Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure (35 page)

“Never saw him in my life,” the Governor says, crossing his legs. “You must have hit that head pretty hard.” A fake laugh follows.

“Yeah, maybe. Sir, is my backpack anywhere around here?”

“I think so, why?”

“These lights are hurting my head,” I squint. “I have a pair of sunglasses in my backpack. Could you get them for me?”

The Governor nods and pats my leg as he gets up. He’s out of view for a few seconds and returns with the shades. He puts them on for me, slipping them carefully over my ears. I adjust them with my left hand and touch a small tab above my ear as the Governor sits back down.

“You might not have known his face,” I remark, steering the conversation back in the right direction. “But you knew who he was and why he was there.”

“I know he was a killer,” he says. “He was there to kill me.”

“You hired him to kill Buell.”

“Ha!” The Governor laughs. “Why would I do that?” He doesn’t deny it.

“Charlie flipped.”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” he thumbs his tie and reaches for the Starbucks.

“Charlie was working for Buell,” I remind him. “You told me that on the plane.”

“Agreed.”

“Something happened after she shot Buell. I don’t know if he wanted me dead, or if he didn’t pay her what she wanted. I don’t know.”

“Where are you going with this? Get to the point.”

“You had Buell killed.”

“Those are dangerous words,” the Governor says, lowering his voice and leaning forward. “I’d be careful with wild allegations, Jackson.”

“He said something to you…” I try to push myself up in the bed but my right side is too weak. “The shooter, Crockett, said something to you when he put the gun to your head.”

The Governor doesn’t say anything, but through the tint of the glasses I can see the tension in his jaw.

“What did he say?” I ask. “You
owe
me,” I added after he didn’t respond.

He flinches against those words and exhales. “He said…” the Governor swallows. “He said I killed his partner.”

“What else?”

“He said,” the Governor’s glare had softened. He was back in that moment with the gun to his head, “he said he owed her, his partner. He blamed me for her death. He said I was responsible for the Ripley job. I ordered it. It was my doing. He wanted me to pay.”

“Why did you want
Ripley
dead?” I asked, pressing my luck. “He was helping you with your bid against Buell’s nanotech. He was the one doing all the work and he stayed loyal to you.”

The Governor was looking past me, still somewhere else. I’d hit a nerve.

“Loyal?” he snapped. “Nobody’s loyal. Nobody. Everyone is a partner of convenience. My donors love me if I can push through legislation that helps them or hurts their enemies. The energy companies love me if I can deliver. My staff is loyal as long as I win reelection. I couldn’t lose the election. Buell’s ridiculous ploy in Houston was working. He was winning. Our internal polling was trending the wrong way. He was a sympathetic character. So—”

“So you had him killed?”

“It was perfect. He’d already been targeted once,” he said, his eyes gleaming with the brilliance of his plot. “Another assassination attempt was completely believable. It’s already all over the news that your man, Crockett, was sympathetic to Ripley senior. Investigators found all sorts of incriminating evidence in his vehicle. It was almost too easy.”

“But Dr. Ripley—”

“Ripley was a cog in the wheel,” he snarls, putting a hand on my right leg. “He was a frightened little nerd. He couldn’t handle the pressure. We couldn’t risk him flipping and we had everything we needed from him anyway. We can duplicate the marker. He became expendable.”

He squeezed my leg with that final word. It was a sign. It was a warning.

“Everyone is expendable given the right set of circumstances,” he hissed. “I thought you’d become expendable. You proved to be....”

“Loyal?”

He releases his grip on my leg and slaps it. “Right! Loyal.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“Neither am I,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re valuable right now. You’ve got some cachet.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” he picks up the Starbucks and slurps the last of the coffee, “you have a lot of information. Information which people don’t want made public. Right? So, as long as that information remains right where it is, in that banged up head of yours, you remain valuable.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Oh no,” says the Governor. “I agree you’re loyal. But, you know, loyalty is relative.”

“So...”

“Don’t poke the bear, Jackson.” The Governor sits back and smiles, chuckles. “Don’t poke the bear.”

