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Saving Grace

Tyler Marable

    A gunshot rang out and echoed through the mansion. The bullet whispered by Paul Rosehall’s head and tore into a vase on the mantle. The vase shattered to pieces.
    “That’s why we can’t have nice things.” The senator took a sip of his cognac. “You’re always shooting them.”
    “Who is she, Paul?” Lisa asked. She squeezed the trigger again. Another shot echoed through the mansion. The bullet smashed into a picture on the wall. A young woman and man, standing at the altar at which they said I do, leaned in to kiss each other under a wooden arch; white roses adorned the altar. The picture fell to the floor. A bullet hole replaced the bouquet the woman held.
    “A woman who doesn’t shoot expensive things,” the senator replied. “That vase cost ten thousand dollars.”
    “Your infidelity is going to cost more,” Lisa said. “I’m going to the press with this. You’ll be ruined.”
    Paul pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He lit one and exhaled harsh smoke and harsh words. “You’ll do no such thing, bitch. What will happen to you when the security exchange commission finds out about Rosewater Incorporated cooking the books? Fraud, corruption. Rosewater will go down as this decade’s Enron.”
    His wife’s eyes grew wide as she looked down the sights of her pistol.
    “Yeah, you didn’t think I knew did you?” He smiled, suppressing a drunken chuckle. “After the Great Recession the public is looking to crucify anyone. Some greedy CEO of some corrupt corporation. They’ll lock you up with some butch skank. You’re a bitch at Rose Hall. You’d really be a bitch in the federal pen, someone else’s bitch that is.”
    “We’ll both go down then,” Lisa said. “I’d gladly go to prison, knowing I ruined your political career.”
    “I doubt you have the grit for it.” Paul gestured around him, to the mansion’s foyer. Grand double staircases ran down the flanks of the room, their steps blanketed with Egyptian silk. A crystal chandelier dangled above, its light reflecting off the marble floor. The hand-painted ceiling flaunted a mural—some Jew who fell off his horse in the desert, blinded by light. The senator thought it was tacky to have such a thing hand painted on the ceiling, but the value voters who toured Rose Hall during election season marveled at such a sight. A rich man who had not forgotten the Word. A man whom they could vote for.
    “You won’t leave all of this. You won’t give all of this up,” Paul said. “That’s why you married me. You wanted this. You knew what this was.”
    It was true. Their union had not been one of love, rather one of selfish necessity. He, a rising statesman who needed to fabricate the guise of a family man, which his party’s constituents would cast their votes for, would choose hypogamy. She, a lower class woman who wanted to turn rags to riches would choose hypergamy. They both knew what their marriage was, yet still, she could not tolerate his betrayal.
    “Mother told me not to marry a negro. Only she didn’t put it as politely,” she said. The handgun dropped to her side in defeat.
    “Trisha called me a nigger?” Paul blew smoke out his nose and shrugged. “I’ve been called worse. Frank Miller called me a RINO.”
    Lisa’s eyes stayed on the floor. “I’ve already packed my things. I’m going to stay with Mother.”
    He took another pull of his cigarette then dropped it to the floor, putting it out with his dress shoe. The marble became blemished with ash, blemished like the soul of the man standing atop it. “Running home to Trisha like always? That won’t be necessary this time. I’m leaving. I called Pierce an hour ago. Rose Hall is yours for a few weeks, until you’ve came back to your senses.”
    He turned to leave but then stopped. “Think fast.”
    He tossed the glass of cognac to his estranged wife. She dropped the pistol to catch it. The handgun bounced on the floor and went off again.
    Paul could not hold back his drunken laughter anymore. He chuckled his way out the front door. Lisa did not follow; instead she looked down at the glass in her hand and at the shooting gallery she had made of Rose Hall.
    Paul exited the home. There in the driveway, parked by the exquisite fountain, sat a limousine. Pierce stood by the passenger’s door at the rear.
    Paul did not walk to the limousine but instead stumbled to the fountain. It was a lovely sight, this fountain. A fine addition to Rose Hall it was, but Paul often wondered why his father had a lotus fountain erected instead of a rose. The lotus flower was in full bloom. It towered over him, twenty meters high, water spurting from the middle of the plant to fall and collect at the base below. With a twenty-meter diameter and a depth of six feet, the fountain doubled as a small swimming pool.
    Paul leaned over the side, his reflection dancing on the ripples. He vomited into the water; his lobster and caviar dinner soiling the reflection of the miserable wretch staring back at him.
    He wiped vomit from his lips with a handkerchief and tossed it into the fountain.
    “Another fight?” the chauffeur asked as he opened the door.
    “As always, Pierce,” the senator said as he collapsed into the limousine.
    Pierce shut the door, cussing to himself as he walked around the car to take the driver’s seat. It was a good job. He was paid well, but not enough to babysit some alcoholic plutocrat. It was his damn night off, and yet here he was. He pulled the limousine around the fountain and down the driveway. The urban lights beckoned them to leave the safety of Wayward Heights and join them in the sordid city.
    “Where to, senator?” Pierce asked.
    “The red light district,” Paul answered.
    The chauffeur eased the car into traffic. “So, what were you two fighting about this time?”
    Paul stared out the window at the passing scenery. “She found out I’ve been hiking the Appalachian Trail.”
    “Lisa’s mad because you went for a walk? I didn’t take you for the outdoors type.”
    “No, hiking the Appalachian Trail is a euphemism,” Paul said. “She found out about a call girl I met last month.”
    “Oh, and how did that happen?”
    “She read my emails.”
    “How did she get into your account? Paid someone to hack it?”
    Paul took a bottle of scotch from the limousine’s bar and poured himself a glass. “She guessed the password.”
    “How did she do that?”
    “She just did.”
    “What was the password?”
    “Password,” Paul said.
    “So, where we’re going in the red light district, at such an hour?”
    “Dove Love.”
    Pierce shook his head. “Lisa just found out you’ve been hiking the Appalachian Trail, and you’re going to hike the Appalachian Trail.” He looked in the rearview. “You might need to lay off the liquor.”
    Of course the senator did not heed the advice. He paid Pierce to escort him around, not for his debonair etiquette required of any chauffeur, but for his skills with a pistol. He didn’t pay the man for lifestyle advice.
    Paul gulped down his shot, grimaced, then poured himself another. “I’m just going to take a stroll through the woods. Woods I haven’t camped in a while.”
    “A stroll through the woods?” Pierce raised a brow. “You Robert Frost now?”
    The senator chuckled his drunken laugh. “Yeah, I’m Robert Frost. It’s not adultery, it’s poetry.”
    “You know, senator,” the chauffeur said. “I think you two could benefit from some marriage counseling. Andrea and I...”
    The privacy divider rose up, a black window separating chauffeur and client.
    “Fuck you, too,” Pierce said.
    The limo turned a corner and pulled into the red light district. It was a scene, the red light district. The city never slept; this was the district that never wept. Drive-by shootings. Prostitutes lining the streets in dresses that left nothing to the imagination, their pimps standing by them in flamboyant suits that overwhelmed the imagination. A junkie sat on the sidewalk with a syringe sticking from his arm, his head slumped forward. Eternal bliss. The city that never cried, even when a broken man died. On the sidewalk for all to see.
    Pierce pulled the limousine into the parking lot of a not so reputable business: Dove Love. He thumbed a button on the dash console. “We’re here, senator. Why do we have to be here? There’s other bars in town.” He released the button and said, “Douchebag.”
    “Because Dove Love has the best tequila around.” Senator Paul Rosehall exited the limousine. The night air was brisk, cold. Colder than the eyes that stared at him. Four Mexicans stood with their arms crossed, leaning against the building. Pistols protruded from their pants. The senator walked past them, gave a friendly nod. The nod wasn’t returned.
    A bouncer stood at the door. He was a tall man, dressed in a tight-fitting Brioni suit. “Dove Love is full. There’s a concert tonight.”
    “I know Juan Dove,” the senator said. “We go way back.” He tried to push past the bouncer.
    The bouncer grabbed the senator by the shoulder and shoved him backwards. “I said it’s full.”
    “Keep your hands off of me. I said I know the owner.” Paul pulled out his smartphone and sent the owner a text. A few minutes later a short man exited the building, his hair slicked back with gel, flashing a gold-toothed smile He, too, wore Brioni and wore it well, his pectoral muscles bulging against his dress shirt. The outline of a dove, sewed in silver stitching, was displayed proudly on his left breast.
    “Paul, it’s been awhile.” He grabbed the senator’s hand and gave it a firm shake. “If I knew you were coming I would have reserved a VIP booth for you. Santana is in the house tonight, performing a reunion concert. That’s why we’re packed full.”
    “Well, I didn’t know I was coming myself. Kind of a spur of the moment thing.”
    The senator’s breath hit Juan’s nostrils. He understood when the senator said spur of the moment, he meant drunken impulse.
    “Well, come on inside.”
    Paul followed Juan inside, flipping the bouncer off on the way in.
    Dove Love was always bustling, but tonight the building was packed wall to wall. The stools at the bars were full. The booths were full. Hell, the floor was full, couples dancing to Santana. The smell of Mexican cuisine floated through the air. It was tempting to take a seat and have a carne asada jalisco. But there were more tempting things on the menu.

