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Ebony Embellished

Eric Burbridge

    Lamont Patel, PhD parked his Kawasaki sport bike in the handicapped space. That would turn a few heads. Who rides a motorcycle and their handicapped too? He displayed the placard, dismounted slowly not to aggravate his arthritic hip and pressed the button to extend his favorite black cane. Early arthritis was one of the negatives he inherited from his South Asian father, but his good looks and smooth complexion from his brilliant Black mother. His black leather jacket fit snuggly, but not uncomfortably, on the broad shoulders of his enviable physique for an older guy. He exchanged smiles with a couple of thirtyish looking females hurrying to the taco food truck at the opposite end of the parking lot.
    The last time he visited the three-story mirrored façade of the Southland Professional Complex the massive array of entrance fountains was undergoing maintenance. Today they were at full blast propelling jets of water and spray skyward in beautiful varying patterns from the high winds. He walked through huge semi-opaque glass doors that opened and closed with a whoosh. The receptionist desk was no longer occupied by a cheap AI mannequin, but by several vases filled with exotic tropical plants. Several sets of Barcelona chairs and tables were arranged to encircle the circular glass staircases. Today Patel had to accomplish three things; get to the casino in time to pay Samantha’s debt, shake the surveillance and solidify an alliance against BancChina with his nemesis James Bates. The meeting with his nemesis in the studying and teaching of African American/Black history was on the third level, a manageable, healthy walk up the stairs; he needed the exercise and so far, his arthritic hip cooperated. Several previously occupied suites still had cords and wires hanging off desks and chairs that were left behind. Transparency was a big deal in this building, Plexiglas everywhere even the elevators were made of it. Installation of privacy mode glass would not break the bank, but obviously many tenants preferred curtains or blinds. Well-dressed females dashed back and forth between offices and up and down the stairs. If he heard another, “excuse me sir,” he would scream, but those smiles lifted his spirits.
    The sign at the top of the stairs directed him to the left. Bates suite was at the end. The blinds were cracked enough to see the CEO of the AAMA (African-American Museum Association) seated at the table. Patel knocked and the door swung open. Dr. James Bates wiped his mouth of what was a chip in the dip centered on the redwood conference table.
    Bates extended his hand. “Good to see you, Dr. Patel.” He had a medium brown complexion, height and build with a round face. His smile displayed a perfect overly white set of dental implants and his too small ears were lined with piercings; the top hole was accented with a Rhinestone.
    “Likewise, Dr. Bates, I hope this will be short.” They both took a seat.
    Bates pointed at the food tray. “Have some; this is the best, a special order?”
    “Not now. This might be a stupid question, but is the privacy mode engaged?”
    “Of course, Dr. Patel...is privacy mode engaged?”
    Privacy mode engaged upon guest arrival.
    “Satisfied doctor?” Patel nodded. “We can see out; they cannot see in and no bugs either.”
    He still had to exercise caution discussing soliciting funding for a project as huge as the rebuild of The African American History Museum was highly sensitive. “This meeting will work best if we keep it professional, discrete and short.” Bates smirked and plucked a grape out of the fruit basket. “I know how our organizations feel about one another and I’m glad you and yours realize the urgency in our meeting. Now that the country has an Ultra Conservative administration, things will change, fast. The new American demographic scares the hell out of them; the majority is now the minority. Rumor and conspiracy theory, have it foreign banking is a primary target of theirs to use against us.” Patel said.
    “We considered that, but foreign banks have controlled this hemisphere for decades, what else can they do?” Bates plucked another grape.
    “They pass laws to limit grants and loans from Black banks. The things we need for our communities to stop depending on them.” That nonchalant expression of Bates was getting on his nerves. “The gradual elimination of Black, or would you prefer, African-American banks has us in a bad position. The Chinese have a controlling interest in the Federal Reserve so this new guy, Nelson Pong is demanding certain criteria be met to finance the rebuild. And, don’t forget that deadline crap...by 9/11.”
    “Rebuild! They want, with the BHC (Black History Council) help a rewrite.” Bates snapped, but quickly adjusted his tone.
    “That’s not us, that’s the History Simplification Committee propaganda that wants re-write. AAMA (African-American Museum Association) is in disarray too, so don’t get high and mighty on us. Face it Bates, we need each other, like it or not.” Patel said and reached for a cold cut sandwich. “Had you noticed there hasn’t been a word from the LEB (Latino Education Block) on anything?”
    “No. They don’t have that much to say anyway.”
    “But they got attacked too. Here’s a piece of wisdom...If their mouth ain’t moving doesn’t mean their brain ain’t, or something like that. We do the same thing; we keep our mouth shut. That, they are not used to and it will scare the hell out of them.”
    “Agreed,” Bates said and continued to pluck grapes. “Perhaps you find it hard to believe we also believe we could rebuild the museum with our own finances. Is that chair bothering you?”
    “Perhaps.” Patel stood and shook his leg while Bates gathered his papers and slowly organized them. He wondered what his reaction would be if he snatched that cheap toupee off his square like skull. Why wear one and everybody knew it? That fake British accent sickened him. “How long were you in the UK?”
    “Two years, why?”
    “You assimilated very well.”
    “The accent bothers you don’t it?” Bates asked.
    “No, of course not,” Patel lied. It takes a while to sound like them, but back to the important stuff. “You could’ve called, if you wanted to discuss consolidation.”
    “Face to face is best, Patel, you know that. I’m just putting it out there.”
    “Financial consolidation of Black History Museums and foreign financing would have an effect on control of such an ambitious undertaking. I don’t like it; consolidation could kill independence.” Patel said. Another reason why he didn’t like Bates, he thought he was stupid. “That 9/11 style attack on the museum with the incendiaries packed drones on that same date was also designed to be a morale killer. I’ve said it a million times, as directors of our organizations we have to exercise caution, James. Our own financing is best.”
    “Now we’re on a first name basis, Lamont?” Bates snapped. “The law says we have to seek private financing through ChinaBanc. Is this a start to figuring out a plan?”
    Patel sighed and nodded.
    “It wouldn’t surprise me if your boy, Pong was watching.”
    “Me neither, but good that’ll give him more shit to think about,” Patel said. “And James, do have a good rest of the day, mate.” He smiled at the dirty look Bates gave him. They should be embarrassed for such a waste of time; they didn’t share any ideas before the insults and animosities flew. Bates rubbed his chest, obviously he was in discomfort. “Too many grapes mean heart burn, Bates. I’ll be in touch.” Patel rushed out the door, his other destination was an hour away if no trains stalled or parked at the crossings. His lovely wife’s gambling addiction was responsible, thankfully for the last time for these changes. Her debt to the casino corporation became his when her addiction peaked. New laws, that favored the gaming industry, made the spouse liable for the debt to assure re-payment at an interest rate similar to the payday loan syndicate. Non-payment meant a bad credit rating. Credit ratings were everything...bad credit and you damn near starved. But if you had an on-time payment for the life of the judgment you got a 500-dollar rebate. Peanuts, but he still wanted it for her inconveniencing him not to mention the humiliation. It still pissed him off! He made sure regardless of his mood he let Samantha Patel, the love of his life, have it. If she shed tears, so what.
    The weather prediction was right. The sky opened enough to make it extremely humid. Good, he took the sport bike with the rain tires. He felt like hearing noise, vibrations and the uncorked exhaust. He didn’t count on his lower back not having the same enthusiasms, but he dropped a couple of Ibuprofens, problem solved.
    Patel avoided the flooded potholes; he could not afford to waste time fixing a flat. He zoomed past the long lines at the Taco Truck on to 159th street. The spirit of daring over took him as he accelerated, running through the gears like a reckless teenager with an invincibility complex. In and out of traffic he zoomed; with the vibrating power plant beneath him giving a rush he hadn’t felt since forever. Traffic slowed the closer he got to the railway crossings. No flashing lights so far. The odds he makes it across...fifty-fifty, the better route cut through the trailer park. Take it slow, speed bumps everywhere until the street meanders along the Calumet river bank. Up and down the hilly tree lined road he cruised watching for kids playing ball oblivious to traffic. He accelerated toward a bridge that crosses two sets of track and once he crosses there is a light. Make a right and he was ten minutes from the casino. He eased through the traffic to the front. So far, so good, but suddenly the lights flashed as the gates dropped into position. Dammit! No going through these gates and from the sound of it that train was moving at a good speed. Maybe it was short or an engine only. Two locomotives and an old-fashioned caboose rounded the turn that was it. Lucky him, for the time being. No sooner had he run through the gears the sky opened again. Wet streets, slower traffic, better not make him late to get those greedy bastards their money.

