Now that Rocco knew that a certain “Mr. Big” from the governing party had been to the Bombay Booty on the night the girl disappeared, he believed that his own arrest—had it taken place—would have been a way to steer attention away from the teen prostitute who died in a Zantoroland prison. Or to frame him as Mr. Big. There had to be more to the story, but no one was talking.
JOHN FALCONER KNEW JUST HOW TO READ THE GUY.
“Not you again,” Minister Calder always said when he saw John in the government parking lot. But John kept coming, and each time, the minister relented, let him come upstairs and gave him details for the documentary.
“It’s just a school assignment, right?” the minister would say, while John filmed him. “I can give you five minutes and not a second more. I have a meeting.”
Five minutes always led to fifteen. In John’s opinion, the minister of immigration had nothing to do but attend meetings. It was harder to be a Grade 9 student. The minister always offered him candies and soft drinks, and showed him charts. How many refugees were estimated to have come in the country illegally over each of the last five years. How many illegal ships were impounded. How many ship captains had been arrested for trying to dump Illegals on the shores of Freedom State.
“So why do you think they keep coming here, from all over the world?” John asked.
“Because they have it made in Freedom State. Services, electricity, clean water, a booming economy. They have every opportunity to abuse our generosity.”
“The children in AfricTown, attending substandard schools or no schools at all, and sleeping in garages and on the street—are they abusing your generosity?” John asked.
“Son, that’s what you would call a bleeding heart question. You would have to talk to their parents. Why did they bring them here? Why are they working illegally in an underground economy, not paying taxes and not registered as citizens of this country?”
“But why would you fault a child for what their parents have done?” John said.
“I’m not faulting any children, but their parents have to take responsibility for their actions. The Family Party is about family responsibility. We are for minimal government but for maximum family responsibility for their own matters.”
On the morning of the fireside consultation, John was waiting as usual at the side of the parking lot, out of sight, in the shadows under the fire escape. He had decided to ask if he could shadow the minister for the day and then stay on for the fireside consultation. The poor man could not say no—at least not to John. Maybe that’s what it took to become a good journalist. You kept at the story until people gave you what you wanted, or relented and finally told the truth.
The minister pulled up at his usual time: 7:10 a.m. He opened the door, got out, grabbed his briefcase, and was about to lock his car when a tall man crossed the parking lot with the purpose and speed of a linebacker. John had seen that man before. Anton Hamm. The sports agent. The minister was six feet tall, but this man dwarfed him. He was almost as tall as the prime minister. But Hamm was younger and more athletic, with a bullet-shaped head. He wore a suit but moved like a runner. He looked like a brute. John turned on his camera.
“Mr. Minister,” Hamm said, standing so close to Calder that the minister had nowhere to go.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Calder said. He tried to move, but the big guy pinned him against the car.
“Name’s Anton Hamm,” the big man said. “I have a pressing question.”
“If you will give me some breathing room,” Calder said.
Hamm backed away a few inches. “Tell your people that I want my payment, and I want it now.”
“I don’t follow,” Calder said.
“Sure you do. Your people have had me do some favours. You know what I am talking about. We had an understanding. I haven’t heard from them lately. And I want my payment.”
“What is the nature of your understanding, and with whom?” Calder said.
Hamm stepped closer and seized Calder’s arms. “Mr. Minister, don’t fuck with me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Deliver the money, and you’ll have nothing to fear.”
“Are you threatening me? Look at me,” Calder said. “Look me in the eye. Go ahead. Do it. Now listen. I have no idea what you are talking about. You seem to be onto a scam, but it doesn’t involve me. Why don’t you tell me about it?”
“Fuck this,” Hamm said.
John filmed the former shot putter in the suit running back across the parking lot and out of sight. And then he swung the camera back to the minister, who was straightening the arms of his jacket. This was not a good time to approach him, John could tell.
JOHN RETURNED A FEW HOURS LATER, WHEN THE MEETING was scheduled to start and others began arriving. While the minister was shaking someone’s hand, John called out with nonchalance, “Minister, I’m just here for the school assignment and will stay out of the way.”
The minister frowned, but he was soon locked in conversation with a police sergeant who introduced herself as Candace Freixa. He was saying he was sure they had met before, and she said, yes, briefly, during the Buttersby Marathon. He asked how her race had gone, and she said very well. He asked if he had been passing her or she him, and she smiled and said she wasn’t entirely sure. And what did she run that day? he asked. Oh, she didn’t remember, she said.
“Sure you do,” he said. “Every marathoner remembers their time.”
“Two hours, fifty-eight minutes and forty-seven seconds,” she said.
“Wow, you really took off on me. It’s amazing that you finished under three hours. Who does that? You must have been blood doping,” he said, stepping closer.
She pulled back.
In fairness, at least the minister had not slept with Darlene in the Bombay Booty. John had to give him that much.