    Juan found Paul a table after he explained to the seated patrons it had been reserved for the senator. They did not complain. Juan refunded them their money and offered them free drinks for the night.
    Paul took a seat. A waitress ambled over. “What shall I get for you?”
    “I’ll have the Emilia if its still being served,” the senator said. “It’s been over a year since I’ve had it.”
    “I’m sorry, but the Emilia is no longer on the menu. Would you like to try the Marie?””
    “I drove all the way out here for the Emilia.”
    “She’s no longer being served,” the waitress said. “We have plenty of other dishes to choose from.” The waitress handed him a menu.
    The senator cussed to himself. He didn’t know why, but he had a craving. He wanted Emilia, but supposed another lady would have to do. He flipped through the menu. The women were beautiful, but Emilia was gorgeous. “Well, what would you recommend?”
    “The Sofia is aged well and is refined. The Marie is perfect for customers who prefer their cut young and tender. Josefina is—”
    Paul closed the menu and handed it back to the waitress. “I’ll take all three.”
    Santana started playing “Black Magic Woman.” Paul’s favorite song of theirs. The stage went dark. A lone spotlight flashed on. It shined down on a single dancer. She spun, belly dancing to the music, her red skirt twirling beneath her, the very outfit Paul had bought her for private dancing sessions. She stopped, her back to the audience, performing a hip shimmy. Gold coins, dangling from her hip scarf, shook and rattled. She left faced, her bare belly rolling, her hands raised to the ceiling. The crowd applauded her beauty. She turned to see the faces, which she held captivated, and her eyes fell to the senator’s. The look of sensual joy vanished from her face. The happiness she had gained, from being lost in her passion, was replace with anger for a brief moment. She paused for a second, missing the rhythm of the music but improvised and fell back into step. Her eyes never met Paul’s again.
    The waitress found her way back to the senator’s table. “It’s going to be fifteen hundred total. Five hundred for each meal.”
    The song ended. The crowd stood to their feet, praising the performer as she left the stage.
    “I’m going to have to cancel that order,” Paul said. He rose from the table and made his way through the crowd, following the path the dancer took backstage. He made his way down the hall, taking stairs to the second floor of the club. Women walked down the hallway of the second floor, dressed in only lingerie.
    They eyed the senator as he passed. One stopped to chat, a young woman with the face of a child and purple hair. He recognized her from the menu. Marie. She was wearing a blue bra and thong: a garter belt clung to her stomach, pulling up her lace stockings. She was a tall drink of tequila, matching his five feet eleven inches with blemish free legs that begged to be parted. He would like to see her lingerie form a puddle of silk at her pedicured toes. There’s not a more exhilarating experience for a man than sliding a lady’s panties down her sexy legs.
    “May I help you?” she asked.
    “I’m looking for someone. Her name’s Emilia.”
    Marie ran her hand down the senator’s chest, getting a feel of his swanky jacket. A well-paying customer; maybe he even tipped for good service. She always delivered good service. “Is this Armani?”
    “A lot more expensive, dollface,” he said. His outfit was from his wife’s fashion line. “The suit is an authentic Rosehall. Where’s Emilia?”
    “She’s not being served anymore.”
    “I know, but I don’t want to buy her services. I want to buy her time.”
    “You can buy mine.”
    “Are you even old enough to be in this kind of work?”
    “Don’t let the baby face fool you. I’m plenty old enough.”
    It was tempting, but he was craving fine wine not tequila. “She’s in room two five six, isn’t she?” He removed Marie’s hand from his chest. “Do me a favor and go home. You look like you got school in the morning.”

#

    Pierce exited the limousine and lit a cigarette. “No smoking in the limo, Pierce. I don’t want burn holes on the leather. It’s Italian. I can bang prostitutes while I’m drunk off my ass, but I don’t want you smoking in the car.” Pierce scoffed to himself as he took a pull on the Malboro. He looked around at the sordid scene that was the red light district. A police car sped by, lights flashing and sirens blaring. Why would a man, who held such a prestigious title, would even risk being seen in such a place?
    Veneno nudged Navaja with his elbow as he eyed Pierce. “Don’t that gringo look familiar?”
    She shrugged. “All white men look alike to me.”
    Muerto took a swig of his Corona and passed it to Navaja. “What they look like?”
    Navaja put the bottle to her lips. “Pushovers.”
    “Let’s see how easily he’s pushed over,” Muerto said.
    Three goons ambled towards Pierce with a languid gait. He figured it was difficult to walk at a normal pace when your pants were falling off your ass. They were wearing Nike Cortez shoes—MS-13. He cussed and dropped the cigarette to the ground and dubbed it out with his shoe. He got back in the limousine and locked the door.
    Muerto tapped his ring against the window. “Roll the window down.”
    Pierce mouthed the words, I can’t hear you.
    Muerto pulled his handgun from his pants and smashed the butt into the window. Glass shattered. The car alarm went off. Muerto reached in and unlocked the door. It flung open. They dragged Pierce out.
    “What do you want?” Pierce asked. His voice was calm and level, the limousine’s alarm wailing. “I hope it’s not money because I don’t have any.”
    “Yeah, we know you don’t,” Muerto said, his Hispanic accent thicker than the fog rolling in. “But the guy you’re driving around does. Get him out here.”
    “Senator Rosehall doesn’t carry cash.”
    Muerto whistled. “Senator? I bet he carries plastic. Get him out here. Or better yet, take me to him.”
    Three combatants, all less than five ten. Pierce guessed the leader of the group was the one doing the talking with the mata policia hanging by his side. FN Five Seven, police killer. A beautiful weapon. Pierce owned one himself. It was under his pillow by his sleeping wife’s head. Underneath his chauffeur uniform, rested a fifty caliber Desert Eagle. The Desert Eagle’s terrible recoil made it nearly useless in an all-out firefight, but its stopping power was perfect for a close quartered mugging. He just needed to wait for the right moment to pull it from his shoulder holster.
    “Muerto, I told you I recognized this gringo,” Veneno said. He pulled an iPhone from his pocket and started swiping. He gave it to Muerto.
    Muerto looked at the phone. The mata policia did not rest by Muerto’s side any longer. He raised the police killer to Pierce’s head. “You one of Mancini’s guidos?”

