T. Parker - Full Measure

“It’s a Ford. I’m also helping Dad and Pat put the farm back together.”

Magnus reached out to a wall panel and pressed a large black button. A motor groaned and one of the lifts rose on its great, grease-slicked piston. Ted looked at the steel stairs leading down into the workspace below, black with what looked like half a century of spilled engine oil and transmission fluid.

“I’m starting out on my own here, Ted. Then I’ll hire as I grow. A shop takes at least two people, and someone on the books part-time. My father never liked car repair but I did. At least he took the time to teach me his trade. Your father shut you out, right? Bummer. But you know what I think? I think our fathers maybe aren’t so different.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I was a boy I could never really please mine. Then, when our civil trial got going up in Spokane, the prosecutors came up with a letter I’d written to a guy up there who had written me, and he wanted to join the White Crusade. I mentioned to him that a like-minded young man I knew was heading up his way and the next thing you know, that letter is the smoking gun that proves my father and I sent agents to Spokane to kill blacks. The letter didn’t say anything about killing anybody. Dad didn’t know anything about that letter until discovery. I’d pretty much forgotten it. It was written to an inconsequential man about another inconsequential man. I was trying to give some skinheads some positive motivation. You should have seen the look on my dad’s face when they read that letter. He looked at me like I was the stupidest human to ever walk the earth, you know? Like it proved something he’d suspected all along. Like he’d finally had enough. He got over it. We got over it. But ever since then, when he looks at me I still see a little bit of that expression in him. So I know how you feel.”

“I thought you two were tight.”

“I’ll tell you a secret, too. You know why I came back here, besides that I like Fallbrook and think it’s a great place to live? I came back here to do something my father could never do. Something bigger and more important than he ever dreamed of.”

Ted felt a ripple of energy inside him, a little bump of adrenaline. “Like what?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m working out some ideas.”

“I know that feeling. It’s my middle name.”

Magnus hit the red button and the lift went down and clanked into place. “Well, don’t be a stranger. Bring that taxi in any time after next Wednesday and I’ll do you right. Tell your boss to bring in the other cars.”

“There’s two other cabs, and a black town car for people who don’t want a taxi.”

“Black, huh? Just kidding. Bring them all. I’ll give you a fleet discount.”

They walked back into the shop. Night had fallen and through the windows he saw the Model T, still throwing red flames across the polished hood of the Chevy parked out front. Magnus took a flyer from the counter and handed it to Ted. It was a standard-size sheet of printer paper, white. The lettering was the Germanic Reich-style script favored by skinheads, death metal bands, and motorcycle gangs.

“I got held up by a Mexican guy last week, driving my cab. He had a gun and he pointed it at my face. I believed he would use it. I could tell he thought I was a coward. He took most of my tips. At first I was scared, then later, I was mad at him. And at me.”

Magnus put his hands on his hips and looked at Ted. “Get even.”

“I went to the sheriff’s to report it but I couldn’t stay. Cops creep me out. I’ve seen him around town, the gunman. He said his name was Henry but I think it’s Edgar something.”

“What kind of a small-town moron robs a cabbie where he lives? Maybe you should have filed a report.”

“Probably too late now.”

“Do you know him?”

“No. Just a high school kid, I think, maybe jumping in with the Fallbrook Kings. Some homies watched him rob me and they were smiling.”

“Violent children, one and all. What’s he look like?”

Ted described Edgar and his provocative girlfriend and the beat-up old Chevrolet Malibu he’d seen them in.

“It’s okay you didn’t tell the cops. You’re almost always better off without them. Do you carry a gun in the cab now?”

“I pick up my new gun next week. It’s a Glock.”

“You’ve got a right to protect yourself. Even though spineless liberals, from the president on down to our own mayor, will tell you different.”

“Evelyn Anders is a curse on this town.”

“I saw your cartoon of her. Someone sent it to the Rogue Wolf site. Great work, Ted.”

The next words seemed to come out of Ted’s mouth before he’d even thought them. “They expelled me from college for that drawing. I disagree with her politics, the way she throws public money around. Tax money. My money. She wants to control every thing I do. Actually, I like her face. She’s pretty in her own way. But I’m angry that privileged liberals like her have no idea what it’s like to be me.”

Cade gave Ted a long, serious look, leaned back against the counter, and crossed his muscular arms. His eyes were the same blue Ted remembered from over a decade ago. “You know what happened to my mother here that night, don’t you?”

“Everybody knows what.”

“The government refused to let her carry a gun and she was murdered by a man she didn’t even know.”

“I get mine in a few days.”

“Everything happens for a reason, Ted.”

“I never believed that. I think things happen for no reason.”

“Listen. Everything is connected but people don’t always see the connections. Sometimes it’s risky to let connections be known. Let me give this Edgar fellow some thought. And here, you give some of these to your friends, will you? Put some of them up around town, maybe when you’re between customers. There’s the Web site at the bottom. Don’t stop drawing cartoons. Draw more . Post them, post them, post them. You’re allowed to do that — the United States Constitution says so.”

Ted took the flyers, nodding. “Anders has no right to take our guns.”

Again Cade Magnus leveled his eyes on Ted and again Ted felt the boost of something optimistic inside him, something that could fuel action. “Ted, we call ourselves the Rogue Wolves now. Go to our Web site and see what my father has to say about our brave new, post — nine-eleven, crash-and-recession republic — run by a half-breed socialist who wasn’t even born here. Our motto is ‘Live free, fight alone.’ We believe in the white race over every other. We are the opposite of big government. We do not ask you to vote for us, to pledge your allegiance, or pay taxes to us. Live free, fight alone, Ted. That way they can’t hurt us. Nobody connects with anybody else. No trail. They can’t rob our bank accounts, or our imaginations, hearts, or souls. Think about what you can do. What only you can do. And stop by, anytime. I’d like to see more of you.”