*

    Othello Reams felt uncomfortable in his repairman overalls. Nobody paid attention to the skinny Asian looking guy as he rapidly climbed the stairs. At the top he paused, adjusted the cap on his clean-shaven head and pretended to read the building directory. A quick glance down the hall through the transparent office partitions revealed the majority of the suites were vacant. The one at the end blinds were shut. Start there was the logical choice. A crack in the floor to ceiling slats revealed someone slumped over and a bowl knocked over on the table. He wasn’t just asleep. At first, he banged on the glass. He was unresponsive, was he dead? He banged again.
    “Sir, can we help you?” Two young Latino women dressed in navy blue and white suits walked toward him at a fast pace.
    “There’s a guy slumped over in there.” Reams pushed the door and it opened without a keycard. They followed.
    “Girl, help me sit him up.” The short lady said.
    “Let me help.” Reams got behind his chair. “And call 911.”
    “Should we put him on the floor or table?”
    “The floor,” They carefully eased him out of the chair. “They should be here in no time.” Reams put his head to his chest. “His heart ain’t stopped. Anybody know CPR stuff?”
    “No, he seems so nice; I hope he’ll be okay.” The tall thin one with the rainbow wig said. They placed hands on his forehead, closed their eyes and said a silent prayer. Reams shifted his attention to papers on the table. Be careful and quiet. He moved them apart and, on several coffee-stained pieces of scratch paper he saw the words: rethink funding apps, rewrite strategies. The women continued to pray. Once the EMTs came and got Dr. Bates he would return and examine them closer. It was a shame he could not take pictures with his phone. The women stopped praying. “Here they come.” The door swung open and two older looking EMTs pushed their stretcher and equipment in and went to work on the patient. The bald guy scanned his med chip and the other fumbled with a defibrillator and asked the routine questions. He wished the people well and exited the room and headed down the hall toward what appeared to be a service elevator. If there was access to a utility room he would wait there until they left.

*

    The signal from the tracker on Patel’s motorcycle still had him at the casino. Unfortunately, this was the second railroad crossing Reams was caught at. The monotony of watching the coal train pass gave him a headache and an idea. Now was a good time to report in as he watched the train start to slow. He placed the scrambler squarely on the dashboard and flipped the switch. The joke was, not even God would be able to hear them. The phone rang twice. “Hello.” A deep raspy voice said.
    “Dr. Pong, this line is secure.”
    “Go ahead; I hope you got something good, Reams, since your services are so expensive.”
    Sarcastic bastard, I love you too. “Well sir that’s up to you, but anyway, Patel went to the Southland and met with a Dr. Bates.” He cleared his throat and took a sip of water. “You didn’t mention him in the package, but the man might have had a heart attack or something. I left when the ambulance got there and I wasn’t able to check closely the documents or whatever they discussed. I did see some notes; rethink funding, rewrite demonstrations, rewrite strategy. I returned later, but his suite was locked. You want me to go in later or what?”
    “No, I’ll be in touch, but stay on Patel.”
    Reams sighed. He was sick to death of surveillance. “Yes sir.”
    “I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Reams, I’m aware of your ambitions regarding financial intel analysis. You never know what this could bring.”
    “That sounds optimistic.” His mixed ethnicity was a factor in previous denials for an analysis job. Philippine and Chinese were considered toxic be some people...and that’s BS, regardless, he had a plan.
    “You’re the best I’m told especially if extremes are needed. Intel’s fine, but I need to know what’s on those Negroes minds.”
    Good luck with that one, you egotistical asshole. “I understand, Dr. Pong.”
    The lot of the hotel/casino complex was full and he circled several times before he got a space. Patel’s bike hugged the line of a handicap space. He reluctantly slipped on a Polo shirt and a cap and headed inside. Whatever this guy was up too better be important and bear fruit for the surveillance. The dissolvable bugs and trackers would be useless soon and he would not be reinstalling any more.
    The lobby was typical for a local casino, not a hint of international appeal. A makeover was too expensive for the cheap bastard who owned the place. The aroma from the buffet was captivating, that would be his resting place as soon as he spotted Patel.