#

    Paul made his way to room two five six, his favorite suite in the building. He knocked on the door.
    “Just a minute,” a voice came from inside.
    The door opened. Their eyes met. The door slammed shut in his face. Paul laughed his drunken chuckle, or was it a titter? He knocked again.
    “Go away. I’m not being served anymore.”
    “I’m not here for that. I just want to talk.”
    “About what?”
    “I don’t know,” he said. “The weather. The Soxs winning the World Series. You and me.”
    The door crept open. He entered the room. It was the same as he remembered it. The room only had one piece of furniture: a king size bed with a mirror on the ceiling above it; the decorator was a minimalist for obvious reasons. The room was used for one thing only. But there was a new addition to the room. A baby car seat was sitting in the corner, complete with a sleeping child.
    “It’s been awhile,” he said. He looked her up and down. She was still wearing her dress from her belly dance performance.
    Emilia placed her hands on her hips. “Maybe not long enough.”
    Her tone was not harsh, her tongue had never been sharp, but the words were edged nevertheless.
    “That’s why I love Hispanic women. Passion. That’s something Lisa knows nothing about.” Paul wrapped his arms around Emilia’s figure, pulled her close to him.
    She caught the scent of alcohol mingling with his cologne and pushed him away. “That’s why you’re here. You’re drunk.”
    “Why does it matter if I’ve been drinking? I’m here to see you ain’t I?”
    “You think you can just show up whenever you want to? Stumble in here drunk? A year since I’ve seen you, and you stumble in here drunk.”
    “Emilia, we talked about this. It was an election year. I was campaigning.”
    “I think you should leave.”
    In drunken rashness the senator raised his voice. “What the hell is wrong with you, woman?! Why are you acting like this?!”
    A third party joined their conversation. The baby woke and made its opinion known. It didn’t think too fondly of Paul raising his voice.
    Emilia picked up the crying child. “You woke Grace.”
    She sat on the bed cradling the baby, removing her left breast from her bra.
    Paul instantly realized why Emilia had left her line of work. She had an infant. His tone softened. “Grace? She’s beautiful like her mother. Same eyes.”
    Emilia looked up from her breastfeeding child, straight into the senator’s eyes. “She’s your baby, Paul.”
    A car alarm sounded outside. It was the limo. Paul turned his back on Grace.
    He went to the window. Three MS-13 gangsters had Pierce surrounded, a gun pointed to his head.
    Paul raised the window and stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. “Get that gun out of my driver’s face!”
    “So, that’s the senator?” Muerto asked Pierce.
    “Unfortunately,” Pierce said.
    “I think it’s pretty fortunate for you. What’s the senator’s name?”
    “Paul Rosehall,” Pierce said.
    Muerto’s brows furrowed upon hearing the name. “Tell him to meet us in the bathroom.”
    “He won’t,” Pierce said.
    “If he cares about his driver he will.”
    Pierce laughed. “He’s a politician.”
    “And?”
    “The man cares about no one but himself.”
    Muerto pushed the gun’s barrel to Pierce’s forehead. “Tell him to meet us in the bathroom or the senator’s not going to have a driver to take him home.”
    Pierce sighed and turned to the window. “Senator Rosehall, he wants you to meet him in the bathroom.”
    “I don’t take orders from a wetback!” Paul shouted down from the second story.
    “What did he call me?” Muerto asked.
    “Apparently he thinks your back is wet,” Pierce said.
    “Waste this puta,” Navaja said.
    Muerto pulled back his gun’s slide. Pierce had wondered if the gun was already charged or not. He could have disarmed Muerto before he had a chance to chamber a round but did not want to take the chance. Pierce had not known if the first round sat in the clip or in line of the firing pin. You don’t gamble with the unknown.
    “Meet us in the bathroom,” Muerto shouted to the senator. “You got a lot of nerve bringing one of Mancini’s guidos on MS turf.”
    “What he’s talking about, Pierce?” the senator shouted.
    Pierce sighed. “I work for Mancini, Senator Rosehall.”
    Paul’s drunken buzz almost disappeared. Hearing Mancini’s name had a way of sobering up a man.
    “Meet me in the bathroom,” the senator said.
    Paul shut the window. He knew not what to say to Emilia, and so he said nothing. Only left the room.

#

    Paul burst into the bathroom, furious at this new revelation. Pierce worked for Mancini.
    The man who had Paul by the dick.
    He turned on a faucet and washed his face, staring at the water rushing into the drain. A silver dove emblem, holding an olive branch, was painted in a fine line at the bottom of the sink. Juan Dove was written in cursive writing under the bird. Paul laughed his drunken laugh. Juan Dove was worse than Tyler Perry. His signature was on everything. Paul’s laughter ceased as he vomited on the dove with its olive branch.
    The bathroom door swung open. Pierce stumbled in and fell to the floor, shoved from behind. He was followed in by the three Mexican goons. Paul extended a hand to Pierce. Pierce’s betrayal had not been forgotten, but he was an ex-soldier, army ranger to be precise. The present circumstance dictated being a gentleman to the only man who could get Paul out of it. He pulled Pierce from the floor all the while getting a good look at the gang members in the fluorescent light.
    The bottom half of Muerto’s face was painted with ink. A tattoo that made his lower face resemble a skull. He thought it made him look menacing; it made him and his mother look like fools. The other Mexican, Veneno, had been more modest when talking to the tattoo artist. A simple tattoo on his cheekbone whispered: MS-13. The last goon stood by the door, making sure no one entered the bathroom. She was a woman no taller than five feet and five inches. Navaja. She looked more boy than woman with her short crop haircut, baggy jeans, and loose-fitting flannel shirt. Paul laughed. There was no telling what this dyke had done to get Muerto’s and Veneno’s respect.
    “Something funny?” Muerto said.
    Pierce facepalmed and shook his head. “He’s drunk.”
    “I’m just a lighthearted guy,” Paul said. “So, what can I do for you all?”
    “You can give me everything in your wallet,” Muerto said.
    “And why would I do that?”
    Muerto pulled out his smartphone and held it up for the senator to see. “You work for the Italians.”
    Paul took a look at the picture on the phone. It was Pierce, standing by Mancini on a golf course, Mancini getting ready to tee off. Looked like hole nine at Pineflat Country Club. A par four with the green on a hill surrounded by sand traps, a water hazard to the rear. Not Paul’s favorite hole on the course.
    “What the hell is this, Pierce?” the senator asked.
    Pierce said nothing.
    “You got a lot of nerve coming on MS turf,” Veveno said.
    “I’m not with Antonio Mancini,” Paul said.
    “So, this is not your driver?”
    “Yeah, he is, but I didn’t know he was affiliated with the Mancini family.”
    “I don’t believe that. You know we have a ceasefire agreement. The Italians stay on their turf; we’ll stay on ours. Give me your wallet and get out of here. You’ll give me your pin number to your debit card and keep the balance at five thousand each month.”
    “Five thousand what?” Paul asked. “Pesos?”
    “We got us a clown here, Navaja,” Muerto said. “You’ll keep the balance at ten thousand a month, and we’ll keep the fact you work for Mancini from the media.”
    Paul reached in his jacket but did not retrieve his wallet. He pulled out a flask, opened it, and took a shot of Hennessey. “The day I start taking orders from a wetback is the day I lose my testicles and get my man card revoked.”
    Pierce facepalmed and shook his head again.
    “Even though you’re shitfaced, you strike me as a reasonable man. You strike me as a man who doesn’t want his political career ruined.”
    Paul wavered back and forth on his feet with a wry smile playing on his lips. “You strike me as a man who scratches his balls and smells his fingers.”
    Muerto had enough. “Gloria, show the senator why you’re called La Navaja.”
    She grinned. It was a half smile. Not sure if the order was a serious one. Was Muerto testing her again? “You want me to stick a US senator?”
    “You heard me.”
    She stepped forward, retrieving a butterfly knife from her pocket. She swung it about. Out flung a six-inch blade. She lunged at the senator.
    “Pierce,” the senator said. “Do your job.”
    Pierce caught the woman’s hand before the knife plunged into the senator’s chest. He used her forward momentum to bring her off balance, wrapping his arm around hers in an embrace similar to a headlock for a limb. He secured a standing armbar. He wrenched the knife from her hand and brought his weight down on her arm. Navaja’s elbow snapped with an audible pop. Pierce let his grasp go; she dropped to floor screaming.
    Paul took a swig of his Hennessy. “Sounded like a compound fracture.”
    “Veneno,” Muerto said. “Screw this puta up.”
    Veneno stepped forward and threw a sloppy right hook at Pierce. Pierce used his left arm to parry the hook with ease, smashing his right fist into Veneno’s face. The gangster fell on his ass, his hand over his broken nose.
    Muerto reached for his mata policia.
    Pierce was faster.
    Shots rang out in the bathroom. Two fifty-caliber slugs exploded into Muerto’s chest. The bullets’ impact caused Muerto to stumble backwards into the wall. He slid to the floor, painting the wall with a trail of blood. A slug tore into Veveno’s forehead; he no longer favored his nose. Navaja no longer screamed from the pain of her fractured arm. She screamed harder looking up into the barrel of Pierce’s Desert Eagle. Another shot rang out. Navaja’s screaming ceased.
    Paul cleaned wax from his ear with his pinky finger. “You should tell Mancini to buy a silencer for that thing. My ears are still ringing.”
    Pierce said nothing. He stared at the mess he had made. Three KIA. He thought he had left that life behind him in Iraq.
    “You a hitman for Mancini?” Paul asked.
    Pierce said nothing, only extended the pistol to the senator.
    “I’m not touching that thing.”
    “It’s not what you think,” Pierce said. “Well, it is. I work for Mancini, but I work for you, too.”
    “I thought I knew you.”
    “Do we really know anyone? Does the public really know Paul Rosehall?”
    Now it was the senator’s turn to say nothing.
    “We don’t have time for this. Everyone in this club heard those gunshots. Police are on the way. Take the gun. You stood your ground.”
    Muerto wheezed in the corner next to the door, blood spilling from his mouth. He tried to say something, but only gargled. Pierce did not need to turn around to know the man was drowning in his own blood. He had seen the death once in Fallujah.
    Muerto reached for his FN Five Seven. Paul took Pierce’s pistol and pointed it at Muerto. Another shot sounded out in the bathroom.
    “Looks like I stood my ground,” the senator said. “May the Force be with them.”

