The Illegal

  “You’ll still have a monthly allotment of two thousand dollars.”

  “I would prefer complete control of my own assets.”

  “You shall receive the stipulated allotment. After six months, if you have abided by my conditions, your assets will be yours to manage again.”

  “Am I free to go?”

  “Yes. And you are welcome.”

  “It may seem rude that I am not thanking you,” Ivernia said. “I don’t wish to be rude. So let me explain. This is my life. I live in my home. My assets are just that: my assets. So I don’t wish to thank you for allowing me to have—in part only—what I have not ceded.”

  “I will increase it to three thousand and see you in six months.”

  “There is only one reason I am here before you,” Ivernia said. “It is because of my age. Otherwise, I would not be forced to submit to this humiliating procedure.”

  “Mrs. Beech, you smashed two cars and did not appear coherent in the eyes of the police. You’ve shown some community ties, but—from your son’s report and your own testimony—you appear to be flouting our immigration laws.”

  “I find it offensive that you are doling out my own money and autonomy, like a bean counter. I want my freedom back.”

  The judge gave the tiniest smile. “You have heard my decision. You are free to contest it in a court of law. Good day, Mrs. Beech.”

  WHEN IVERNIA GOT HOME, SHE FOUND KEITA ON THE PORCH, tying his shoelaces and about to leave on a run. His heart tests had come back clean. He was injecting twenty units of insulin daily. He had learned to monitor his blood sugar level with a glucometer several times a day: fasting level before breakfast, two hours after one or two key meals each day, and before and after exercise. He had learned to strap a bottle of sports drink to the small of his back when he ran, so he could take in some carbohydrates if the insulin and exercise were driving down his blood sugar. Ivernia had watched him several times measure out the insulin and inject it.

  Good thing Ivernia no longer had her nose in Dying for Dimwits, because it would have been easy indeed for her to fast for two days, take several of Keita’s insulin pens from the fridge, inject a massive dose, go to sleep and never wake up. But it was too soon to die. She wanted to help Keita. She wanted to see him reunited with his sister. She wanted the satisfaction of shaking the Office for Independent Living off her back.

  “How did it go today?” Keita asked.

  “A partial victory,” she said, and told him about it—except for the detail about not being allowed to give refuge to a so-called Illegal.

  He jumped up and gave her a hug. “We both have to have faith,” he said.

  She asked how he was feeling, now that he was running again.

  “Fine,” he told her. “No more problems.”

  He said he had one other race to train for: the Clarkson Ten-Miler. It was the most popular race in Freedom State.

  “What is the purse?” she asked.

  “Twenty-five thousand dollars for first place,” he said, “and fifteen thousand for second.”

  “Can you do it?” she said.

  “I must.”

  She asked how far he was going to run now. For two hours, he said, and then he had an errand to take care of.

  After he left, Ivernia napped for half an hour and then got up to make tea and read the newspapers. She was deep in an article explaining that Zantoroland seemed to have changed its mind and was now allowing refugees to be returned, when a deep voice shouted at her door. “Police! Urgent!”

  Ivernia cracked open the door to one of the largest men she had ever seen. He was not a police officer. He put his hand on the door frame and pushed it open farther as if she were not even there. She stumbled back, and he stepped in and closed the door behind him. He locked it.

  “You must leave now,” she said, “before the alarm goes off.”

  “Where is Keita Ali?”

  “Who?”

  He sighed and walked past her into the living room. And the kitchen. And the family room. But Keita kept all of his things neatly stored in his basement suite. He looked up the stairs toward the second floor.

  “If you don’t leave this minute, I will call 911.”

  “Right,” he said, his feet crashing down on creaking wood as he took the steps two at a time.

  She grabbed the phone. The line was dead. Rather than chasing the man upstairs, she ran to the front door, but he must have heard her. He tore back downstairs and across the living room faster and had her arm in a vise grip before she could step outside. He closed the door and locked it, and this time he kept her with him, holding her arm, as he went upstairs and walked through every room. Downstairs again, he looked in the kitchen cupboards.