*

    All eyes were on Patel when shouted at the little old lady at the payment window not to close it. Technically he was late, but fate stepped in and the clerk was late closing. That dirty look she always gave him hadn’t changed. “You make last payment...computer say.”
    “Yes, it does, lady.” Patel said, and since this would be the last time, he’d see her he wanted to ask about that knot in between her cheek and gums. Do you dip snuff or what? He decided not to.
    “You get 500; you want it in a check, chips or cash?”
    “Cash.” She looked surprised and counted out his money. He wasn’t a gambler, not even a little. The wrong people see him playing anything could cause trouble if his enemies on the board heard about it.
    Patel pushed open the door of the so-called executive suite. The wall paper was reddish orange and it peeled at the windows and doors. The place was musty and the towels needed to be changed. The interior decorating sucked, period. How this place stayed in business was an insult to the community. “You were right, Dr. Patel, you’ve picked up a tail. I know somebody who’ll run his face through facial recognition.” Carmen Scales said, and continued to count the roll of twenties Patel gave her. “You don’t have to do this.”
    “I know... you’re my second in command so to speak and soon to be Carmen Scales, PH. D and I appreciate it and no strings attached.”
    “Who you think dogging your trail, if you don’t mind me asking?”
    “Nelson Pong, who else, why I don’t know yet, but in time I will,” Patel said and flopped on the king size bed and muted the TV. “How long before he gets in the room next door?”
    “Not long, he’ll give us some time to get comfortable.” Carmen smiled and dug in her purse. “He’ll love this tape of passion...he might get off on it. You never know this stuff can bring out the freak in people.”
    “Cool, not too loud, I need to think.”
    She turned on the tape and poured a scotch on the rocks from the mini bar. Carmen looked good for somebody who had a set of twins. A slight baby gut didn’t distract the attention those big firm tits got her. Her complexion remained flawless, perfect teeth and smile. He found short curvaceous women very attractive and the sounds from that tape gave him ideas, especially when she smiled at him.
    A one - night stand wouldn’t hurt...yes it would, so don’t think about it.
    He still loved his wife. Why spoil a good working professional relationship. Carmen worked for him going on five years and she was nearing completion of her doctorate in psychology. She was efficient; well organized and could keep her mouth shut. Being ex-military intelligence, he assumed she could easily keep an eye on whoever was watching him. He couldn’t prove it, but it felt like it. He mentioned it and she offered her advice and here they were. Give that SOB something to chew on. Of course, he shared his concerns with Samantha. If it wasn’t Pong then who, perhaps an unknown enemy on the board? Their marriage was rock solid that is why he shared his plan with her and she didn’t show any signs of doubt about his intentions other then what he said. The tape ended. “Enjoy the bonus, Carmen.”
    “Will do boss, I’ll see you later. She said and whispered in his ear. “Let you know later what I hear.” He nodded and she left.
    The sunset below the tree line produced beautiful shades of red and orange that put Patel in a serene mood. The world could end and it would not bother him. Good riding weather and when he fastened his helmet his cell rang. “Hello, honey. How’d it go?” His wife asked.
    “According to plan, but you know how Bates is.”
    “Well, he called and left a message he said he’s at County General and to call him.”
    “What! I just saw him...and he did look uncomfortable. I’m headed over there, talk to you later.” Their organizations had to take a stand against Nelson Pong. His death or prolonged incapacitation would set back the campaign against rewrite or history simplification. Don’t die, James Bates.

*

    Patel crossed his fingers and said a prayer he would see Bates. A thirty-minute window before visiting hours closed was close. After what Carmen reported it was worth the chance. The hall leading to the ICU was crowded with portable equipment as expected. No staff or visitors, perhaps they were in a meeting or a shift change. No sooner than that thought passed a robot nurse approached. After an ID scan he entered Bates room. It smelled like medication and a wet diaper. He sat on the side of the bed fumbling with an IV line. “Too many green grapes, Dr. Bates or whatever?” Lamont extended his hand. “You scared me.”
    His professional nemesis smiled. “Well...thank God, I just need a pacemaker. I shouldn’t have shared that, but whatever.”
    “Pacemaker?”
    “Pacemaker and they’re going to do the procedure tonight. I’m glad, get this mess over with. I got a lot of work to do.” Bates said, and laid back. “My family still in the waiting room?”
    “Don’t know I came straight up here.” Visiting hours are over; please turn in your passes. The announcement surprised him. “I thought I had more time. I’ll get to the point. I don’t trust Nelson Pong and I don’t plan on jumping through anymore financial hoops.” Bates expression was rock solid as he expected. “This damn Ultra Conservative Administration forcing us to seek half of the money from private sources is BS. I believe they want the museums out of DC. Dumb down our history is also part of it and whether you admit or not you think the same. To hell with Pong, I got an alternate plan, but I’m still against consolidation of our organizations.” Visiting hours are over; please turn in your passes. “You do the same and it will send them one helluva a message. Think about it...get well soon.”
    You’re right, but still, I’ll consider it.” Bates said weakly. They did a fist bump and Patel headed for the elevator. His response was not reassuring. Could he trust him? Maybe, maybe not, but he knew he was right. The disrespect was going to stop, one way or another.

*

    Nelson Pong stared at the huge variety of plants his vacationing wife insisted he water. They lined the entire deck. His grill was pushed in the corner, not that he planned on using it, but still. Perhaps that chore would erase his concerns over the state’s threat to withdraw their funds if the rewrite controversy was not addressed soon. The hose would be easier, but sloppy. The watering can was best, but the weight bothered his arthritic wrist. Happy wife, happy life. Halfway through the ordeal a cell rang, the untraceable one. What now? Only his undesirable associates used that line. “Hello.”
    “Hello, CEO of BancChina, Nelson Pong, how are you?”
    Damn, he hated whoever that female with the squeaky voice was. “I’ve been better. Get to the point. What’s up?” Silence.
    “You do remember who you are talking too, right?” That voice was killing him. “We’ve heard the Conservatives feel it could bring increased credit and interest to go with the bank backed by Beijing. That’s good for us and you especially in the future. A say so in the west’s educational system is a dream come true, CEO Pong. Right?”
    Pong quietly cleared his throat. “Right.”
    “Have the African-American and Latino’s filed for grants and loans for the start of their rebuilds?”
    “Not yet, but they might be late, hoping for whatever. The delay could be some sort of weird tactic; you know how those people are.”
    “How are those people? Think green, Pong, think green. That’s what our special investors say. Those people might not apply and go independent, self-reliant. Forget a rebuild and simplification is a joke, they might say. That’s not good for business, right? I hope my emphasis on business doesn’t offend you.”
    That special section of the bank operated in a manner that expected fast results. In other words, do whatever it takes. He had been given the proverbial blank check. Don’t patronize me. “No, I got it.”
    “Good.” The line went dead.
    One day he would meet that female, at least she sounded that way, and that would satisfy his curiosity. Was she young, old, attractive or what? He dare not express himself; the board would have his head on a stick.
    Rewrite was not BancChina’s idea!
    It was a dumb down if they asked him, but nobody did.
    He made a plaque with the initial rewrite position. He kicked up his heels and looked at it for the umpteen time.
    The rewriter position is one of the more influential jobs in the United States Department of Education. One of its priorities is the restructuring of the educational system both public and private. The History Simplification Committee findings system will reach all segments of the population for generations. Clarity of the history of the American founders, builders and others is essential so that all citizens regardless of intellectual capacity can comprehend.
    Since the destruction of the main Black and Latino museums the rewrite experiment changed a million times. It was thought to be the cure for the problems of public education. Mismanagement, misappropriations and every other miss you could think of have plagued it. But the push back from the simplification overwhelmed the committees that started it. They turned over the funding to the private banking sector. Free enterprise will cure all. They will rebuild and if not, so be it. However, the government still put their two cent in regardless of what the banks said. Pseudo regulation it was called on the washroom wall, but regardless the request for monies they pecked at it and sent it to the banks. BancChina got the first crack at it. Pong’s gut told him the truth whether he liked it or not. Rewrite was a failure. A generation had to die off before it could possibly take hold. No proposals for history curriculums had been submitted in two years that made any sense. What were those people up too? The LEB (LatinX Education Block) silence did not concern him as much as the BHC (Black History Council) being dormant. The politician lips flapped; nobody listened. Pong pushed the plaque to the edge of his desk. Should he trash it or what? Yeah, and into the waste basket it went.