#

    “We have a fight, and what do you do? You go out and shoot three Mexicans.”
    Paul followed the police motorcade leading his Ford F150. “We’ve already had this talk. That’s your problem. You don’t know how to let the past die.”
    “The past? That was two weeks ago. And the past will never die. The past is prologue.”
    “What did you want me to do? They were mugging me.”
    “Let them take your money,” Lisa said. “You didn’t have to kill them.”
    “It was either me or them.”
    She pulled a pack of Swisher Sweets from her purse. Little cigars. She lit one. “You should have heard Pierce’s voice when he called and told me you shot someone. I asked were you okay? I was really worried about you. I don’t even know why, but I was worried. I asked how you were doing. Pierce said you were fine. I asked did you have anything to tell me? I’d thought you’d say you loved me, and you were sorry about everything. Don’t know why I thought that. Pierce told me you said, ‘Just tell her I shot someone.’”
    “And what of it?” the senator asked.
    “The cavalier tone in his voice. ‘Just tell her I shot someone.’” Lisa pulled on her little cigar and exhaled smoke. Her lipstick left a stain on the butt. “You’d do that to me, too, wouldn’t you? Kill me for some side piece.”
    “I actually wouldn’t. You’re my wife.”
    “Aren’t you the gentlemen? You wouldn’t murder your wife for some trick who smokes cocks for a living. Chivalry isn’t dead after all.”
    “Oh, chivalry is dead, and women like you killed it. You know the old saying: Women—you can’t live with them, can’t shoot them and get away with it because of forensics. I’d be the first suspect in your death.”
    “Just tell them you stood your ground. That’s what I should have done.”
    “That might just work,” Paul said. “I stood my ground against your obsessive nagging. Get twelve married men on the jury, and I’d be acquitted.”
    Lisa did not find his joke amusing. She did not laugh. She took another drag on the little cigar.
    “Put that out,” Paul said. “This is Italian leather. I don’t want burns in my seats.”
    Lisa stubbed out the little cigar in the ashtray. But her disbelief was not stubbed out. “You killed three Mexicans. At Dove Love no less.”
    “Yeah, and what do you know about Dove Love?”
    “You know what Jackie and Carly said about Dove Love? They said it’s a front for a brothel.”
    “Your friends have quite the imaginations. They think life is a soap opera. Always gossiping about nonsense.”
    “I actually think there’s some truth in their gossip.”
    “If they’ll gossip to you, Lisa, they’ll gossip about you.”
    “What a wonderful platitude. You’re the epitome of integrity.”
    “You know the Rosehall family motto,” Paul said. “By integrity alone.”
    “What will Taeshawn think of this?” she asked. “He’s already under enough stress with his business.”
    “I don’t give a damn what he thinks. He’s not my boy,” the senator replied.
    “It was your idea to adopt him.”
    “Only because you have sand in your vagina. I probably wouldn’t have married you if I knew your uterus was Death Valley. You couldn’t even give me a son. What use you turned out to be.”
    “I couldn’t help that. Maybe it was good I couldn’t give you a son. You’d only corrupt him. We know Taeshawn’s not your child. He got brains. He graduated MIT at sixteen, and he knows how to treat women.”
    Paul didn’t like the tone in her voice. “You fucked him didn’t you?”
    Lisa looked out the window. “What?”
    “You fucked Taeshawn.”
    She kept her eyes trained on the passing buildings. “You know I wouldn’t do such a thing. I deserve better than this. I want a divorce.”
    “You can want whatever you want. Don’t mean you’re going to get it.”
    Paul pulled the truck into the parking lot of his press conference. Press conference? It was more like a campaign event. Thousands of his constituents stood ready for his speech, holding signs in the air. Signs that said: Don’t tread on me ... You keep your political correctness, I’ll keep my guns ... Build the wall.
    They slapped the hood of his pickup as he drove by. A black man who drove a Ford 150 was okay by them.
    “You fucked Taeshawn didn’t you?” he asked again.
    “I want a divorce,” she said again.
    He stopped the truck and exited the vehicle to thunderous applause. He opened his wife’s door. She got out and hugged her husband. They both waved to the crowd. They made their way towards the stage.
    Reporters stuck microphones and digital recorders in their faces.
    “Senator Rosehall,” one reporter said. “What do think about the rumors that Governor Stillwater has put you on his shortlist for vice president?”
    “I think that’s an apt title,” the senator said. “It’s definitely a shortlist, seeing I’m the only one that should be on it.”
    “Mrs. Rosehall!” another reporter shouted out. “What do think about the Dove Love altercation?”
    Lisa smiled for the cameras, her lips stained crimson. “I’m just glad my husband is alright. I don’t know what I would do if I lost him. If we take away guns from law-abiding citizens, the only one who will have them is the criminals.”
    “Senator Rosehall!” another called out. “What do you have to say to the people who question you visiting such a shady establishment as Dove Love?”
    “Fellas, I got a speech to give. You’re only going to spin my words into fake news anyway.”
    The crowd cheered. A man of the people. A man who said “fellas.”
    Paul took his wife’s hand and led her up on stage. She stood behind him, staring at the crowd, wearing the grin of a faithful wife in a happy relationship. He took his place at the podium. The crowd cheered, applauding, whistling.
    “Thank you all. You’re too kind. Settle down.”
    The crowd became quiet.
    “Two weeks ago, I stood my ground and shot dead three thugs. Some will have you believe, if we enact strict gun control violent crime will somehow magically disappear. If we take guns from law-abiding citizens, the only people who will have them will be the criminals. The only person who can stop a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun, such as myself. I want you all to be good people with guns. We have to put a stop to all of this crime. We do that first by putting a stop to illegal immigration. The three goons who attacked me in the Dove Love bathroom were all illegals. The illegals are bringing crime across our borders. They’re rapists, murderers, drug dealers, gangsters...”
    He paused. The words on the teleprompter stopped scrolling. He thought of Emilia. She’s your baby, Paul.
    “Some illegals are good people. Some are here just trying to make a living.”
    The words: No impromptu, flashed on the teleprompter. Get back on topic.
    The senator continued to read the speech on the teleprompter. “In a few days the senate will vote on the bill I drafted to end naturalized citizenship by birth...”
    She’s your baby, Paul.
    “We need to get rid of anchor babies. We cannot give illegals any incentive whatsoever to come to this country, and that starts by passing my bill.”
    His speech went on. The crowd cheered his demagoguery, but was silent when he spoke substance. They cheered his brinkmanship while talking about foreign policy, but were silent to his lack of statesmanship. He ended the speech thanking the crowd for their time and returned to his truck, his wife’s hand in his, their fingers interlocked.
    The Ford pickup pulled off, his constituents pumping their arms up and down, like children at a passing eighteen-wheeler. Paul honked the horn. The crowd cheered once again.
    “I want a divorce,” Lisa said.
    “I want a woman with a rejuvenated vagina, but I keep you because I said I do at the altar.”
    “You stay married to me to keep up this charade you call a life.”
    “I just gave the most important speech of my political career, and that’s still not enough to stop your obsessive nagging. Go ahead and file for divorce. The SEC will receive an anonymous tip that Rosewater has been cooking the books and lying to investors. You’ll go to prison; I’ll make an impassioned speech about how you don’t really know anyone these days, not even your wife. How I loved you. How I married you, a plain woman from the countryside when I was a rich man. My approval rating will skyrocket.”
    Lisa said nothing.
    Paul took his eyes off the road to witness something he had never seen. He had gotten her to be quiet. “You got the hush mouth? I know how to shut you up now.”
    Lisa said nothing.
    Paul’s smartphone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at the text message:

