Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

“They’re different guns, partner,” Frankie said.

“But they’re guns. Full-auto Uzis and Ingrams. Those have to come from somewhere.”

“Just because Barrish said he could get guns, that still doesn’t say he got those Ingrams that the NALF used.” Frankie’s rebuttal ended on a thought of absurdity, and her head shook at it. “Why would Barrish have given guns to the New Africa Liberation Front?”

“Why would the NALF have the VZ?” Art fired back.

The door to the conference room swung inward, ending the agents’ discussion. Lou Hidalgo was behind it. “Get copies of all the information you have on the World Center, Kostin, and the NALF to Washington…pronto.”

Art turned to face the A-SAC. “What’s up?”

“The police in Maryland pulled a floater from a river. Several weeks old, they figure. A male. Right upstream was a van with a wooden trailer attached; one of those boxy jobs for moving stuff. It looks like the body was in the trailer, which came apart after a while in the river. The Maryland cops ran the plate and got a hit back to a young kid from out here. He left L.A. for Colorado the morning of the World Center attack. He had family there, apparently. He never showed. The last trace he left anywhere was a call to his parents’ answering machine. He said he was in Orem. The phone company computers put the call at a phone booth a mile from where the NALF torched their car. The kid made it just ten minutes after Brown shot Fitzroy.”

“Checking stolens was a waste, then,” Art commented. “They just took the owner with them.”

“Denver PD just had an overdue and missing traveler,” Hidalgo said. “So get the info to Washington. They’re taking over the search for our black militant friends. We’ll keep filling in background on them — anything that helps. Got it?”

“Sure.”

“Do it fast, Art. The van in the river was ten miles from D.C. as the crow flies. The ‘nervous factor’ just went through the roof.”

Art nodded. “On the double.”

An afternoon Conrail freight train rumbled in the background as Mustafa and Roger entered their comrades’ apartment just north of Greenmount Cemetery. “Got it.”

Darian took the paper from Roger and pulled the thin classified section free.

“Gimme sports,” Moises said from his place on the worn carpet. His hair was longer than it had ever been. Unkempt, he thought when looking in the mirror, something he did less frequently with each passing day. And he had a scraggly wannabe beard that tried to sprout fully, but itched more than concealed. Still, he had changed enough that few would recognize him. And more than mere physical alteration. He was Moises Griggs a little less each day, and Brother Moises a little more. Soon there would be only one.

Mustafa sat on the bed as his leader scanned the classifieds, and as their newest member reclined on the floor with the sports section. His perpetually flat expression changed at the second scene. “You know what you’re doing, Brother Moises?”

“Huh?” Moises looked up from the football scores of the day before.

“With that,” Mustafa said. In a chair by the door Roger sat, a pouting smile on his face.

“The paper?”

“The s-s-s-ports section.” Mustafa spit lightly into the wastebasket next to the bed.

“What are you talking about?” Moises lowered the paper completely and propped up on his elbows.

“Hey, who’s the best players, Brother?” Mustafa inquired.

“Players?”

“Brothers or crackers?”

That was easy enough, Moises knew. “Brothers.”

“Which sport?”

“All of them,” Moises answered. “Except maybe hockey. But who watches that, anyway?”

“Football, baseball, basketball.” Mustafa made a free-throw motion toward Moises. “Brothers be good at those games . Oh, yeah. They be good at them. What happens next?”

“Next?”

“After they ain’t so good no more?”

Moises didn’t have an answer.

“Do them commercials?” Mustafa approximated a laugh. “Yeah, how many spotes brothers you ever see on TV when they ain’t runnin’, or jumpin’, or throwin’ a little ball? Hmm? Maybe a couple. Oooh, boy, but you can see cracker after cracker sellin’ any kinda shit they can think of on the tube, or on them ugly-ass billboards, or anywhere else old cracker folks are gonna see ‘em.” He was letting his speech degenerate further into the old South nigger talk his father had beat out of him long before. It was for a point. “Oooh, yeah. Cracker get old, or bust a leg, or throw out a arm, well, then cracker can show his pretty white face on TV doin’ somethin’ else. Brother?” Lips pouted far out, head shaking. “No, brother be too dumb and ugly to do shit like that. Brother can run, an’ jump, an’ throw, an’ put on a good show. That’s what brother’s good fo’. Brother puts on a good show. Good show. But brother ain’t good fo’ mo’ than that. No, sir, massa sir. No, sir.”

The paper felt heavy in Moises’ hands. His face burned with understanding. And with embarrassment.

“He doesn’t lie, Brother Moises,” Roger said, slapping the knee that would not stand up to the rigors of college basketball. “When this went out they didn’t say ‘hang around and we’ll give you an education.’ Unh unh. It was good-bye, Roger.”

Darian folded the classifieds open to the third page and looked down at Moises from the bed. “That’s propaganda, Brother. White man’s propaganda. The front page are whatever lies they can think of. Lies. They call it news.”

Moises closed the sports section and let it slide to the floor. There was so much to learn. So many habits from his old life that needed to be exorcised. It would take time, but he would do it.

Mustafa looked to his leader. “Did you find it?”

“Right where they said it would be,” Darian answered, tapping the small five-line ad. “A week from tomorrow is the meet.”

“This is a lot of waiting,” Roger commented.

“Good things are worth it,” Darian said. It had been damn good so far, and if their cracker partners were true to their intentions it was only going to get better.

Darren Griggs jumped whenever the doorbell rang. It was no different this Monday evening.

“Darren, hello,” Anne Preston said through the barred screen as the front door opened.

“Dr. Preston.” Darren’s expression added a question mark to his words. Not necessarily because of his therapist’s presence, but because of the vaguely familiar man at her side.

“I hope we’re not intruding. You remember Rabbi Levin? He was the sponsor of the seminar where we met.”

“Right.” Darren smiled and unlocked the screen. “Come in.”

Felicia came through the dining area, dishtowel in her hand, as the front door closed. “Honey, who was th — Dr. Preston!”

Anne saw that the surprised smile was genuine, and warm. She liked Felicia Griggs. “ Anne , Felicia.”

“Anne.” The smile was now tinged with mild embarrassment.

Darren gestured to their other visitor. “Honey, this is Rabbi Levin.”

“Seymour Levin.”

Felicia took the large hand offered her. “I’m going to have to call you Rabbi. I hope you understand. It’s my mother’s doing.”

“Of course,” Levin said, understanding perfectly. There was a formality to his position, one shared by all men of the cloth.

“This is my wife Felicia, Rabbi,” Darren said, completing the introductions. What followed was the inevitable awkward silence. “Would you like something to drink? Some coffee?”

“I have a pot on,” Felicia added.

Both Anne and Rabbi Levin politely shook off the offer, exchanged a glance, and smiled at Darren.