He sat on a couch at the back of the room as the minister gathered the committee members in a seated semicircle. They made their introductions. John gave his name, his school. There was a murmur when he said Clarkson Academy for the Gifted.
“Best school in the country,” the minister said.
Ivernia Beech looked at John. “Well, don’t hide in the corner. Come sit beside me.”
John shrugged and moved to sit with her. She shook his hand and said she hadn’t seen him since the prize ceremony for his essay. He smiled and asked if he could interview her for his documentary. She flicked her fingers as if to chase off a fly.
“I’m too old to be on camera,” she said. “Nobody wants to see the wrinkles on this face.”
“I do,” he said. “I really do, and you could make a difference in my life.”
“Well,” she said, “you never know. Maybe something good will emerge from this meeting.”
The discussion started. A black businessman said that Freedom State was the best country in the world and that he had never experienced discrimination. He said Illegals should not be given a free ticket to take advantage of the rules of civilized society. A woman who said she was head of the chamber of commerce basically said the same thing. The others all reiterated that something had to be done about Illegals, who were taking over the country.
“And AfricTown,” one of them muttered. “It’s a disgrace.”
“Bulldoze it and see what comes out,” another said.
Candace Freixa, the police sergeant, let out a cough to redirect the conversation. Every person in the room looked to her. She said quietly, “You are speaking of my home. I was born in AfricTown and grew up there, and many good people gave me a helping hand.”
Silence fell over the room, until the minister cleared his throat and asked Ivernia for her thoughts.
“I am a widow, eighty-five years old, born and raised in Freedom State.” She went on to say that she didn’t understand why these people had to be referred to as Illegals. “To identify a human being as illegal is to diminish his or her humanity,” she said. “Why don
’t we call them people without documentation?”
The minister said that it was not for the committee to challenge the basic vocabulary used by the government of Freedom State. They were there to address the problem of illegality in the country.
Then he gave a slide show—basic statistics about tax revenue loss, economic stress and criminality associated with Illegals in the country. He and the others then spent half an hour going over all the problems—the boats laden with refugees and the difficulty of securing agreement from countries to which Freedom State wished to deport Illegals. The minister checked his watch, said they would have to wind up soon, picked up his phone and spoke with June, who came in a few minutes later with a tray of cookies.
The minister said he wished he could run as fast as that black runner who went by the alias Roger Bannister.
“What made you think of him?” Ivernia asked.
“Probably an Illegal,” the minister said. “But don’t get me wrong. I admire the guy. He’s one helluva runner. He high-fived me on the big hill at the Buttersby Marathon. I was running down, and he was on the way back up, and still he was going twice as fast.”
One of the other committee members cooed about how cool it was that a minister of the Freedom State government was fit enough to run a marathon, and in a very respectable time too.
“Strangest thing in that race. Heard a white runner giving the black guy the gears, calling him the n-word.”
“Really?” someone said.
“I’m not for rude and insulting language,” the minister said. “I have nothing against this fellow. I wish him well. But I should point out that few valid refugees come to Freedom State. Most Illegals are economic migrants. They want a better life. I can’t blame them for that. But if they want to come here, they should get in line just like any other immigrant.”
John stepped in. “Mr. Minister, just how many immigrants did Freedom State accept from Zantoroland last year?”
“Well, as I think you know, we have closed legal immigration from that country because we have so many troubles with Illegals.”
“So they can’t really come in any legal way, then,” Ivernia said.
“For now, no.”
“Mr. Minister,” Ivernia said, “some of your so-called economic migrants are in great danger. When you are deporting people you deem to be illegal, you might be sentencing them to death. I wish you would think about that when you sign your deportation orders.”
The minister looked vaguely alarmed. Three other people rushed to his defence, saying Ivernia was being harsh and there was no reason to personalize the situation.
“You want impersonal? How’s this? If you want to increase tax revenue, declare a general amnesty and regularize the situation of people without documentation, then bring them into the national economy—entitling them to work and obliging them to pay taxes.”
“Economics are never that simple, Ivernia,” the minister said.
Ivernia stood. All eyes turned to her. She pointed shyly to the bathroom and said, “When you reach a certain age, some things can’t wait.”
ROCCO HAD SAID GOODBYE TO EVERYONE BUT CANDACE BY the time Ivernia Beech emerged from the bathroom.
“You should check under the sink in there, Minister,” she said.
“Why?” Rocco asked.
“You may find an Illegal,” the woman said, and then she too was gone.
Rocco grimaced, but when he saw Candace laugh, he tried to act like he appreciated the old woman’s humour. God, was that running cop beautiful.
“Candace, I’ve got a few things I’d like to talk to you about. How do we integrate the police force into AfricTown, that sort of thing. Do you have time for coffee?”
“Sorry,” Candace said. “Got another meeting.” And she was gone. That fast. As if she couldn’t stand to be in his presence.