*

    Patel stared at the ceiling fan for the past hour formulating a plan to smack Pong in the face with rejection of applying for funds. “You won’t hold that over our heads.” The BHC board would follow his direction; it was their idea months ago anyway. A couple of administrators jokingly said, “To hell with BancChina.” Amazing what a few martinis can do, but now he was ready. Why have the museums in D.C. anyway? Why not in Alabama or Mississippi? Perhaps in the future, but the more pressing problem, Bates could not be trusted. He still dreamed of equality; equality under a conservative regime? A pipe dream. If the LEB would side with the BHC that could possibly seal Pong’s doom. Their CEO, Dr. Julio Lopez was a regular guy from a working-class immigrant family unlike bougie Bates, he would listen and his word was good.
    Samantha snored louder and louder, a sign she was exhausted. From what he never understood when she stayed on top of her chores. He guessed watching 3D all day took its toll. He reached over and gently squeezed the trip of her nose. That did the trick; she turned on her side and silence returned. His insomnia and stress won, he sat up and decided to call Lopez. It was 5am, by the time he washed and fixed coffee he would make his proposal. His friend should be up running on his treadmill trying to lose weight. He hoped anyway. Obesity ran in his family and Lopez said surgery would solve the never-ending struggle to lose and keep off the tonnage. “Try portion control and less Tequila,” Patel suggested, but who was he. And if he knew Lopez that surgery idea was long forgotten.
    “Hello, Dr. Patel, how are you at this ungodly hour?” Lopez asked. “You remembered I’m an early riser like yourself.”
    “I’m fine.” He sounded like he was in a good mood. That was the positive start Patel needed, but he sensed surprised curiosity. “It’s not bad, Julio, not bad at all.”
    “Um...on this cell...I’m listening.” Lopez said.
    “I haven’t heard from you in months, are we still good?”
    “Of course, I’ve been busy with this simplification crap and the war on public education.”
    “We didn’t think the LEB was as concerned with the rewrite/rebuild requirement. Some think the Conservatives are using that double standard to keep us at each other’s throats...”
    “Not so, not so, Lamont.” Lopez interrupted. “Matter of fact I been waiting for a call, letter or text that you’d share something with us. You know how things are; I’m getting a lot of pressure to get as much money as possible. Their offering us the world to dumb us down. If they do it for a while that will be fine with them. What’s that old cliché?” Lopez hesitated fumbling with something. “Sorry about that...yeah I remember now. Give them and inch and they will take a mile.”
    “That’s an old one, but true. Any Spanish saying like that?” Patel laughed.
    “Ha, ha, that’s funny; I still don’t speak fluent Spanish.”
    How he stayed in his position not being able to surprised him. “I’m messing with you. But we need to talk, but first, I’m not jumping through any hoops for funding. What about you?” Patel asked and hoped for a positive and sincere response.
    “Us either and I’m glad to hear it.”
    “That parade is today, right, Cinco de Mayo?”
    “Yeah, you want to meet and talk at a Mexican thing? This must be an emergency.” Lopez laughed.
    “Yeah, I’ll hit you when I’m there.” Patel hated feeling somebody was listening. He wanted to shout, “Fuck you whoever you are,” but that would wake Samantha.

*

    Patel enjoyed the festivities, but not to the extent he needed to relax. His gut continued to churn until Lopez approached. He got up and walked toward the side stage where a traditional Mexican band played their hearts out.
    “Slow down, Lamont.” Lopez said. “You’re acting paranoid again.”
    “I am?”
    “Yes, you are, remember old friend, I know you.” The closer to the stage the thicker the crowd became. “Whatever you want to say, Lamont, start talking, the bass is killing my eardrums.”
    “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get so close,” Patel shouted. They walked further away toward the bands vehicles in the parking lot. The smell of weed filled his nostrils. He fanned the air. “The last thing I need is a contact high. I’ll get to the point. Pong’s got somebody following me. And it’s not my imagination.”
    “Ok, now what?” Lopez grinned.
    “Your eyes are puffy and red, Julio and before you start hitting the tequila listen closely it’s important.” His friend’s eyes focused on his lips. Patel forgot about his alternating impaired hearing. He never understood that on and off condition. “Sorry, I forgot about your hearing thing, but just in case this guy or guys are using directional equipment...make it hard for them.” Julio nodded. “The BHC has no intention of applying for funding from BancChina. Forget the law we don’t want or need their money. If the feds don’t like it, too bad.”
    “You serious?” Julio asked. “I heard there’s a split in your coalition and the BHC doesn’t carry that much influence.”
    “Yeah, I’m serious and we got enough weight to send Pong a message even if we go it alone.”
    “Sounds good, but what do you specifically want from the LEB”?
    “We stand together, in front of Pong’s board and deliver one big fuck you.” They laughed.
    “How so, Lamont?”
    “We’re going to embellish our historical facts and what’s left of our artifacts and documents. I got my best researcher and his team on it.” Patel pointed at a couple of empty spaces on a bench and they rushed over and sat.
    “I could use a couple of tacos, how about you?” Lopez asked.
    “Yeah, with extra catsup, no hot sauce.”
    Lopez waved a couple of kids playing with a soccer ball over. “Here’s a twenty, get us four tacos extra catsup and keep the change.” They dashed to the vendor and stood in line. “I take pride in my researchers too and we also have plans for teaching our history. I have a suggestion since you want to stand together. We do it at the same time. And, we share what we get ready to drop on Pong. That shouldn’t be a problem, right?”
    “Right, here comes the food.” The kids gave them their order and ran into the crowd. “It’s nice when young folk help out.”
    Patel went to work applying way too much catsup to his taco. Lopez looked and shook his head. “What...this is the way to enjoy a taco my friend.”
    “Why you aren’t big as me is a miracle eating like that, but anyway. You have my word, we’ll be there. If our boards go along, we cannot lose.” Lopez said.
    “What I want to figure out is how to spring this on Pong and have our people witness it at the same time. They could cheer us on at the same time. That’ll kill that sneaky SOB, he likes to be discreet. That cloak and dagger crap gets him off. The under the table appearance undermines the people’s trust in us.”
    “Sounds good, Mexican history could use some embellishment also. There are, what I call vague areas.” Julio pointed at his friend’s shirt and handed him a napkin. “You got a bull’s eye on that beautiful white shirt.”
    “Dammit.” Patel wiped his mouth and dabbed at the spot. “I look like a slob.”
    “You got a team or person for the rewrite?”
    “Yeah, a guy named Dr. Javier Sims...he’s a brother with Southern Asia on the side.” They laughed. “And you?”
    “Dr. Donald Pearson, he doesn’t sound brown, but he is and doesn’t know much Spanish like me.”
    Patel never understood how that could happen in their community, but it made no difference to him. He finished his soda and belched. “That hit the spot.”
    “It sounds like it. At some point they’ll have to meet to work out the details before we drop this bomb on Nelson Pong, a face to face works best, none of that virtual stuff.” Lopez said, and extended his hand.
    “Agreed.” Patel felt reassured his friend would not double cross him before they shook, even though the Latino community had far more resources at their disposal. The Conservatives and BancChina were a serious threat.
    “Ready to drink Tequila and listen to Mariachi and other bands?”
    “Yeah, why not, but you still need a dash of house music.”