  “Careful of my china,” she said, but she knew he was searching for running gels, energy drinks or water bottles. Keita hadn’t left his extra running shoes at the door, thank goodness. Then he opened the door to the basement and took her with him downstairs.

  At Keita’s locked door, he banged hard, banged again, and then he bashed it open with his shoulder. Stepping inside, he yanked Ivernia into Keita’s room.

  “I hate old ladies who lie,” he said.

  “And you’re a paragon of virtue?” she said. “Break and entry. Forcible confinement. Vandalism. When the police get hold of you—”

  “Shut up,” he said, clapping a meaty palm around her mouth. She bit it. “Ouch. Fuck!” He pointed his finger at her. “Keep it up, and I will lose my temper.”

  Ivernia did not fear dying, but she did not want to die at this man’s hands.

  “I know who you are,” she said.

  “He owes me money.”

  “Why don’t you take it to the police?”

  “It’s the last time I ask nicely: where is he?”

  “I have no idea. Aren’t you ashamed?”

  “I’m not the one who ran off with ten thousand dollars.”

  “Some gold medallist! My husband couldn’t believe that a man from Freedom State had finally won an Olympic gold medal in track and field. He said you probably took steroids, and I actually defended you.”

  “I won twice,” he said.

  “Why don’t you put your experiences to good use?”

  He shoved Ivernia up against the wall and pounded his giant hand above her head.

  “I won the goddamn gold medal twice for this country, and I get no respect. Did I get a single sponsorship when I won gold? No. Not a single dollar.”

  “Mr. Hamm, why don’t—?”

  “Don’t you tell me what to do. I’ve had it. Had it up to here.” Anton grabbed Keita’s chair and hurled it to the floor.

  “Now you listen here,” she said.

  Ivernia saw him shift his weight but did not see his fist coming. She felt a sudden dullness in her head and then her face on the floor, which was cold and gritty. The blow had caused her to bite down hard, and she moved her sore tongue around her mouth.

  Hamm rummaged through Keita’s belongings, and a thick enve-lope tumbled out of a drawer. Ivernia watched him open it. Cash. He thumbed through it. One thousand. Two thousand. Three thousand.

  “He has more than that. Where the hell is it?”

  Ivernia attempted to get up from the floor, but she could not even pull her legs up beneath her. She heard banging on the window and looked up. Lydia! Her neighbour was on the back lawn with a cellphone to her ear.

  “Calling 911!” Lydia shouted.

  “Fuck.” Hamm grabbed Keita’s money and ran up the stairs.

  He sounded like an elephant crashing through the house. Ivernia heard her door open, and then he was gone. She wanted to say No police, but she couldn’t get the words out.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  ANTON HAMM RECEIVED A TEXT FROM SAUNDERS telling him to book a flight to Zantoroland within the next three days and saying that he would be paid and reimbursed promptly. Anton ignored it.

  Then came a handwritten message in his mailbox. Book the ticket today.
Will see you tomorrow.

  He didn’t care. Let Saunders come after him. Anton was done with the threats and the blackmailing.

  At seven the next evening, Anton bought himself a chicken Caesar salad at the Lox and Bagel on Aberdeen and then walked to the alley behind the shop where he had parked. It was quiet back there. As he buckled himself in, a car pulled up behind his, preventing him from backing out. Who the fuck? Anton got out. His size alone usually led people to cooperate. But the car didn’t move. Instead, the driver’s door opened. Well, well.

  “You,” Anton said.

  “Good evening to you too,” Saunders said.

  Saunders was cocky for a small guy. Anton did not trust any man under six feet tall. He also didn’t appreciate the blackmailing. And he didn’t take kindly to being bossed around by a black man. Frankly, Anton didn’t give a good goddamn anymore what the Tax Agency would do to him.

  “Don’t even think about it, asshole,” Saunders said.

  “What?” Anton said.