“I understand sir.”

A nurse appears in the doorway behind the Governor carrying a bedpan.

“Excuse me,” she says. “I’m sorry Governor, but I need a little privacy with Jackson here.”

He stands from his seat and bows to the nurse, who moves to my bedside.

“Good to see you awake, Jackson,” she says. “My name is Nurse Helen. Do you think you can stand and go to the bathroom?”

I nod.

“Do you need those sunglasses?” she asks. “I can take them from you.”

“I’m finished with them.” I look at the Governor as nurse Helen slips them off of my face, blinking at the light as my eyes readjust. “Governor, sir, thanks for coming by. I really appreciate how loyal you are to all of us on your staff.”

“My pleasure,” he says and turns to leave. “I’ll be keeping an eye on your recovery.”

“I’ll keep you posted I’m sure, sir.”

The Governor leaves the room, his boots clicking down the hall. Nurse Helen is checking the fluids in the bag next to the bed.

“Can I make a phone call from the phone here?” I ask her, gesturing to the one on the table next to the Governor’s empty Starbucks cup. Nurse Helen nods and hands me the cordless receiver.

I dial a series of numbers and listen to it ring a couple of times.

“Hello?” answers a tired, worn out sounding voice.

“Is this George Townsend?”

“Yes,” he says. “Who is this?” He must not recognize my gravelly voice.

“It’s Jackson Quick.”

“Jackson?” His voice perks up. “How are you?
Where
are you?”

“I’m in the hospital. I’m calling to give you the okay.”

“Okay,” he says. “I have to admit something.”

“What?”

“We’re going with it tonight. I couldn’t wait anymore. Not with what happened at the debate last night.”

“Well, you might wanna hold off for a few more hours.”

“Why?” He sounds skeptical, ready to argue.

“I’ve got something that will supplement the video you already have.” I look over to the glasses next to me on the bed. They’re still recording.

“Some people look at me and see a certain swagger, which in Texas is called ‘walking’.”

--George W. Bush, 43rd President of the United States

The yellow-walled Gibson lounge at Maggie Mae’s in Austin is almost empty. It’s me and maybe twenty others listening to Birdlegg and The Tight Fit Blues Band. Birdlegg’s in his fedora, dancing around the front of the small stage. The three piece band behind him is keeping time, riffing with his unpredictable phrasing.

His long sleeve white shirt is soaked through with sweat, a too thin tie flapping back and forth across his shoulders. He tips the fedora back on his head, eyes closed. Birdlegg feels the music.

Tuesday nights aren’t big on Sixth Street. For most of the few who venture out, they’re a way to help bridge the gap between Saturday and Thursday. For me it’s safer to be out on a night with fewer people to watch. From the high backed chair in the corner, I can keep everything and everyone in front of me.

The club soda I have been nursing for the last hour sweats on the side table next to the chair. I don’t really want to be here. I wouldn’t have picked Birdlegg, as good as he is, to entertain me, but I had to get outside.

My new apartment is nice enough, but the four walls felt smaller today than they did yesterday or last Tuesday.

I picked Maggie Mae’s because of the privacy in the Lounge, because I haven’t been here in a month, and because it reminds me of Charlie.

The bar is named for a nineteenth century prostitute who was known to pleasure her clients before fleecing them. She worked in Liverpool at a place called The American Bar. Eventually she was caught and sent to a penal colony in Australia.

At least that’s what it says on the bar’s website.

My club soda is flat. Most of the ice has melted. I catch a sliver between my teeth and flip it around on my tongue before it melts. I raise my hand and the waitress waves back. She’s helping somebody near the stage. It’ll be a minute.

Birdlegg pulls out his mouth harp and starts blowing. He could go for three or four minutes like this, with his harmonica wailing, crying almost to the rhythm of the drums. The bass and six string are silent while Birdlegg eases up to the microphone and works his hands back and forth. The small crowd claps and hoots their approval.

For me, Stevie Ray Vaughan recorded the definitive version of the song. Ray Charles was good too. Birdlegg equals them both with his passion.