*

    Julio Lopez adjusted the speed on his stationary bike and muted the instructor’s babble. Why he tuned into that was more habitual than practical. Stop fooling yourself only time would cure his hangover and following Patel’s advice; avoid hangovers stay drunk. That was for alcoholics. Which he was not, but the smoothie he fixed earlier did ease his hotbox. He dismounted the bike and opened the blinds. The sunshine lifted his spirits and a hot shower coupled with a little early morning romance he would be like new. Unfortunately, the wife had an early surgery. No sooner had he finished drying off the phone rang.
    A call from board member, Ramirez, Dr. Lopez.
    What does that jackal want this early in the morning? It was never good when he called, especially on the weekend. “Deny it, system,” he shouted. Jesus, a hangover and a call from the board, what sin did he commit? He wrapped the towel around his waist and headed for the communication center. “Play message.” The holographic projection came to life and there stood Dr. Danny Ramirez, the so-called God’s gift to everything, fully dressed in a navy-blue suit, shirt, tie and three-inch heels and his jet-black hair in a bun. Had he attended a board meeting of the (L.E.B.) Latino Education Block or what? He must have, what was this weasel up too? Julio could not fully bring himself to trust these ambitious geniuss; not enough experience for him in the field of education especially history. But he was out voted on that policy.
    “Dr. Lopez, we need to talk, asap. Sorry to call so early, call me.”
    The phone rang again. “Hello,” he snapped, unintentionally.
    “Dr. Lopez, how are you this beautiful morning?”
    “I don’t know yet, it’s early. What’s so important?” No image, he wondered why. “Are you there?”
    “Yes, excuse me. I’ll get to the point; the board has decided not to...I repeat...not to join forces or any efforts to go against the History Simplification Committee mandates.”
    “Why?” The silence was irritating. “Can you hear me?”
    “Yes, I can and that’s the way it is. And for your own good you might want to cut ties with the BHC (Black History Council) ...”
    “I was friends with Blacks and other peoples of color when you were still swimming in your old man’s nuts!!”
    “Regardless...that’s the way it is, we’ll talk later.” The line went dead.
    “Go to hell, Ramirez!!” He shouted at the blank wall.
    Bp spike, Dr. Lopez, calm down or would you like for me to notify the ER?
    “No, I’m fine, system off.” He did not need this now. How that weasel got them to go along with that was puzzling, but not entirely a surprise. The struggle to keep the former majority in control of the money was paramount. How was he going to look to his friend? He all but gave him his word. He would do legal research on his own concerning the final approval of loan applications and grant proposals submitted to BancChina or others. He was still CEO. Certain criteria had to be met for monies, but the Latino community got breaks the Blacks did not.
    With the thirty-fifth anniversary of 9/11 approaching he would love to have one helluva surprise for the HSC and BancChina. He hit the speed dial. He might as well get cussed out sooner than later.
    “Hello.”
    “How are you doing, Lamont?” The hesitation in the answer said it all, he knew.
    “I was fine...let me guess. They screwed you, right?”
    Julio sighed and leaned back and propped his legs on the cocktail table. “Yeah, caught me off guard. I assumed everybody’s disdain for the HSC was as strong as mine. I’m getting old, but whether I’m here doesn’t matter. Pong will still come at us. But there are those that figure things will get better if we limit our association with ‘The Blacks’ as they say.”
    “And they’ll eat you alive, right? Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked you that, I understand. I hear the same crap from my people. I still don’t get it; Latinos still have the economic advantage.” Patel said.
    “A power struggle and that confirms what my mind has been telling me. It’s over, time to retire and do something else. I admit at first, I listened to that simplification crap, but not now. Our history isn’t what it used to be, in my opinion. When I was a kid, I remember hearing about a guy named Pancho Villa. I thought he was pretty cool. Don’t hear much about Mexican generals anymore in history classes. I had a guy named Pearson come up with some research on that guy and include some of, what I call, speculative history alternatives.”
    “That sounds intriguing, Julio or is that a fancy type of embellishment? Don’t feel bad about calling it a rewrite that could, and will, be a good thing if done properly.”
    “Right.”
    “Let’s meet and talk...Navy Pier? That Ferris Wheel looks good.” Patel suggested.
    “Fine, and as a sign of good faith I’ll bring my chief researcher with me,” Lopez said. It meant a lot that his lifelong friend did not think he was trying to play him for whatever reason. At the parade he got the feeling he might have been right about being followed. Pearson was a good educator/researcher and he was also an ex-cop. He hoped he would not need his skills for any drama.