  “I know what you’re thinking. You’re ticked off that you haven’t been paid, and you’re thinking about vigilante justice. Aren’t you?”

  “Aren’t you Mr. Know-It-All.”

  “I know that you’ve got nothing but hairy armpits and a big fist, and I’ve got this—” Saunders revealed the nose of a purple semiautomatic pistol.

  “Tough guy,” Anton said.

  “I could waste you here and now. And nobody would care.”

  Anton stood with his weight on the balls of his feet. He wanted to reach out and snatch the gun out of Saunders’ hand. Saunders had no idea how fast Anton’s hands were. Or maybe he did. Maybe he’d figured it out exactly. The little prick was standing two arm’s lengths away. If he knew how to use that thing, he’d have time to shoot before Anton got to him.

  “Well, I have your money,” Saunders said. “And I have a new assignment.”

  “I will take what you owe me. But no more assignments.”

  “Keita Ali,” Saunders said. “Heard of him?”

  “If you’re asking the question,” Anton said, “you know the answer.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Don’t know,” Anton said.

  “How can that be? You set up his visa. Which has expired. You are responsible for his time here and for getting him out on time.”

  “He took off. I’ve been looking for him.”

  “I bet you have.”

  “What do you plan to do with him, if you find him?” Anton said.

  “That’s not for you to ask.”

  “Well, I don’t know where he is,” Anton said.

  “Go to Zantoroland tomorrow, and see George Maxwell. He has people on the ground here, and he should know where this Ali is. This envelope is for you. It has cash for your expenses. And this other envelope is for Maxwell.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I’ve been patient with you, but now you are starting to piss me off,” Saunders said. He raised his pistol. “Stand against that brick wall.”

  Anton leaned against the wall. No way this midget would shoot him. Saunders took aim. Just to the right of his head, brick exploded.

  “Give me my money, and leave me alone,” Anton said. “I’m giving you one last chance. If you don’t, I will hunt you down. And when I find you, I will put my hands around your neck and wring it like you’re a chicken.”

  “You fail to appreciate a certain imbalance of power.”

  “Lock your doors, Saunders, and keep that little protector of yours nearby.”

  Saunders raised the pistol again. “Move your hands from your body, and spread your fingers.”

  “No need for that.”

  “Move them now, or I’ll send hot steel into your belly.”

  Anton lifted his arms.

  “Hands out,” Saunders said.

  Anton spread his arms wide against the wall.

  “Right hand or left hand?” Saunders said.

  “This is stupid,” Anton said.

  “Last request, or I shoot you twice. Right hand or left?”

  “Left.”

  Saunders aimed the pistol at Anton’s left hand, squinted, adjusted slightly and fired. Again, a bullet blasted into the brick wall. But this time it took the tip of Anton’s left pinkie with it. He looked at his hand and saw blood, ragged flesh and bits of white bone.

  “You shot my finger!”

  “Just the tip. This here’s a Ruger .22 calibre semiautomatic. It’s good for fingertips, but it can also kill.”

  “I’m bleeding here.”

  “What, do you need medical attention?” Saunders reached forward and patted Anton down. He pulled the phone from his pocket and dialed. “There. I’ve called 911 for you.”

  Saunders handed the phone to Anton, got in his car and drove away.

  Anton jammed his bleeding hand into his right armpit. He could hear a siren. It was coming for him, and he would be obliged to lie through his teeth.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  THINGS WERE NOT GOING WELL FOR ROCCO. THE fireside consultations had been farcical. Candace had turned him down for a date. Ivernia and scores of other people were writing letters to the editor of the Clarkson Evening Telegram. They had been reading the pieces by Viola Hill and wanted to know: why were boatloads of refugees being redirected back to Zantoroland? They also asked about Yvette Peters. Everyone had an opinion. To top it all off, Geoffrey had convinced the PM to revoke some of Rocco’s powers. As of June 22, Rocco wouldn’t be able to sign permits granting interim legal status to refugees. That would be handled by the Prime Minister’s Office.