    The text message was from Antonio Mancini.
    Shit, Paul thought. “Looks like we’re eating Italian for lunch.”

#

    Celia’s Italian Restaurant was a fine establishment. It welcomed those with a big appetite, and a bigger wallet. The tables were covered in handmade linen. “Ave Maria” composed by Franz Schubert played on speakers in the wall. A menu was handed to every customer with a selection of the finest wine, fifty different brands to choose from. Free appetizers were laid on the table before Paul and Lisa.
    “I’d like to speak to the owner of this fine establishment,” Paul told the waiter.
    “Everyone does,” the waiter said. “This is the best restaurant in the city.”
    “It is, but I’d like to make a suggestion. The drapes don’t quite match the carpet.”
    Lisa gave her husband a look that said: What are you talking about?
    The waiter raised an eyebrow. “Right this way.”
    The waiter led Paul through the kitchen. It was a far cry from the dining room. Customers waiting impatiently, eating garlic bread and sipping wine, had no idea of the chaos gripping the kitchen.
    “Table twenty six is still waiting on their gnocchi del mare!” a waiter shouted. “Table thirty-five is waiting on his lasagna calzone.”
    “It’s coming up right now.” The chef scooped the meals from the frying pan onto a plate. He picked up both plates and turned and slipped on a dab of marinara sauce left on the floor. He fell to the ground; the gnocchi flew one way, the lasagna calzone went another. The plates crashed and broke to pieces.
    The waiter shook his head in disbelief. “I guess they can hurry up and wait a bit longer.”
    “Hell no they’re not waiting longer,” Christian, the master chef, said. “You better get up, Gabriele, you finocchio, and pick that food up off the floor, and put it on a good plate.”
    “Yes, chef!” Gabriele jumped up off the floor. He picked up the soiled gnocchi with bare hands, playing hot potatoes until he found another plate on the counter. He picked up the calzone and blew the trash off it as best as he could.
    “Christian, people like you put the health department in business.”
    The master chef laughed without even turning around. He recognized the voice. He put the finishing touches on a dish ready for table forty-eight. “Senator Rosehall, I hope you’re not touring my kitchen for some campaign event.”
    “Not at all. I just want to suggest to Mr. and Mrs. Mancini they ought to get a new interior decorator. I’ll like to buy that gnocchi and the calzone. Put it on my tab. Send it to table thirty-one. Tell my wife it came recommended.”
    “And what will I give table twenty-six and thirty-five?” Christian asked.
    “The finest meal Celia’s has to offer. Put that on my tab also,” Paul replied.
    “Of course,” the master chef said.
    Paul laughed to himself. It didn’t have to be the first of April to be a fool. The waiter led Paul to a door in the back. Paul knocked three times. The door opened. A tall Italian stood over him in a tight fitting V-neck. Broad shoulders, wide pectorals, large biceps. Diego. A former Olympic boxer, Diego handled bodywork for Mancini. He looked like a young Ron Jeremy in the face. Paul would have laughed if he were drunk.
    His partner stood beside him, a fat man wearing a dress shirt unflatteringly too tight. He wore a shoulder holster that stored a twenty two-caliber pistol. Perfect for executions. Francesco did not like brain matter on his Armani. He looked like an old Ron Jeremy. Paul would have laughed if he were drunk.
    Mancini was sitting behind his desk, eating as always. He spun spaghetti on a spoon with his fork. “You killed three MS-13 spicks. I didn’t believe it. I heard the news. I watch Fox. I watch CNN. And when I’m in a good mood I might can stomach watching MSNBC. But I didn’t believe it until I saw that speech of yours.”
    “The best speech of my career,” Paul said. “It was self-defense.”
    The spoon went to the desk. Mancini slurped spaghetti from his plate. Maintaining proper etiquette was difficult for anyone when furious, even a gentleman mafia don. “I like being jerked off, not jerked around, senator.”
    “You’re one to talk. My chauffeur is a hitman of yours.”
    Mancini found his etiquette again once he finished chewing his food. He snapped his fingers. Francesco pulled an Armani pocket square from his dress shirt and wiped sauce from Mancini’s lips.
    “Pierce’s no hitman of mine. He’s the vet you hired off the street. I just paid him a little extra to keep an eye on you. Whisper things I said you should do in your ear, like stop being an adulterous asshole. And whisper things in my ear, like ‘I think you need a new sockpuppet.’”
    Paul knew Pierce. At least he thought he did. He wouldn’t say such a thing to Mancini. “I didn’t know the punks I shot were MS-13.”
    “Well, they were. My family had a cease-fire with the wetbacks. They know Pierce works for me, and that he was the one with the gat that night. They have intelligence.” Mancini laughed with a mouthful of pasta. “They’re not intelligent. They’re spicks ... but they have intelligence. Pierce said they had a picture of me and him at Pineflate Country Club. Being don is a not a job for every man. I’m ordering a hit one week on some Vice Mob coon, then trying to hold together a cease-fire agreement the next week with the wetbacks. I don’t want another war with MS-13. There are other ways to win wars. That’s why I got you in my pocket.”
    “In your pocket?” Paul asked.
    “Let me tell you a story,” Mancini said. Paul suppressed a sigh. “I dated a broad named Mia in a coed Catholic high school. The guys called her Betty Boop. Everyone wanted her, and she chose me. You know what this broad—”
    “Why?” Paul asked. Was she anorexic with an oversized head? He would have said that aloud if he were drunk.
    Mancini took a sip of wine, his brows scowling. You don’t interrupt a don in the middle of his story. “Why what?”
    “Why was Mia called Betty Boop?”
    “Because she looked like Betty Boop, and she wore a shirt with Betty Boop on it.”
    So, she was anorexic with an oversized head, wearing a shirt of an anorexic cartoon character with an oversized head. Paul would have said that out loud if he were drunk.
    “You know what Betty Boop did?” Mancini asked. “She slept with Jimmy Rossi, Marco Marino, and Roberto Bruno. All three at the same time. What these kid mooks nowadays call running a train. She got pregnant. Didn’t know who the father was. It was Jimmy Rossi’s. That’s what everybody said. Same eyes, same big nose, always whining wanting someone to wait on it. The baby was Jimmy Rossi’s. She didn’t even make Jimmy wear a jimmy hat. Told him to pull out. Well, pulling out works every time but the last time.”
    “That’s the truth, boss,” Diego said.
    “Shut up, Diego,” Mancini said.
    “Sure, boss.”
    Paul suppressed another sigh while his eyes glazed-over.
    “I was torn up about it. Left her over it. My father told me you have to treat women like money. You keep one in the bank and one in your pocket, and that’s how I treat my business associates. I got you in my pocket, senator. But I got one more in the bank. You don’t want me to make a withdrawal. You understand?”
    Paul rubbed his glazed over eyes.
    “You understand?” Mancini asked again.
    “Yeah,” Paul said.
    “What did I just say?”
    “Pulling out doesn’t work. You need a jimmy hat.”
    Mancini slammed his fork and spoon onto his plate, spaghetti falling from his mouth. “You think this is a joke?! My family is on the verge of another war with MS-13. I don’t want blood on the streets; that don’t make money. You’re going to pass your bill. That’s the first step. Then you’re going to build the wall. Then you’re going to have ICE go door to door deporting those bastardos. Hell, you’re going to make it so bad for them they’ll self-deport.”
    “I don’t have the power to do all of that,” Paul said.
    “You will. Daniel Stillwater has put you on his shortlist for vice president. You’re going to accept his pick. You’re going to whisper in his ear what I whisper to you. You understand?”
    “Yeah.”
    “What did I just say?”
    “That you, a mafia don, are going to have someone inside the White House. A vice president.”
    “We’re reading the same novel now. We’re on the same page. The same paragraph. The same sentence. The same word. Matter of fact, how old are you?”
    “Fifty six,” Paul said.
    Mancini nodded. He liked the idea. “If President Stillwater doesn’t do what I whisper into his ear, one of these wetbacks might just snipe him at a campaign event. You’d be the second black president to take the oath of office. A black republican president ... A sellout. You sold your own race out; you going to sell me out?”
    “Of course not.” Paul didn’t think he had sold anyone out, but he wasn’t going to argue with Don Mancini.
    “Good, now get the hell out of my restaurant.”
    Francesco opened the door for Paul. He left his business meeting and entered the chaos of the kitchen. Gabriele slipped and fell again; chicken parmigiana flew in the air. Master Chef Christian threw a thumb over his shoulder and told Gabriele to hit the road instead of the kitchen floor.
    The same waiter, that had escorted Paul to the don’s chamber, led him to the dining room.
    “So, did they like your suggestion?” Lisa asked in an uninterested tone.
    “They said they’ll get a new decorator,” Paul said. “Let’s go.”
    “I just got my plate. The waiter said it was recommended by the master chef.” She took a bite of her food, savoring it. “It’s good. I know it’s good because you don’t want to sit down and enjoy it. You never want to eat with me anymore. You never take me out, unless it’s some show for the cameras.”
    Paul grabbed her under the arm and yanked her up from her seat. “I said let’s go.”
    She wouldn’t have it. “If we’re leaving then I’ll at least get a carry out plate.”
    She asked the waiter for one. He obliged. She chewed a bite of the lasagna calzone with a defiant smile while looking into the eyes of her husband, spooning the gnocchi onto her styrofoam plate.
    Paul couldn’t hold back his chuckle any longer. He laughed out loud. The dining room became silent. Patrons looked up from their meals and turned their heads to the black man in a tailored suit laughing at his white date.
    Lisa grabbed a napkin from the table and spat half-chewed food in it. “It’s always the first day of April when you’re married to a fool.”
    She walked out of the restaurant.
    Her husband followed behind, trying to suppress his amusement.