*

    Lamont helped Samantha get in the car, that boot on her fractured foot made it a real challenge to get comfortable. “Cabs are bigger with more leg room,” he told her, but she insisted on their privacy. Traffic that early in the afternoon was minimal, that was the only reason he went along with it. He thought his idea to have the wife’s along was good. Fun and games relieved stress and in this case, they would get to take the last rides on Navy Pier’s iconic ride a worthwhile trip. Everybody agreed except the wives when Samantha, with her charming self said, “we ladies will let you guys talk business we’re going to go get drunk.” They laughed and she, Michelle Pearson and Julio’s wife headed for one of the many bars on the pier. You could not help but notice all three of them maintained their figures; all had graying long hair and sexy strides. “Well gentlemen, I guess they told us,” Julio said. They laughed and headed for the Ferris wheel.
    Donald Pearson seemed to be a good guy. He had to be in his mid-fifties and an obvious body builder. There was an inner forcefulness about him that sat well with Patel. He would have made a good bouncer even at his age. What research and revelations did the LEB have? Obviously when Lopez reneged on the plan, he wanted to show it wasn’t his idea and Patel knew that. But what did he want to share with him and the BHC? The operator secured the door to their luxurious compartment on the ride, which included a bar and specialty cold cuts and several high-powered binoculars. They could zoom in on any part of the city. The ascent was slow and steady. Several revolutions and drinks later the small talk ended.
    “My back was against the wall, Lamont.” Julio said. “But before I start, I thought you were being paranoid, but I got the feeling we are being tailed. That’s another reason why Pearson’s here. He knows a thing or two about that being an ex-cop.” He opened an envelope from his pocket.
    “Ok.” What was he up too?
    “I looked for more material on some of my heroes and favorite people in our history.” Lopez unfolded the paper and looked over it. “And there wasn’t much to be found. Pearson can verify that.” His researcher nodded. “But I’m going to add a dash of speculation based on declassified documents from the days of one of my favorite Mexican generals, Pancho Villa.” He handed Patel the paper.
    The early twentieth century south western United States interested me especially since the declassification of intelligence documents became available, particularly those involving the states that border Mexico. President Woodrow Wilson ordered army intelligence to concentrate its efforts on the American border with Mexico. Unrest in that country could prove difficult due to other efforts to start a war in Europe where in the works. Several of these agents posed as industrialist, adventurers and soldiers of fortune. It had been said the German’s tried to assist in the revolutionary spirit churning in Mexico, but it was the French and Russians, the latter still being denied to this day. Foreign agents favored a group of revolutionaries led by a General Pancho Villa. They knew the Americans would be the main suppliers, but a small group of the French and Russians shipped a onetime supply of Mauser rifles to Pancho Villa. The Germans were furious and a naval battle ensued in the Gulf of Mexico. The battle only consisted of two medium sized warships, but the Germans sank the Russian vessel. The Mexican Revolution continued for several years with the main supplier of weapons being the United States. But, the small group of industrialists who were to benefit from that sunken ship never forgave the Germans. It wasn’t until WWII they got even with them. General Pancho Villa managed to settle with his former enemies and retire to a lavish lifestyle. However, his envious associates didn’t benefit from his relationship with the French and Russians. They demanded compensation; he refused and soon thereafter General Pancho Villa was killed in a brutal ambush. They said that the Americans, as a gesture of good will to its post war allies and enemies, coordinated the attack.”
    “You’re going to drop this on your boy, Pong and the HSC?” Patel asked.
    “Yeah, and then some, the then some I haven’t figured out yet. What do you think?”
    “Sounds good, of course, they’ll throw it in the conspiracy theory category, but they don’t want anybody to have pride in their history.” A wave of jealousy momentarily overwhelmed, Lamont. “You wrote this?”
    “No, my researcher, Pearson.” He gave Patel that...yeah that’s right I did, smirk.
    “Sorry, I didn’t mean the way it sounded.” Pearson nodded and continued to gaze at the skyline. Patel shook off that grammar school emotion he’d experienced when he and Julio competed in spelling bees. He couldn’t beat him to save his life. What else was his boy Pearson working on? Should he share his rewrite? No...hell no! Something was missing. Did Pong and the HSC know the LEB wouldn’t show and/or didn’t have one completed? By law something had to be submitted. It was simple; it was right in front of him.
    You go first...I’m right behind you...go ahead I’m coming...You take the point soldier.
    It had been said a million different ways. When the HSC hears what he and the BHC have to say could mean the difference in the amount of funding available. Money was still king...principles be damned. He and Lopez had been friends forever, but still. “Since you got voted out, so to speak, what’s the new plan other than we go first?”
    “I’m at their mercy for the time being, Lamont, but I know I still have to show.”
    “Right.” Patel got a text from Carmen Scales: need to see you at the office, Dr. Patel.
    That meant the casino. What was that all about? I’ll let you know within the hour what time. More cloak and dagger BS, but thank God for her “Anyway, that’s enough business let’s join the girls and enjoy the pier while we can.” They agreed.

*

    “Well Carmen not being a surveillance expert I checked my bike, discreetly, the best I could for tracking devices. I’ll assume I wasn’t followed and if I was it wasn’t for long. I whipped in and out of moderate traffic like a young fool and I took an alternate route. “So, what’s up?”
    She sat on the bed and opened a bottle of water. “Your tail had as much fun as you did at the pier.”
    “He did? I looked hard at everything and didn’t notice anybody, but what do I know?”
    “Don’t feel bad this guy’s good. The good thing he hasn’t noticed me.”
    “Cat and mouse crap, for what?”
    Carmen shrugged. “But I did a little digging on your boy, Pong. He goes to Macau and Bangkok every year and has been for years.”
    “That’s interesting, right or you wouldn’t have mentioned it?”
    “He might have family or vices, who knows, but those are wild places. You never know that might come in handy in the future.” She got up and stopped the sex tape diversion. “I think we’re good, but I’m done with this for the time being...its best that way.”
    “Agreed and thanks.” Patel said.
    “See you at work, boss.” She slipped a small bottle of gin in her pocket and headed for the door.
    It was a joy to watch her sexy strut. He needed a plan of action now that it was clear he was on his own. Bates would pull out too. He was sure of that and what would Pong’s next move be? Why was he tailing him anyway? Messing with his marriage would not change the amount the BHC would request for the rebuild. Whatever the game, two can play. First, see what Dr. Sims has come up with. Second, where to discuss it to make it good and suspicious looking. Maybe a good night’s sleep would reveal more of what Pong was up too.

