Tim Green - Exact Revenge

“Thank you for coming,” Lexis said, when she was directly behind him.

His pale cheeks flushed and she felt her stomach knot up.

“I’m sorry for the secrecy,” she said.

“Not at all. Please,” he said, sliding his stool over her way. “Sit.”

Lexis looked around at the crowd and said, “Do you think we could get a booth?”

“Of course,” he said. He made his way to the hostess and bent over, speaking into her ear for a moment. She nodded and took two menus, pushing through the crowd and seating them in a leather booth right away. What light there was seemed to be absorbed by the dark wood panel that surrounded them.

“I bring the governor here when he’s in town,” Cornell said to Lexis with a toothy smile as they slid into the booth. “So I’m good for business.”

Lexis forced a smile, but it quickly faded. Cornell leaned over the dark wood table and she could smell the gin.

“So, what can I do?” he asked in a throaty voice.

“I know Frank is a very big contributor,” she said, looking down at her hands and nodding to herself.

He nodded right back and said, “And that’s why I’m here.”

“Can you help me , though?” she said, looking up and lowering her voice. “Without saying anything?”

“Like… a favor that Frank doesn’t know about?” Cornell said.

“Yes.”

He leaned back and, smiling, said, “In politics, when someone wants you to have a cup of coffee it’s because they want to ask you something easy. A drink lots of times will mean something shaky. But then you’re not in politics, so I wasn’t sure.”

“Everything with Frank is shaky,” she said. Her hands were cold and damp and she slid them between her legs and the leather seat. The murmur of conversation around them was interrupted by a woman’s high-pitched cackle.

“Not you, though,” he said. “You’re not shaky. You’re just the mystery.”

“There’s nothing so mysterious,” she said, biting the inside of her lower lip and raising her chin.

“I didn’t mean anything,” he said, raising his hands before he took another drink.

“Of course I can help you,” he said.

Lexis drew in a breath and let it out slowly. When she was finished, she spoke in a rapid burst of words.

“There was a man we all knew. Frank. Bob Rangle. Me. It was twenty years ago. He got life without parole for killing a woman. A stripper. I want to find out what happened to him. Where he is. If he’s still even alive. Can you do that and tell me?”

“That’s it?” he said.

“Yes. That’s it.”

“What was his name?” Ricks said.

“His name was Raymond White,” she said. “It was 1984. Up in Syracuse.”

Ricks shrugged and said, “That’s not even hard. If he got life without parole, he’s sitting in a jail somewhere.”

Lexis pinched her lips and nodded. “Just make absolutely sure-”

Ricks held up his hand and said, “Please. The governor trusts me for a reason. Any information I get is just for you.”

UPSTATE NEW YORK in the summer is beautiful in many ways. Its waterfalls and the cool clear water of its lakes. The ancient mountains that make up the tail of the Appalachian chain. Rolling fields of yellow wheat, emerald alfalfa, and rustling stalks of corn. Vineyards. Stone mansions. Lonely farmhouses with ancient shade trees and towering views. But to me, none of it is more impressive than God’s view.

As my G-V banks to the north in its approach to the Syracuse airport, I can see the glimmering copper strips of the Finger Lakes stretching west toward Buffalo as they reflect the setting sun. I can see Ontario, the big lake with its oceanlike tides and its icy depths, perfect for cooling the nuclear reactors that pump out plumes of white steam into the blue sky. And from here, through the sleepy orange haze, the quilted farm fields and the carpet of hardwoods in full bloom look like the perfect place for a giant-or God himself-to lie down and nap for a century.

I turn to Bert and see him craning his neck for a view of something outside the window on the other side of the plane.

“What are you looking at?” I ask.

“Home,” he says. “I think.”

“It’s out there,” I tell him.

“Like a rabbit pen,” he says, shifting his massive frame in the leather seat and wrinkling his nose. “We used to own it all.”

“You’re talking like a white man,” I tell him. “Maybe you shouldn’t have cut your hair.”

Bert feels the blunt ends of his black hair that now falls no farther than his collar.

“You know what I mean,” he says. “I know no one can own the land, but if anyone is going to say they own it, it should be the Akwesasne.”

“Speaking of our people,” I say. “Tell me about our brave friend Andre and the reformed Russo. You said you had news about the two of them, but we never talked about it.”

“Because you were busy,” he says, slitting his eyes, “like a chief getting ready for war, a chief who keeps no counsel but his own.”

“Bert,” I say, “I think you’re jealous.”

Bert scowls and says, “I just liked it better when it was you and me and not all these white men in suits with briefcases and sunglasses and those wires sticking out of their ears.

“That’s how we lost all this,” he says, stabbing his big nose toward the window. “Our chiefs took counsel with the white man’s spies.”

Bert talks like this when he gets worked up. Sometimes I think he’s playing the part of a culture he only knows through old whispering voices.

“I thought you said I’m keeping no counsel but my own,” I say, fighting back my smile.

“Well, you’re not keeping mine,” he says with a sharp nod, folding his thick arms across his barrel chest.

“Okay, medicine man,” I say, “tell me the tale of Andre the dog leg and give me your counsel.”

Bert looks at me from the farthest corners of his eyes and says with a note of satisfaction, “Your plan to reform the white snake you call Russo was like a fart in the wind. He took the money you gave him and did he fix his hotel or pay his loan? No, he did just what you asked him not to. He put together a drug deal to get every kid from the Thruway to the Canadian border high for the life of a crow.”

“What’s the life of a crow?” I ask.

“Seven years,” he says. “Don’t interrupt my Native American clichés. Anyway, it gets better. He brings Andre into the deal.”

I smile.

“Andre?”

“Yeah, and they set up a buy from some downstate Haitians, but the deal goes sour and Andre ends up blowing away both of the Haitians. Well, the police know Russo isn’t the shooter because Russo took a bullet from the same gun in the leg himself, but they’ve got him for the drug deal and an accessory and he’s out on bail until the trial.”

“And Andre?”

Bert shrugs and says, “He’s up on the reservation. He’s fine so long as Russo keeps his mouth shut. The Akwesasne is a sovereign nation. You know that. He won’t get sold out by our people. We only sell out when it comes to our mountains and our lakes and streams.”

I nod and pour myself a can of seltzer over some lime and ice while I digest this news.

“See,” Bert says, “your own counsel. That’s all.”

“I want to see Andre,” I tell him. “I think I have a job for him. See if you can get a hold of him and have him come down to New York.”

“I don’t know if he’ll leave.”

“Send him some money and promise more. Andre always wanted to be rich and famous,” I say, looking back out the window as we begin to descend. “He wants to be a rock star, remember? Tell him what I did for Helena. Tell him I have a deal for him… He’ll come.”