#

    Pierce drove Paul to the Mexican ghetto in his F150. The senator elected not to ride in his limo. He had learned his lesson. Best to keep a low profile in enemy territory.
    “Didn’t Mancini tell you not to go back on MS-13 turf?”
    “Nope,” the senator said.
    “Then what did he tell you?”
    “Something about me giving him a reach around in his pocket.”
    Pierce laughed and shook his head. “He gave you that Betty Boop speech. He got one in his pocket and one in the bank.”
    “Yeah, I guess it’s some kind of a metaphor. I don’t do metaphors. I ride the straight talk express.”
    Pierce’s laughter stopped. In a dead serious tone he said, “It’s a metaphor for assassinating you.”
    “It would have been scarier if he had just said he was going to kill me instead of telling me a sappy story about unrequited puppy love.”
    “I suppose.”
    Paul thought of something. “How you know about Betty Boop?”
    “He gave me the same story.”
    Paul said nothing.
    He thought he knew Pierce and it turned out he did know Pierce. Pierce didn’t stab people in the back ... He shot them in the face ... but he didn’t stab them in the back. Mancini had threatened Pierce with his life.
    “I thought I knew you, Pierce” Paul said, looking out the window with a smile on his face. “You’re working for Mancini.”
    “I thought I knew you, Senator Rosehall,” Pierce said. “You’re working for Mancini.”
    And the sound of the road ahead of them claimed the conversation. Paul kept his gaze out the window. A pawnshop passed by, then a liquor store, then a defunct car wash. They were almost to her house.
    “I hate Darth Bane,” the senator said. “He screwed everything up. I like the Old Republic better, before Darth Bane’s Rule of Two.”
    “We’ve been over this. If it wasn’t for Darth Bane’s Rule of Two, Sidious and Vader would have never taken over the Galactic Republic.”
    “The Brotherhood of Darkness was just so damn boss, though.”
    “That was the problem,” Pierce said. “Everyone wanted to be boss. The Rule of Two solved that. One master to embody the darkside of the Force and an apprentice to crave it.”
    “Like us, huh?”
    “Whiskey tango foxtrot, senator.”
    “No, I really mean it. We’re the Rule of Two.”
    “So, you’re a shady ass politician trying to train me in the ways of the darkside?”
    “Well, when you put it that way it sounds fucked up.”
    “Are you nervous?”
    “Do I look it? Am I shaking in my Rosehall?”
    “You start talking about Star Wars when you’re nervous.”
    Paul looked out the window and said nothing.
    Pierce pulled the Ford to the curb. “You think this is a good idea?”
    “Probably not. This may end the cease-fire.”
    Pierce put the truck in park, looked long and hard at Paul. “I meant coming here to see Emilia.”
    “Is anything a good idea?” Paul asked.
    “Getting your recommended daily value of vegetables is a good idea. Eating Wheaties for breakfast is a good idea. Stop drinking and smoking so much is a good idea. Switching to Geico Insurance is a good idea. This? What you’re doing now? I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
    Paul exited the truck. “I don’t pay you for lifestyle advice, Pierce.”
    He walked up the sidewalk. A shotgun house sat in front of him. He didn’t know if he should step on the dilapidated porch; it looked as if his foot would go through the flooring and the roof would come down any second. But he did. He took a nervous step, one after another, up the stoop. He could hear a baby crying inside, people speaking Spanish. He knocked on the door.
    A woman spoke gibberish as she came to the door. He suppose she was saying, “I’m coming.” He wished they would learn the language of the land. Why couldn’t he press two for English?
    The door opened. An older Mexican woman stood before him, wearing a smile. Her grin vanished when she saw he was a black man, but it returned again once she looked Paul’s dress suit up and down. You could call Lisa many things, but you couldn’t call her a hack when it came to fashion. Her fashion line, Rosehall, was on par with Gucci, Prada, and Armani.
    “No habla Ingles,” she said. “Pablo!”
    A man who was no older than twenty came to the door, his eyes red. He took one look at Paul. “We don’t need no insurance.”
    “I’m here to see Emilia.”
    Pablo’s eyes went wide even though their lids were heavy. “You an insurance salesman?”
    “What kind of an insurance salesman comes to a place like this?” Paul asked.
    “The kind that sells insurance in the form of street meds,” Pablo said.
    “That a euphemism for drugs?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “How could you not know?”
    “I don’t know what euphemism means.”
    “It means do you think I’m a drug dealer?”
    Pablo put his hand on his pistol, resting against the small of his back. “I hope you are and not ICE.”
    “Do I look like ICE?”
    “Coming here dressed liked that, I think you are.”
    “If I was ICE, I would have knocked on the door with a battering ram. I’m a friend of Emilia.”
    “Pablo, who is it?” a familiar voice asked. She stepped into view cradling a sleeping baby.
    “Some black guy selling insurance,” Pablo said.
    She saw him, and he saw her like the first time. Nothing but grace. She had her shirt unbuttoned; she had just got done breastfeeding their daughter. “He doesn’t sell insurance. He sells lies.”
    Pablo’s baked self was baffled by Emilia’s remark. “So ... he sells insurance?”
    “I just want to see our child,” Paul said.
    “Well, you see her don’t you?” Emilia asked.
    “I want to hold her.”
    Emilia sighed. Although she was angry, she would not deprive her daughter of knowing her father’s touch. “Let him in, Pablo.”
    “He ain’t with the policia is he?
    “He’s fine. Let him in.”
    Pablo took his hand off his gun and welcomed Paul inside. Paul instantly knew why Pablo’s eyes were red and heavy. The home smelled of weed. He followed Emilia down the hallway, stealing glances of the rooms as he passed. An old man was sitting in a rocking chair in the living room, a shotgun resting in his lap. Paul guessed you had to be forever vigilant in such a neighborhood. In a bedroom, an old woman was lying in the bed, an oxygen tank on the nightstand beside her, tubes running up her nose.
    Emilia led Paul to her room. A twin size bed sat in the corner, neatly made. A dresser, with a mirror on it, rested against the wall. Not one speck of dust was on the dresser. She had always been a meticulous cleaner. The wall was full with framed pictures, several photos of Emilia’s family. They, too, had no dust on them. This was a clean and well-lighted place. The senator sullied it with his presence.
    “I’ve haven’t heard from you in over a year. And you show up at Dove Love and kill three gangsters, then think you can just come to my home.”
    “It was an election year,” Paul said. “I was busy. I stood my ground at Dove Love.”
    “Did you kill them because they’re Mexicans?”
    “I killed them because they were bad people.”
    “And you’re not?”
    “I’ve done some things I’m not proud of, but haven’t we all? Look, I just want to hold our child.”
    “Oh, she’s our child now?” Emilia asked.
    “I never said she wasn’t.”
    “You never had the chance to. You just found out weeks ago.”
    “I want to be in her life.”
    “How can you be in her life when you live two?”
    “Can I just hold my daughter?”
    Emilia saw the tears in his eyes. Her anger subsided when she saw the father of her child about to cry. She gently passed Grace into his arms. He stood there cradling his baby girl. His eyes fell to the mirror on the dresser. He stood there looking at their reflections, tears crawling down his doppelganger’s face.
    “She’s beautiful. I don’t want her in this place. The house smells like babbage. You’re making all that money dancing now. Why not get an apartment?”
    “I’m here because my mother is dying. She didn’t have insurance for hospice, so they sent her home.”
    Paul gave his daughter back to Emilia. He was reluctant to do so. After holding Grace to his bosom, it was hard to let her go. He pulled a checkbook from his jacket. He had come from an old sperm and an old egg, which gave him an old soul, which in turn made him old fashion. He still carried a checkbook. He wrote Emilia a check for ten thousand dollars.
    “You think you can buy my silence?” she asked. “You don’t have to worry about me going to the media. I love the US. I don’t want to be deported.”
    “I’m not trying to buy your silence. I’m trying to buy my daughter’s safety. Use that money to get my daughter out of this place and into a good apartment. It smells like a trap house in here.” He lowered his head. “I have to leave now.”
    Emilia shook her head. Her eyes started to tear like his. “You cannot just come into our lives on a whim, then leave for Newports and never come back.”
    “I’ll be back in your life,” Paul said, “hopefully for the long term. I just have one more thing I have to do.”
    He turned his back on Emilia and Grace and left the home. He no longer was crying, but smiling.