*

    Dr. Javier Sims, former English Literature professor turned Black Historical researcher walked on a narrow cobblestone path through the giant leaves of tropical plants. He loved the enclosed botanical gardens that circled the Federal Plaza Complex. At the paths end his favorite seat awaited him to take a breather. He sat and breathed a sigh of relief. The heat and humidity eased his arthritic pain, but drained him of energy. The chatter off multi-colored birds jumping from branch to branch seemed chaotic, but he enjoyed the confusion. He leaned back and closed his eyes and waited for the marathon runners to fill the main path. The leaves of the plants would flutter when they whiz past the serene foliage. He’d forgotten the annual event for breast cancer research. His eyelids parted when he heard the rubble of the approaching runners. He blinked and a herd of athletes rounded the corner. He remembered those days; cutting through the humidity and being sprinkled by the scattered rays of sunshine that penetrated the skyline. The exhilaration of reaching the finish line has gone forever.
    For years Javier had a good working relationship with Patel. The fact they shared Southern Asia heritage was a factor. But he worked hard and the record showed his exceptional information gathering skills so rumors and individual biases did not mean anything substantial. Why did the boss want to meet at Federal Plaza? He could give him his research at the office, but this would be the ideal place to announce his retirement. Javier was 55, in good health, financially set and sick to death of all the political garbage associated with the educational system. He could still get the attention of younger women and didn’t have to spend a ton of money or time before getting them in the bed. Females love tall firm-built guys with salt and pepper hair. He opened his Wi-Fi less laptop and reviewed the many possible areas of the pre- and post-civil war and slavery eras. Patel showed the most interest in the Underground Railroad. He was confident the boss would appreciate his speculations and embellishments that over time will be verified. The battery was low; he slammed it shut. That’s all he needed for this thing to quit before he showed. Speaking of the devil he saw him approach.
    He flopped down next to him. “How’s it going, Dr. Sims?” He smiled and they fist bumped.
    “I’m good boss, and you?”
    “Good...I know you’re wondering why I wanted to meet here. I enjoy watching the marathon, for a while anyway.”
    That was probably the first of many lies he’d be subjected to before the end of this meeting. “Whatever, but you’re interested in what I got for you and here it is.” He opened the computer. “This ancient thing can’t be hacked, but the battery is low so read fast. I’ll get a hard copy later.”
    “Cool.” Patel got started.
     “The period in history you suggested and I accepted was the pre-Civil War era. I concentrated my analysis on the slavery problem. The Underground Railroad is quite intriguing. I suggested bringing to light the unsung heroics of several abolitionists; Harriet Tubman, William Still and others. Between 1850 and 1860 The Underground Railroad blossomed and an estimated 100,000 slaves escaped the United States. The location of the secret routes and safe houses became an obsession with the authorities. They passed the Fugitive Slave Act, but it didn’t stop anything. Tubman and her associates continued to be a thorn in the slave owner’s side. Several members of the American Colonization Society suggested infiltration of the network would lead to its downfall. The members of the ACS had vast resources at their disposal to relocate Blacks. Some of the ship owners of ACS were involved in transporting opium and cocaine into the country and to the country of Liberia. They devised a plan to use slaves in the Underground Railroad to transport and distribute the drugs to the slaves. The ACS became the world’s first drug cartel. Once they synthesized cocaine in 1855 it spread rapidly.”
    “A ‘William Still’ was the father of the Underground Railroad. He had a home in Philadelphia and kept records of the railroad. He heard rumors of sickness amongst the ‘passengers’ or ‘cargo’ and certain elixirs would cure them. Doctors and others came to the conclusion these people were addicted to the elixirs. Alcohol became the least of their worries. The word spread fast, ‘find and destroy the elixirs.’ Now the railroad had multiple problems; spies, opium, cocaine, heroin and slave-catchers. The conductors and stationmaster searched all passengers for the elixirs. Anybody who wanted to go back was threatened with execution. Harriet Tubman had a route from Bucktown to Camden to Wilmington, Delaware and finally to Philadelphia. She had a close associate named ‘Philadelphia Redkin’, but they called her ‘Philly Red’. She was highly intelligent and she could read. Tubman found out she was also a spy and drug mule. Tubman allegedly shot her between the eyes and burned her drugs in front of the other passengers. Before her death Tubman beat the names of the others out of her who aided her at certain ‘depots’ or ‘resting spots’ members of the Underground Railroad waged the first war on drugs.”
    “You’ll find in my proposal the plans for the educational system lesson plans that are from the elementary ‘see dick run’ level to the higher echelon of our society’s academia. We’ve covered the topic thoroughly and although some documentation to these facts and theories isn’t available, it cannot be entirely ruled out.”
    There’s goes the battery.” Patel said. “But I got all of it. I love it, Dr. Sims, that’s excellent and believable. Did you do a deep dive on these locations and people’s families who lived in those areas around the Underground Railroad stops, etc.? I know that’s a weird question, but still.”
    “Yes, I got more, but it’s secure as you ordered.” He will love it when I drop my retirement on him. If he feels betrayed, and he will, look at it from my point of view. “Lamont, can I call you, Lamont?”
    “Don’t do that, of course you can, what’s with the formal crap anyway?”
    He’s concerned...no surprise. “I’m retiring, the opportunities here and I’m taking advantage...”
    “Dammit, I forgot about that. I thought it was just a rumor. So, it’s true.” Patel interrupted. “Sorry, I’m surprised.”
    “Don’t be, I’m going to be blunt. I’m sick of this mess, Lamont, sick of it. I’m not that young or old, but I’m going to enjoy however much life I have left. If you understand or don’t...I’m gone. I’ve got leave I want to use up.”
    Lamont extended his hand. “It’s been a pleasure, Javier. I’ll approve the leave.”
    “I wanted to tell you before you go on vacation. I almost forgot in case I don’t see you again. You want a hard copy of my recommendations or e-mail them?”
    “I hadn’t thought about that yet...e-mail them.” Patel said.
    Dr. Javier Sims stood adjusted his sweats. He smiled and jogged away from a good mentor.

*

    Reams disconnected his directional microphone. He did not know what the computer screen revealed, but his gut told him it was important. He made a good decision to follow Patel’s head researcher. Reams listened to the recordings. What was the Underground Railroad? Was it a subway? He felt foolish for a second after he Googled it. Slaves and slavery hundreds of years ago...who cares? That was those people’s problem, but Pong’s bias would be his undoing. What would he think about Patel’s fling with his executive manager/advisor? Of course, he would not share that info with the likes of him, but he was going to see to it Pong kept his unspoken word; no more covert operations. A nice modern office with a view like the executives; Reams and Associates Security whatever, he hadn’t finished working out those name details yet. He applied mustard to his subway sandwich and took a big bite out of his breakfast and lunch. Pong was later than usual, his back tightened and even the adjustable seat in his van was not helping. His cell vibrated. He had a mouthful of food and quickly washed it down. “Hello.”
    “Reams, how are you?”
    “Fine, Dr. Pong, I think I have something.” He wiped his mouth and fumbled with his tablet and selected the files.
    “Ok, where are you...are you close or what?”
    “No sir, I’m at Midway, the Patel’s are catching a flight to Nashville and from the looks of it they’ll be gone for several days.” Silence, what did that mean? “Anyway, Patel’s having an affair with a Carmen Scales, Dr. Carmen Scales, they meet of all places but the casino that his wife got in trouble. My guess is that matter is settled.” Pong sighed like he was bored.
    “Get to the good part, Othello.”
    Othello! He never called him by his first name. “Well sir, all I got other than that is Patel and Lopez talked about Pancho Villa for a second.” He read their lips and found that out. “And his top researcher mentioned the Underground Railroad, of course I don’t know what that means...that’s it for the time being, sir.” Reams heard the boss shuffling papers.
    “Well, that ends your services and our concern about being under appreciated is no longer, Othello. You’ve been promoted to have your own security section for BancChina and its affiliates with all the perks. It’s been cleared with Beijing, so congratulations and in the meantime see you in the office on Monday.” If that’s all he got after all this time; he wasted time and money. Who wasn’t sleeping with their secretary or whoever? Blackmail or threat of audits won’t do the trick, but greed will do it. Give those people more then they will ever need and you got them.