Alone again in his office, Rocco felt deflated and lonely. He’d just been blown off by a hot woman. And earlier today, he’d been shaken down by a thug, which was humiliating and troublesome. What scam did that idiot think the minister was into? And since Rocco knew it wasn’t him, who was behind the scam? He could report the assault to the police, but that would bring him more aggravation than benefits, and it would lead the PM to question Rocco’s ability to manage his affairs. For now, Rocco had better just sit tight.
He locked himself into his marble-floored bathroom, donned his exercise gear and rowed for thirty minutes. Exercising got him wondering again who that mystery runner was. If he were truly an elite marathoner, he’d be running the Chicago Marathon and the Boston Marathon—he wouldn’t be pissing away his time in Freedom State. So what was he doing here, anyway?
His cellphone rang. He ignored it and kept rowing. Part of him wanted to have a beer with the guy, ask how he trained, and find out what had brought him to this country. The phone rang again. Finally, Rocco got up to answer it.
“Calder,” he said, wiping off the back of his neck.
“Mr. Calder. My name’s Darlene. We met in AfricTown. I helped you get out. You said you would help me.”
“I can’t talk at work. I’ll call you back.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Today. I’m in a meeting now. I have to go.”
“Wait. I didn’t give you the number yet.”
“It’s on my cell. That the one?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, later.”
Darlene. It would be dangerous to meet her—but even more dangerous not to. As long as he didn’t do anything stupid—touch her, sleep with her. As long as he did nothing that could destroy his political career, meeting Darlene might actually give Rocco some ammunition. He needed something the PM didn’t have. Something Geoffrey Moore didn’t have. Shit was going to fall, and he didn’t want to get rained on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A FEW NIGHTS AFTER HIS DATE WITH CANDACE, Keita ran to an all-night Internet café, where in his email he found another message from Anton Hamm. The subject line was “Pay Up!” Hamm gave Keita a new deadline: he still owed four thousand dollars on April 25 but the remaining six thousand was now due by May 7. Anton Hamm had to know that there was only one race in Freedom State offering a big purse before May 7: the Grant Valley Half-Marathon on May 6.
Keita was already planning to run that race, but if he won—and he had to win—the twelve-thousand-dollar prize would not be going to Anton Hamm. He would have enough, with his winnings from the Buttersby Marathon, to pay his sister’s ransom immediately. He sent an email to George Maxwell.
Dear Mr. Maxwell,
May I have news of my sister? Reassurance that she is okay? Ask her, please, what nickname did she go by as a child?
Keita Ali
Keita received the correct reply within minutes.
Dear Mr. Ali,
You called her “LouBelle.” We will provide the banking information prior to your deadline of June 22.
George Maxwell
Maxwell and his co-conspirators were no idiots. They knew that June 22 was the day after the annual Clarkson Ten-Miler—offering the best prize money in Freedom State. If he did not raise that money, he’d never see his sister again.
Keita had to question his own judgment. Out of loneliness, he had let down his guard and slept with a woman who turned out to be a police officer. She knew his real name. But if she had known who he was before their night together, could she not have arrested him earlier? And how stupid could he be? In the long term, no woman could be attracted to a man like him, who had no roots, no permanency.
Keita left the café and ran back to Elixir Bridge Road. His hernia ached, and the dizziness he had been feeling lately while running was back. He wanted only to climb into bed and sleep. How could he win the Grant Valley Half-Marathon feeling this rotten? He would have to run it in under sixty-one minutes to have a chance of winning, and he did not feel capable.
When he let himself in the front door, Iver
nia startled him. She was sitting in the front hall, waiting.
“It’s two in the morning,” he said. “Why are you up?”
“I sat here all evening waiting for you. Worrying. And I waited for you earlier this week, too. You said you would make meals three times a week, but for days you have forgotten the deal.”
Keita was not prepared for this. “I have had a stressful time, and the meal escaped my thinking.”
“Well, it didn’t escape mine. Are you or are you not able to live up to your end of the bargain?”
“Yes, for sure,” he said, but he did not feel it. He felt capable of living up to no obligations whatsoever. All he felt was the need to win some races and to get together the money for Charity.
“Is that all you have to say?” she asked.
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t sound sorry.”
“I wish I had remembered to cook your meal. But you have food here.”
“That’s not the point.”
“You could have fixed yourself something to eat. You’ve been doing it all these years.”
She slapped a newspaper down on the coffee table, startling him. “Exactly. And I hate that. I don’t feel like eating alone anymore. I can’t stand the thought of it. You said you would cook for me. I was counting on it.”
“I’m an imperfect house guest. Do you want me to leave?”
“Leave? Are you crazy?”
“I am truly sorry that I forgot about the meals. I’ll make it up to you.”
“I hope she was worth it.”
“Pardon?”
“You heard me. When you’re out this late, there could only be one reason. So was she worth it?”
“I thought so initially,” Keita said. “But I cannot afford to take such pleasures. In retrospect, it would have been better not to go out.” He grinned. “I should have stayed in and washed my socks.”