#

    Senator Rosehall flew back to Washington DC. His bill to end naturalized citizenship by birth was voted on the next month. Party lines were drawn. Sixty votes were needed in order to pass the bill. Every senator cast his or her vote. Only one more would decide the fate of anchor babies. Paul Rosehall cast his vote. The nays had it. The bill failed.
    It was breaking news on all of the twenty-four-hour news networks. Senator Rosehall had voted against his own bill. He had defeated it.
    He wasted no time flying back to his home state on his private plane and was home within a few hours after the senate vote.
    Mancini didn’t text Paul back. Paul smiled. If he was going to die he was going to go out how he lived: being a troll. He laughed to himself. He had just trolled a mafia don.
    Pierce rode through the line of media vans flanking the driveway. Reporters tried to stop the limo, running by the car with cameras and microphones. Pierce pulled the limousine through the opened double gates. Paul closed the gates with an app on his iPhone so the media could not follow. Pierce drove towards Rose Hall. Trees lined the sides of the driveway. Crepe myrtles gave way to cherry trees, which gave way to red maples, each ablaze in autumn fire.
    Rose Hall sat proudly behind its lotus fountain. A mansion fit for a king. The limo came to a stop; Paul didn’t wait for Pierce to open his door. He bounded towards Rose Hall’s massive stoop. Running up the marble stairs reminded him how out of shape his was.
    The door opened before Paul could even ring the bell. It wasn’t Blake the butler standing in front of him, but Lisa. Her hands were on her hips, a look of disbelief on her face. “You voted against your own bill. You ruined your political career. Why?”
    “It doesn’t matter why.” Paul bent over trying to catch his breath. “You’re not safe.”
    The look of disbelief on Lisa’s face was replaced with perplexity. “Why not?”
    Paul straightened his poster, still sucking wind. “I’m in Antonio Mancini’s back pocket.”
    She didn’t smell alcohol on Paul but still thought it was one of his drunken jokes. Once she saw the look of desperation on his face, all she could say was, “What?”
    “He’s taking a hit out on me. He’s going to kill us all. Sorry I dragged you into this.”
    Lisa couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She gritted her teeth in anger and spoke through them, “The first time you apologize for anything. The first time I hear you say I’m sorry is when you’ve killed me. Are you serious?”
    “As serious as a bullet to the head,” Paul said. He no longer sucked wind but spoke calmly as he could. “You have to leave with me. We’ll meet up with Taeshawn and Harvey and Angelica tomorrow and leave the US together.”
    “And go where?” Lisa asked. “You want me to leave the corporation and fashion line I built with my own two hands? You want me to leave my entire life’s work behind because you screwed up at your own life’s work?”
    “You made a name for yourself using my surname,” Paul said. “That’s why you married me. I built Rosewater Incorporated and Rosehall Fashion as much as you did. Now I’m telling you to come with me, unless you want to end up buried alive in the desert.”
    Lisa pulled a little cigar from her purse and lit it, as she always had done to soothe her nerves. “I’ll leave, but not with you. You are not my husband. You’re just the man I mistakenly said I do to.”
    She closed the door in his face. He wanted to kick the door down, drag her from the mansion, down the stoop, and throw her inside the limo. But there was no time to argue with Lisa Rosehall. One might as well argue with the sun, to try and convince it to rise in the West.
    Paul ran down the mansion’s stoop. Pierce stood with the limo’s door open. Paul damn near dove into the backseat. Pierce closed the door and strode around the car. Why was Pierce so suddenly cavalier? He had always lived life with a sense of urgency, yet in the most urgent moment of Paul’s life, Pierce’s demeanor was laid back.
    The limo pulled around the lotus fountain and down the driveway. “Pierce, take me to Emilia’s.”
    “Of course, sir.” There was something in Pierce’s voice. Paul couldn’t place his finger on it. Pierce’s voice had wavered for a brief second.
    They drove towards Emilia’s ghetto. Or so Paul thought. Pierce made wrong turn after wrong turn. “Pierce, where are you taking me?”
    The black privacy divider rose between driver and client. Paul pressed the button on the armrest; the privacy divider would not go down. He shifted in his seat, a bit uncomfortable. He looked out the window. They were not headed for Emilia’s neighborhood; they were headed for the city limits. The sun had set below the city’s skyline; the twilight sky balanced itself on skyscrapers.
    “Pierce, stop the car.”
    Pierce did not reply.
    Paul tried to open the door. It wouldn’t budge. He hit the power door lock. It didn’t work. He laid back and kicked the window. His dress shoes smashed into the black tinted glass over and over until he sucked wind and his legs burned. He opened the limo’s safe and pulled out a snub nosed revolver. He aimed at the window and fired, yanking the trigger over and over. The bullets ricocheted and bounced around the cab.
    Pierce’s voice came over the intercom. “That’s bulletproof glass, senator. I had it installed after the altercation at Dove Love.”
    “Why are you doing this, Pierce?”
    No answer came. Paul pulled a bottle of Patron tequila from the bar. He had no choice but to drink and stare out the window at the passing desert, waiting for his life to come to an end. He had often wondered how the end would come. His life had been merely the sum of a few moments. What would his death be the sum of?