*

    Lamont tipped the talkative, overweight cab driver who smiled and offered to carry their luggage all the way to the door of their apartment. They thanked him anyway and went to their mailbox. “No mail and package notifications. I’ll check later and get the stuff we put on vacation hold.” Lamont said. They walked through the door and noticed a light blinking on the comm center. “System, play messages from the office.”
    Only one from Dr. Scales.
    “That’s strange.”
    “Right about that,” Samantha said, and stopped unpacking and looked at his cell. “Not many calls from anywhere. Something doesn’t smell right, Lamont.”
    “I farted... sorry,” Lamont giggled.
    “Not funny! Something ain’t right, honey.” She started undressing.
    He tried to ignore the arched eyebrow that meant she was more than likely right. Damn, what was it? No calls, but they knew at the office he wouldn’t answer, but he still got a few. They exited the shower and before they finished drying off
    Dr. Patel, it’s a Nelson Pong.
    “What!? Pong...I’ll call him back, leave a number.” What does he want? “Samantha, you hear that?”
    “Yeah, I think I did. It really stinks now, Lamont.”
    He couldn’t help but laugh a little. She was right; the virtual smell of this was overwhelming. Being Sunday, nobody was at the office, why leave a message. He hit the speed dial and got Carmen’s and Javier’s voicemails. Damn. They know to get back with him within the hour. That was protocol. Anxiety tried to set in...relax a minute. He turned on the ball game and waited.
    No return calls. What did that mean? Whatever it meant they were in for a royal ass chewing. “Samantha, I’m calling, Pong back want to listen in?”
    “No, I already got a headache.”
    “System call Pong!”
    Ok, Dr. Patel.
    Pong’s unattractive headshot appeared. He had a chopped military haircut and his tightly spaced eyes were mere slits and his acne problem needed attention. To his right four more head shots appeared and all wore dark glasses, a sinister looking batch to say the least. A Hindu looking guy with a scar on the right side of his swollen lips; an extremely pale Scandinavian female with short blonde braids, finely sculptured features and a long narrow nose. The Black women’s complexion was flawless, jet black with thick lips and large ears. The Latino guy with the fat face and thick neck needed a shave. Could this be the History Simplification Committee or what? “Hello there, Dr. Patel, you finally returned my call.”
    Obviously, he was annoyed. “I’m busy, Pong, what can I do for you and your associates?”
    “Unpacking from vacation is a pain.”
    He forgot to black out the background, that damn AI should have done it.
    “I want to, we want to, thank you for the application to get the ball rolling so to speak. And, we await the rewrite samples.”
    The smirk on Pong’s face was killing him. “I take it this is the HSC members?”
    “Yes, a few of the many of our distinguished members.”
    “Distinguished!” Members of the hated HSC, by their expressions and twisted mouths, did not like Patel’s outburst. The History Simplification Committee or Rewrite (as it is known by the political opposition) was created to help re-create historic Black/African-American documents and artifacts destroyed in an attempt by Nationalist groups to wipe out the fast-growing minority population’s history in America. Minority groups want theirs taught in all public school’s tax payer funded or subsidized institutions throughout the country the same way White American history is taught. Several attempts to enact this policy was thought to be the reason for the 9/11 type attacks on Black/Latino museums. The legislature was still signed into law, but there were stipulations both financial and logistical. Conservatives wanted the program to be funded by private interest not the American taxpayer. Private institutions (Banks) would be regulated like others except auditing would not occur as often (whatever that meant) compared to others. Basically, foreign entities would control the public educational system making minority history so simple (diminished) it would be meaningless. Funding would be cut to the HBCU’s (Historical Black Colleges and Universities) if they or other civil rights educational groups objected too strongly. Both liberal and conservatives did not want to seem overly racist or bigoted in their state legislatures so they created a requirement to pass a minority history test similar to the state’s constitution test. That created simplification committees nationwide; they hated being called that, but so what. The huge funding subsidy was a reason the Black organizations were not as vocal as they should concerning banks like BancChina. But there is also the theory that attacks on the big museum were because of the Black History requirement and it soon died after that. “I hate to be rude, Pong, but get to the point.”
    Pong sighed. “I just called to wish you well in your retirement years.” He giggled with a sly smirk. “Remember, Patel, money is king...always. Your striving for financial independence is noble, but in the end greed wins. And, with the promise of no unnecessary scrutiny is too much to pass up, remember these immortal words...the bank wins, always.”
    “What? I didn’t.” That truth hit him in the gut.
    “You made the right decision in approving the application and so did the LEB and the AAMA, until we meet again.” The screen went blank.
    “Go to hell, Pong!” That asshole sensed or he knew he did not know anything about that. Those dirty bastards fired him behind his back. That’s why Scales and Sims didn’t return his call. He felt like a fool and that racist got off on it. “System, ring Scales and Sims until they answer!”
    Samantha hurried into the room. “What’s wrong, Lamont?”
    “Pong congratulated me on my retirement and submitting the application papers with the LEB and AAMA.”
    “What the ...”
    “That’s what I said. A coup d’état, can you believe it?”
    I have them both on the line, Dr. Patel.
    “Carmen, what the hell is going on, I just got though talking to, Pong? I retired...is that right?” Silence. “Answer me, goddamit!!”
    “I didn’t know how to tell you the board voted you out with a no-confidence strategy.” Carmen said, with a tremble in her tone. She cleared her throat. “Excuse me. You think I stabbed you in the back, don’t you?”
    “No shit!!”
    “Well, I didn’t, but you knew there was going to push back when you continued to stress financial independence. You don’t have to admit that of course. To be blunt there’s nothing you can do about it. You know how it is.”
    “Yeah, smiling faces, don’t tell the truth.” Patel snapped. “Off the record do you agree with my agenda?” That will produce another lie. Why did he waste his time asking?
    “They came to me, not what you are thinking, and I like everybody else took advantage. I don’t have to say anything, but I will say this, do you remember your predecessor?” She asked with a defiant tone.
    “Yes.” There was nothing left to say, he’d done the same thing. He was not being a cry baby and the bitterness of being blindsided would subside. A no-confidence vote made him CEO and so it has come to an end. “Good bye, Dr. Scales.” The line went dead. “Javier, you there?”
    “Yes, I’m here and for your information, I had nothing to do with your removal, but I’ve been hearing rumors about this and all kinds of other stuff. Wish I could retire, look on the bright side.”
    “I am, but I need to know are you still with me on the embellishment process of deeper research?” Patel asked.
    “Yeah...try to enjoy your day.”
    He won’t hold his breath, but if going it alone worked best, so be it. Financially the board had to take care of him; his golden parachute was about to open, wide. That did not make him feel better, he wanted to beat that damned Nelson Pong. One day they will meet again. But in the meantime, he would formulate a plan with Sims and other trusted researchers to further embellish Black History in America. They would publish it themselves, no outside financial interference of any kind. A challenge, but so was slavery.

*

    “This is the first time I’ve shared my name with you, Pong.” That squeaky female voice said.
    “Ms. Lee...really? Pretty common, don’t you think?” He hated this woman; she thought he was stupid and she had no respect.
    “Regardless, that’s how you will address me, understood?”
    “Yes, Ms. Lee.”
    “I don’t appreciate sarcasm, but I called to congratulate you on your successful effort to keep the HSC together and control of the financial future of the minority public school system.”
    “Thank you.”
    “I hear you are taking a well-deserved vacation to Macau and Bangkok.”
    “Yes, we are, my wife has family there.” How did she know that? Is there anything they don’t know? Nosy bastards. He regretted getting in bed with those people even though he didn’t know the inner working of their organizations. It was important he was able to enjoy his vacation with privacy. Once he settled in his new position Reams would not be available as often. He could only hope he would watch his back. But he could never forget, Ms. Lee strongly suggested his new position. Where Reams loyalty was, he would soon find out. He never found out anything substantial on those people, but he had not seen or heard the last of Lamont Patel or the BHC and affiliates.

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