His eyes are squeezed shut against the beads of sweat streaming from his dark face. Against the light, the droplets look like sequins. He’s possessed and his bandmates nod their heads in approval.

I almost miss the waitress standing next to me, a beer in her hand.

“This is for you,” she says and replaces my club soda with the mug.

“I didn’t order that.” I rub the ache in my right shoulder.

“I know,” she whines through her onyx nose ring. “Some British dude bought it for you. He asked me to bring it over.”

Past the waitress, on the far side of the lounge, near the stage, Sir Spencer is perched forward on a small stool. Between his legs and Oxfords is a cane, his left foot tapping to the rhythm of the blues. He smiles at me, his teeth glowing against the stage lights.

I look back at the waitress. She’s shifted her weight to one hip, clearly impatient.

“Okay,” I relent. “I’ll take the beer.”

She rolls her eyes, slaps a cocktail napkin on the table next to me and follows it with the mug. The head sloshes over the rim and dissolves into the napkin.

The last time I drank a tap beer in a bar, my life fell into a rabbit hole. Sir Spencer was the Mad Hatter. Maybe he was the Cheshire Cat.

The audience claps their approval. Birdlegg steps back to the drums and grabs a bottle of water. Sir Spencer presses against his cane to stand. He seems older, more tired than the man who’s been harassing me since that last cursed beer.

He finds his way to the chair next to me and eases into it. His legs crossed at the ankles, he rests the cane between his legs, leaning on it.

“Jackson,” he says, “how are you my good man?”

“Fine.”

“Fine?” He arches his eyebrows. “Not a ringing endorsement of your life at the present, is it?”

“It is what it is.”

He hands me a folded copy of the
Austin
American
-
Statesman
. He’s probably the only person who reads newsprint anymore.

The headline reads
Governor
Vows
to
Fight
,
Despite
Video
Evidence
. A secondary above-the-fold article proclaims
Governor’s
Connections
to
Big
Oil
Questioned
.

“Turn the page,” Sir Spencer says dryly. “There’s more of your handiwork.”

More articles fill page 3A:
Investigators
Looking
For
Video
Source
,
Reporter
Won’t
Divulge
;
District
Attorney
:
Evidence
Points
To
Bloody
Conspiracy
;
Governor
,
Energy
Execs
Could
Face
Multiple
Federal
Charges
;
Secessionist
Suspect
Ripley
Cleared
Of
All
Charges
,
Released
From
Custody
.

I hand back the newspaper without bothering to read the articles’ contents. I get the gist. It’s not complicated. I’m a target, and everyone’s aiming at me.

“I surmise you are burdened with a great deal of worry,” he says, leaning back and adjusting the cane, which he uses to point to the crowd around us. “Any of these people could be your undoing. Anyone, at any time really, could be the one looking for you. You cannot be certain when they’ll find you. You’ll become a man constantly on the run. You’ll never rest.”

He’s repeating what I’ve been telling myself for the last month. It could come at any time. My end.

“The Governor is none too pleased with his current predicament. He has nasty friends, as you are already well aware. I can fix that,” he says, as though he’s got the cure, the antidote that will return my world to what it was. “I can ensure your safety.”

“So you say,” I look at the beer, the foam almost gone. “How can you be sure?”

He leans forward again and rubs his palms on the handle of the cane. “I have a great deal of influence. When I choose to wield it, the influence can benefit any number of causes.”

“So,” I ask, leaning toward him, “who are you?”

He laughs. “I am part of that power which both eternally wills evil and eternally works good.”

A deal with the devil to extend my life.

What options do I have?

“You have skills I find of high value, Jackson,” he presses. “You could supplement my efforts to…”

“To what?”

“To make the world a better place.” His face is earnest, no hint of the sarcasm I’d expect.

“Seriously?”

“With all seriousness, my good man,” he nods. “With all seriousness. I do what is necessary. I believe you said that once, didn’t you?”

This is a sales job. This is Darth Vader trying to persuade Luke to join him on the dark side. There’s no other choice. Maybe he
does
do what he does for good, in the grand scheme of things.