  Today, the boy wonder John Falconer showed up again at his office, uninvited, at 7:10 a.m. Rocco was going to tell him to get lost, but the kid dropped a little bomb.

  “I was there, the night the prime minister was in the room with Yvette Peters.”

  “Son, you’re telling a tall tale.”

  “And I was there the night you were with Darlene too. The night of the raid.”

  “That’s quite enough, son.”

  “Don’t treat me like a child.”

  “You have an overactive imagination.”

  “I recorded it, Mr. Minister. You did not go to bed with that girl. You sat and talked. She took you into the bathroom and—”

  “Enough. Have you discussed this with anyone?”

  “Just you.”

  “You’re saying you recorded this?”

  “I’m saying I recorded you, and the PM—I have it on a USB—and there are a few things I do not understand.”

  “Why should I talk to you? What do you want? Why is everybody coming at me?”

  “I want answers. For my documentary.”

  “I cannot be in your assignment. Not that part of it!” Rocco said.

  “You’ll be in it whether you like it or not, Mr. Minister. So you might as well put your best foot forward.”

  Rocco sat down at his desk and laid his head on its surface. He was finished. Not only in politics, but perhaps in sales too. Who wanted to buy a minivan from a guy who’d been caught on tape in a brothel?

  “Mr. Minister,” John said in Rocco’s ear. Rocco jumped. The kid was certifiably sneaky. “Mr. Minister, we need to talk about Keita Ali.”

  “Everybody wants to talk about him.”

  “He is my friend, and he is in a bad way.”

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “I will do something for you, if you do something for him.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I will get the USB back to you. You may destroy it. You can do whatever you want with it.”

  “Then hand it over.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why?”

  “First, you have to help me.”

  “What do you want?”

  “A minister’s special permit for Keita Ali to stay in this country. I looked it up. Last year your office issued one special permit. The year before, two.”

  “He woul
d still have to go through the proper process. And you would have to return the recording to me and tell me what you know.”

  “Easy,” John said. “But there are a couple of things I need to figure out. First, who is Bossman?”

  “Bossman is the term Geoffrey Moore uses for the PM,” Rocco said.

  “And what is DOA?”

  “Deport on Arrest.”

  “ILD?”

  “Information Leading to Deportation.”

  “Thanks. That helps. I need you on camera now.”

  “Fat chance.”

  “Do you want the USB?”

  Rocco sighed. “An interview about what?”

  John flipped on his video camera and sat in the frame with the minister. He gave the time, date and location. He named the minister, and he named himself.

  He asked Rocco if he had any knowledge of the deportation of Yvette Peters or any involvement with it. The answer came back: “Categorically not.” John asked who was responsible. The answer: “I don’t know.”

  John then read aloud parts of the message from Whoa-Boy to Bossman that he had videotaped Yvette reading before the prime minister caught her looking at his documents: “‘Bossman. I firmed up the deal with GM . . . Citing NS we can bypass CO and do this on your orders. Off books, $ only. We can keep intercepting bathtubs, return to Z. We pay $2,000 p/k for each IRBL. To cover Z’s A + R costs. . . . Also . . . We pay Z—through GM—$10,000 p/k for ILD for up to 20 dissidents/year on the lam here. GM fingers them for us. Points us right to them. Every one of those suckers, we can DOA. Good results. Minimal cost. Win win. Please approve ASAP. Whoa-Boy. P.S. Lula has three for you. Asking 10x the usual fee. Petty cash issues. Talk her down?’”

  John looked at Rocco, his head tilted.

  “NS is National Security and CO is Cabinet Office,” Rocco said.

  “Z is for Zantoroland,” John said, “but what is p/k?”

  “Per capita.”

  “OK. But what does it all mean?” John asked.

  Rocco said it looked like someone was sending cash to Zantoroland officials on two levels: two thousand dollars for each “Illegal Returned Before Landing” and ten thousand for “Information Leading to Deportation” of each Zantorolander dissident hiding in Freedom State.