Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

“He’s here,” Darian said, seeing the white boy step from a car two rows back in the lot.

“Brother Darian, I’m gonna get a Coke or something. You want something?”

“No.” Darian opened the door, stepping out as his young companion did. “Come right back to the car after you get it.”

“All right.”

Darian saw his contact wait by the front of his own vehicle and walked to him. “You white folks like cold climates.”

Toby smiled, no shades concealing his eyes this time. Dark glasses at night, aside from looking stupid, might draw attention. That was not what he wanted. “You go where the action is.”

Darian looked past the white boy to the empty car. “Where’s your sidekick?”

“Busy. Yours?”

“Getting himself a drink. So, you have something for me.”

So true to form, Toby thought. He reached through the open front window of the car and removed a shopping bag. The weight of its contents strained the twin paper handles. “A hundred and fifty grand.” He handed it to the African. “You did good on that little extra.”

“Turkey shoot,” Darian said, smiling. “White men can’t jump, or run.” He set the bag on the asphalt at his feet. “So, time for the big one .”

“Almost.”

Darian leaned against the fender and folded his arms, looking as casual and comfortable as possible. Just two guys, one white, one black, having a chat in a parking lot. “So, how do you plan to reshape the government? That’s what you said at our last get-together, wasn’t it?”

“I said that,” Toby confirmed. “I guess ‘starting with a clean slate’ is a better description. You know, kinda throw everything into the shitter and start again.”

“Un-huh,” Darian said with a slow, cautious nod. “Details, man. We did you right back in L.A. I want the whole story now, before we go on.”

Exactly one month, Toby knew. That was a long time to let the Africans keep a secret. But they would have to. It wasn’t trust; it was acceptance. “The president’s gonna give a little speech next month.”

State of the Union . Darian knew that much, and also that it could be summed up briefly — fucked up. “Yeah.”

Toby smiled before he went on. “We’re gonna make it interesting.”

Moises looked through the market’s window to the parking lot. The cracker was jawing to Brother Darian about something. Good. That would keep him busy. He took a bottle of soda from a refrigerated case and walked down several aisles, passing magazines, a pitiful selection of wrapping paper, and a display of greeting cards before finding what he wanted. He picked through a rotating rack of postcards, choosing one with a winter scene — his mother always said she missed the snow — and flipping it over. A pen hanging by a string scrawled out the brief message, and then he went to a checkout stand, verifying first that Brother Darian was still occupied.

The checker ran the cold bottle over the scanner, which beeped once. “A dollar nine.”

“Do you have stamps?” Moises asked.

“Yeah. How many?”

He handed the postcard to her, his eyes darting right as the conversation outside seemed to be slowing. “Could you put one on this and mail it?”

And mail it… ‘Twas the season of giving, the checker reminded herself. “Sure.” A few touches to her keypad brought up the new total. The customer paid her in exact change and left before she could wish him a Merry Christmas.

Darian saw in his peripheral vision his young comrade exit the market and wait by their car. In the grip of his stare the white boy was still smiling.

“Is that enough detail for you?” Toby asked.

“Who thought this fucking thing up?”

Toby shook his head slowly. “It’s enough that someone did. The question is, are you going to be able to make it happen?”

Make it happen? Someone had dreamed up a nightmare, all right. A nightmare that could be made real. “Oh, yeah. We can do that.” Holy shit. This was bigger than big, Darian knew. Bigger than what he’d imagined, even after wiping out the people in the World Center. Off the scale. And, he had to admit, brilliant, even coming from the whities. “The streets are gonna fill with blood, man.”

“That’ll be mission accomplished,” Toby commented. The right color blood, though . “The name’s on a card in the bag, and the address of his office. That’s job one.”

Darian picked the shopping bag up. “Consider it done. And don’t forget you still owe us.”

“Nine hundred grand.” You’d sell your mother…

Darian gave a single nod and walked back to the Volvo. He heard the white boy pull out of the lot as he got behind the wheel.

“How’d it go?” Moises asked. He took a sip from the bottle and twisted the plastic cap back on.

Darian looked to his newest recruit. But not the last . ‘Cause after this we’re gonna have an army of brothers wanting their piece of the pie. “Good.” Anarchy . God, it was going to be paradise. “Real good.”

Senator Curtis Parsons and Congressman Jack Murphy had been to the White House many a time, sometimes to consult with the president, other times to counsel him, as leader of their party, on policy matters destined for a fight on the Hill. This crisp Wednesday morning, though, the Senate majority leader and the speaker of the House of Representatives were conveying something else: a request. That was the polite term, because they were certain it would be received for what it actually was: a demand.

The majority leader and the speaker arrived at the White House together in the back of a Secret Service Lincoln that had picked them up at Washington National an hour earlier. It was waved through the gate on West Executive Avenue and pulled to a stop between Old Executive and the West Wing. Five minutes later the nation’s top legislators walked into the office of the president’s assistant for national security affairs.

“Senator, Mr. Speaker.” Bud DiContino had two chairs arranged facing the small couch in his office. Parsons and Murphy shed their overcoats, hanging them on the brass tree near the door, and took the seats. The president’s chief of staff and national security adviser lowered themselves to the couch. “Can we order anything from the cafeteria for you? Croissants? I have coffee in the pot.”

“No. No.” Senator Parsons undid his tie and made a sour face at the offer. “My damn stomach’s boiling. Goddamn red-eyes.”

Speaker Murphy chuckled at his colleague. He had fifteen years on the man, and twenty pounds, yet the good Curtis Parsons of the fine state of Louisiana had the ailments of an older man. He also had a liking for Kentucky bourbon.

“Mr. Speaker?” Bud asked.

Murphy shook his head. “Sorry for the hurry-up on this.”

Whatever ‘this’ was , Bud thought. “Sorry we had to make it this early, but you wanted no press around.”

“They’re off with the boss,” Gonzales explained.

“Where the hell is he this early?” Parsons asked, popping a chewable antacid into his mouth.

“Norfolk for a prayer breakfast,” Gonzales answered. “For a veterans’ group.”

“Praying on a Friday.” Parsons sniffed. “We Catholics save that for Sunday.”

“The pope here protests,” Murphy joked. “But, seriously, Bud, we appreciate you and Ellis seeing that this was quiet.”

Bud sat forward, almost to the couch’s edge. “I have to admit I’m guessing as to the reason.”

Jack Murphy scooted forward also, his imposing Montana frame a hard figure to ignore. Few on the Hill had done so and walked away with their political careers intact. “Succession, Bud. The odd man out.”