. Unemployment’s off the charts, right? The media says seven percent, but it has to be more like thirty. There’s, like, no small businesses opening up anywhere. A friend of mine told me he thinks the government’s going tits up—pardon the expression there—and all the politicians are bailing out like rats leaving the Titanic.”
I had worked on this little speech in my head for a few days now. Once I got rolling, it sounded good, and I had John bobbing his head at the right moments, so I kept on. “So I’m in an alley one day, off Wentworth, hunting a safe place to sleep among all the other homeless people, when it hits me, what you folks were saying. About how the government caused all this with their deficits, and how they killed the marketplace with regulations, and that they... that they restricted our liberties in the name of security, and so on and so forth.” I waved at Rogers. “Then Franklin here, he tells me about how the government just about destroyed his people with their giveaway programs and constant meddling, and that cemented it in my mind even more.” I stopped and held my breath.
Wait for it.
John bailed me out.
“What’s that, Joe?” he asked. “Cemented what?”
“That you guys were right, of course.” I wanted to show some passion at that point, so I jumped to my feet and my voiced kicked up a notch. “We need to get the government monkey off our backs! We need to keep the goddamned Homeland fucks out of our business! We need to take back this country!”
And the crowd goes wild! I deserved an Oscar.
Chest heaving with drama, I settled back and swigged another slug of my coffee, waiting for the applause.
I waited... for... the... applause.
“What a crock of shit,” the human hairball said. “This guy was chipped. The feds had him on an electronic leash the whole time. He was following me all the way from the Dive. The only monkey on his back is how much he can score ratting us out.”
“I don’t know,” Millie said before I could work up a reply that would leave Tim crippled for life. She sighed and leaned back. “You never said anything like this while we were locked up together. You were all, like”—her voice acquired the jut-jawed cadence of sneering sarcasm—“hey, you guys are nuts, you’re a bunch of conspiracy freaks, leave me outta dis, blah, blah, blah.”
“But that was before,” I jumped in. “When I was in jail. Before I knew Chelle died. Before I figured some things out.”
“Yeah,” Tim sneered, “figured out how to sell us to the cops.”
“Hey, look, Fuzzy.” I glared at Tim over my pointed finger. Dial it back, Joe. Don’t try to sell you’re suddenly a true believer. “I ain’t saying you guys have all the answers, okay? I’m just saying I don’t like where things are going, and I want a chance to hear more about what you’re doing to fix it. Until I met Franklin here, I didn’t think anybody had a plan, and you seemed like a good place to start.”
So far Millie wasn’t giving me much beyond a steady appraisal. Those clear blue eyes unnerved me with their intensity, so I scanned back and forth between the four people in the room, as if speaking to everybody instead of only her. I clamped down on the impulse to keep babbling. I had a sense overselling the political side would backfire, so I waited out the silence.
“Are you working with the feds, Joe?” Millie asked me, straight up.
“What? No!” I snorted. Guilt reared up, and I squashed it back down. Ding. Ignore the implanted tracker and think about Deandre and Signe and Ding. “I hate those bastards after what they did to me and Chelle. Keeping me in jail like that. Hell, no.” It wasn’t hard to sound sincere; I really did hate Ramirez and that clown, Maravich. Holding eye contact with Millie was harder. If she didn’t look so much like a sweet girl-next-door type, it would be easier to betray her and her friends. She had a habit of worrying a thumbnail between her two front teeth while thinking, and it gave her the appearance of a sixteen-year-old waiting for a date. I teased her about it when we were cellmates.
“Didn’t I tell you to stop nailing your teeth?” I grinned, and she broke eye contact. A self-conscious smile of her own teased her lips, and she folded her hands in her lap.
“All right.” Millie’s bosom swelled with a deep breath, which triggered another shower memory I didn’t need. She checked with Rogers, who lifted his palms in a shrug. John gestured encouragement. Tim, the fuck, shook his head.
One yes, one no, one abstention. Millie had the deciding vote.
I tried really hard not to crawl over the table, plead like a baby, and bury my head in her lap. Her lap... Another goddamned shower memory popped up. My life at stake and all I can do is have sexual fantasies about my judge.
“All right,” Millie repeated. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Joe, you’re on probation.” Tim snorted and crossed his legs. I may have levitated out of my chair, I’m not sure. Maybe peed myself a little. “You will need to complete your probationary period, which will last as long as I want.”
“Fair enough,” I acknowledged, and it was. Beat hanging from a lamppost any day.
“Franklin,” she continued, “can you put Joe up somewhere? Find him something useful to do.”
“Sure we can. Always things need doing around here. Joe, you any good for anything?”
The challenge in Rogers’ voice stung my pride—what little I had left. “I’m pretty handy with tools. My dad had his own construction company, and I helped him build houses in the summer. It’s why I went to school...I wanted to be an engineer.” I refrained from asking if I could work in the secret video-copying lab.
“Well, okay then. I’m sure we can find you something to do, if you’re willing to work.”
“Of course,” I said.
“Good answer.” Rogers chuckled. “Around here, unless you’re old or ill, you work to eat.”
“Thank you, Franklin.” Millie addressed me directly. “We have an operation on tonight—”
“Millie!” Tim barked.
She cut him off with a raised hand. “We have to get him involved sooner or later, Tim.” To me, “Joe, the Secretary of the Treasury is giving a speech downtown tonight. It’s a fundraiser for the president’s reelection campaign, disguised as a talk on economic policy. A group of us plan to be there, in front of the building, when he arrives. We want to ask him some questions about”—her eyes shifted away, and she stumbled over her words—“ah, about the solvency of the Treasury. We intend to peacefully”—this was delivered with a meaningful glower at Tim—“block the entrance to the venue in hopes the media will record and broadcast our protest.”
She stopped, and I waited. Interesting stumble there. What did they really want to ask the Treasury Secretary? When she said nothing, I raised an eyebrow. “Okay?”
“Do you want to go with us? Be part of the protest team?”
Did I want another chance to get my head beaten in by angry police officers in riot gear? Why, who wouldn’t? Jesus on a cracker, these people are loons. “Sure. Sounds like a great plan.”
“Millie, come on,” whined Tim. “This guy’s a plant. He’s gotta be.”
“You can’t know that, Timmy,” John spoke for the first time. “Innocent until proven otherwise; isn’t that the rule?”
The hairball inspected me with the disdain of a dowager passing a hooker. “I wish I’d let Dante kill you last night.”
“Well,” I said with a shrug, “you wish in one hand, I’ll whack off in the other, and we’ll see which one smells more like your mother’s crotch.”
“You little—” Tim shoved out of the chair, and I snatched up the carafe, ready to slam him in the shaggy noggin.
“Tim! Sit down!” Millie barked. “Joe, behave!”
He sat, and I behaved. Millie glared, and John hid a smile.
“This,” Rogers proclaimed after a chuckle, “should be fun.”
“My thoughts exactly,” I said. “When do we start?”