R. Ruggiero - Brushfire Plague

They stood before a large door that looked to be made of solid oak. It was in the far back of the restaurant. Two more guards stood on either side of the door, armed with shotguns in their arms and pistols on their hips.

An elderly man and an attractive young woman, both Asian, were leaving. The man was bowing to everyone and grasping a tattered black hat in his gnarled hands. The woman was holding him by his shoulders, supporting him, as they shuffled by.

“Your turn, good luck,” their escort said to them as he pushed open the large door. It groaned on its hinges.

They stepped into the room that lay beyond. Michael Huynh sat at a massive desk of solid mahogany. The dark wood shined and they could smell the fresh oil that had been rubbed into it. The legs were carved in the shape of dragons and the feet were large claws. Huynh had his jet black hair pulled back into a ponytail and he wore a finely-tailored black suit, with a white silk shirt, and a blood red tie, also made of silk. He fingered an unlit cigar in his left hand and twirled a thin, gleaming knife with his right. The desk was clear of any objects, save a nickel-plated 1911-style pistol that lay within easy reach.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. You come to me on the word of my cousin Joseph Vang?”

Two large-framed guards stood on either side of the desk. They were attired in suits, with submachine guns resting on a sling across their chests.

Cooper took a step forward and chose his words carefully, “Yes, sir. He said you have trained staff to provide protection.”

“Why, yes. Yes, I do. For a small fee of course,” a wide grin spread across his face, revealing a small scar that dipped from the left corner of his mouth towards the side of his jaw line.

Cooper clenched his jaw, “And what would the fee be?”

A knife was laid upon the table and Huynh slowly, methodically retrieved a butane lighter from a breast pocket. This guy knows his theatrics. A bright blue flame spat from the lighter and a puff of smoke drifted from the red circle on the end of the cigar as he lit it.

“Mmmm, that is good. You like Cuban?”

“Of course,” Cooper responded.

“The complexity of the tobacco is like none other.” Cooper endured the staged silence. He refused to shift on his feet, despite the inclination. He knew something of negotiation tactics from his father’s days of standing up for the rights of the common man.

A few puffs later, Huynh spoke again, “Where were we? Oh yes, the bothersome business of the costs for services rendered. As I said, it would depend on how many men you want and in what currency you will be paying.”

Cooper cocked an eyebrow, “Currency?”

“Why yes. In times like these, Mr. Adams, the forms of currency multiply. Unlike some, I still accept the US dollar. Unlike others, I think we will bounce back from the current challenges facing us as a nation. But, I accept other forms of payment as well.”

“Such as?”

“Some are paying me in gold, some in jewelry, and a few are paying me in commodities I can use in my other lines of business,” he said in between blowing smoke rings toward the ceiling. Drugs and women, Cooper guessed.

“We would be paying in dollars.”

“How many men?”

“Do they come armed with automatic weapons?”

“They could.”

Cooper thought for a moment, “We would need four.”

Huynh took a long pause, “Four men. Automatic weapons. That would be $20,000 per week.”

Cooper let loose a false cough and then paused a long moment, “With all due respect, that would be very challenging for us to come up with.”

Recognizing the negotiation, Huynh’s smile returned, “Come now, Mr. Adams. Do not take me for some simpleton. I know the neighborhood you live in. You will have the money if you value your safety and are willing to pay for it.”

“The challenge is gathering the cash. My neighbors use banks to keep their money and do not have large sums of cash on hand.”

“I like you, Mr. Adams. I will tell you what I will do for you. I’ll accept $10,000 in cash and a promise from those in your neighborhood for another $15,000 when the crisis abates and the banks reopen.”

Cooper retained a straight face, but smiled inside, “That should be more doable. My other difficulty will be convincing my neighbors that this sum is legitimate for only four men. While I can see the value of your men, my neighbors who do not understand security will be more challenging to convince.”

Huynh’s smile faded and he deliberately clipped his words, “Alright, I can add two men.”

“Thank you. That will make my task of convincing easier.”

“Surely. We are here to help one another, after all. The extra two men will carry shotguns only.”

Taking care to be overly polite, Cooper smiled and nodded, “Of course. I would not expect more than that.” Translation: he will send two untrained expendables with shotguns.

“I will take your generous offer before our neighborhood tonight. I can let you know soon whether we will move forward with your protection.”

“Good enough. But do not delay in making your decision. I have many requests for protection and a limited number of men I can deploy.”

“Of course. Thank you for your time, Mr. Huynh.”

Huynh responded by turning the large leather chair he sat in to face outwards towards the windows.

Cooper and Dranko retreated from the room. Their escort led them back to the parking lot. This time he was silent. I wonder if the Sellwood story is even true? Maybe it was all to heighten our fear of random violence before we met with Mr. Huynh?

As promised, their pickup and weapons were undisturbed. Cooper and Dranko piled back into it and steered towards home.

They arrived back at Cooper’s home with a half-hour to spare before the meeting would begin. Dranko collapsed on his living room sofa and was snoring before Cooper had removed his body armor and stowed the rifle.

Cooper went immediately to Jake’s room. Angela was seated on a chair next to his bed, dozing. Jake was sleeping soundly on his bed, his chest rising and falling with regularity. Thank God. He turned his view back towards Angela. He had been impressed with how she had stepped in and done what was needed to be done. Cooper admired that trait in people. He took a moment and smiled as he watched her peaceful face bob up and down as she slept in the chair.

He tip-toed over to the edge of the bed and then knelt down beside it. Jake lay just a few inches from the edge. Cooper buried his face into his hands and pressed them deeply into the softness of the bed. Exhaustion, worry, and grief overtook him. Tears came readily, washing down his face. He struggled to remain quiet, so that Jake’s sleep would remain undisturbed.

His thoughts pleaded: Please God, let him live. Let me find a way to save him. I cannot, I will not, survive if I lose him, too. His fists tightened into balls of frustration as he pressed them hard against his ribs. He turned his head from side to side, welcoming the almost painful friction from the mattress’ edge.

After a few moments, his tears stopped and his thoughts turned. I’ve given too much already. Elena is gone. I’ve been forced to kill again. I have no more to give.

He raised his eyes and looked at Jake again. The only telltale signs that he was ill were his flushed face and the tiny beads of sweat across his face. Damn you God, you cannot have him too. I will not let you have him. Damn you if you try.

His own face, flushed with anger as he stood up resolutely, and walked from the room. He failed to notice Angela watching him from the corner of her eye. She had watched him transition from grief to rage by witnessing the shifting lines in his face. It had been like a violent summer storm rolling across the Plains. At first, distant and seemingly calm. Then building to a sudden, and growing, fury that seems like it will never end. Suddenly, it passes as swiftly as it had arrived.