    It would be the sum of his own will.
    He believed in putting life in a headlock, not letting life put you in a headlock. He had always been in control of his life; he would be in control of his death. He put the snub nosed to his temple.
    Pierce’s voice sounded over the intercom. “That’s probably a good idea. Enrico’s going to torture you. But you fired all six shots.”
    Paul cussed and tittered at the same time. Pierce’s OCD ass had counted the shots. He was out of ammo.
    Paul’s finger left the trigger. He thought of trying to wrap his tie around the limo’s Jesus Handle and hanging himself, but he wouldn’t give the Italians the satisfaction. He could hear Mancini laughing with half-chewed food in his mouth, telling his guidos what a pussyman Paul was. He wouldn’t give Mancini the satisfaction. But then would that mean they would have the satisfaction of torturing him? It was a hell of a place to be in. He put the thirty-eight back in the safe. He wanted to see the sum of all of his labor, snuffed out in a few seconds with his own eyes. He wanted to feel it with his own body, whether it be instantaneous and painless, or slow and excruciating, he wanted to feel his death.
    The limo stopped. The power locks shot up. The door opened, revealing Enrico. He loomed over Paul, wearing a sadistic grin, a shovel slung over his shoulder. “I was hoping you do something stupid.”
    “Don’t know why you had to hope that,” Paul said. “Me doing something stupid was inevitable.”
    “Either way I get to kill a US congressman.”
    “That was a long line to stand in, huh?” Paul didn’t wait for Enrico to drag him from the car. He exited the limo and stood with what little pride he had left. “You Italians are like relatives at a family reunion, I seem to meet a new one every time we get together.”
    Enrico snickered. “I heard you were a comedian. I’m humerus myself.”
    Enrico reared back and smashed the shovel into Paul’s arm.
    Paul doubled over, favoring his bicep. “The hell you do that for?!”
    Enrico laughed, nudging Pierce with his elbow. “Get it? Humerus. Do you get it?”
    Pierce looked at the ground and nodded.
    “When the hell did Carrot Top get a tan and hit a six inch growth spurt?” Paul asked. “Dyed that red mane black, too.”
    Enrico’s smile turned down a dile. “You didn’t like my joke?”
    “You see me laughing?” Paul replied. “I ain’t never been one for slapshovel.”
    Enrico’s frown turned around. He nudged Pierce again. “Did this guy just make a pun?”
    “Can you just shoot me?” Paul asked, rubbing his arm. “All this humerus is killing me softly.”
    Enrico laughed his boisterous laugh again. “I love this nigger. You witty, you know that? I’ll drop my Carrot Top act when I go Gallagher on your head.” He turned to the chauffeur. “Pierce, here’s your keep.” Enrico reached into his Armani jacket and pulled out a roll of money, a rubber band holding the dead presidents together. He handed it to Pierce.
    “A lot more than thirty pieces of silver,” Paul said.
    Pierce put the money in his pocket, his eyes on the ground.
    “How many men have you killed, Pierce? And you can’t even look me in the eyes.”
    “I never look a man in his eyes before I kill him,” Pierce said. “I don’t need to see dead men eyes in my dreams.”
    “I don’t blame you for not looking at me. I took you off the streets and gave you a job.”
    Pierce kept his eyes on the ground. “And I’m grateful for that.”
    “You have a pretty damn odd way of showing your gratitude,” Paul said.
    “Alright, let’s knock off the soap opera.” Enrico handed Paul the shovel and finally pulled his gat from its holster. He gestured with the pistol in the direction he wanted Paul to walk. “Into the desert.”
    Paul took one last look at his bodyguard and turned around. “I saved your daughter, Pierce.”
    Pierce said nothing.
    Enrico walked Paul into the desert at the barrel of his pistol. The rosy twilight sky had given into darkness. Night claimed the desert for itself. A burning hellhole during the day, an icebox at night, desert coldness nipped at Paul’s wide nose.
    A coyote howled in the distance, a lonely cry that would not go unheard. Soon the desert came alive with howling, animals of the night screaming to each other. Giant cacti towered over them. A sidewinding snake danced across the sand, fleeing the men walking its way. A scorpion skittered around Paul’s shoes. It was a shame. He had never known how beautiful the world was until he was about to die. He realized he had always taken things for granted until they were wrestled away from his bosom. He had taken Grace for granted.
    “Here’s good,” Enrico said. “Start digging.”
    Paul didn’t hesitate. He broke the desert floor with his shovel. No reason to try and prolong the inevitable; it would only make dying harder. “Making a man dig his own grave. That’s low down and dirty.”
    “I guess,” Enrico said. “And you’re about to be low down and dirty.”
    “Damn you’re dark and dank. Freaking Dagobah.”
    “Did you just call me a dago?”
    “I said Dagobah.”
    “I heard dago,” Enrico said.
    “I said Dagobah.”
    Enrico pushed the gun’s barrel to Paul’s temple. “I’m tired of this bit. Shut up and dig.”
    Paul shut his trap and shoveled more desert dirt but couldn’t keep quiet for too long. “So what’s Mancini’s plan? Who’s in the bank?”
    “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Enrico lit a Cuban cigar. Watching someone else perform manual labor was somewhat insipid. “All I can say is, I’m going to shoot you in the head and fill this grave up. The feds will find your body due to an anonymous tip. They’ll think MS-13 done it. Mr. Mancini’s going to make a withdrawal from the bank. Your replacement’s approval rating is going to be through the roof when he says we need to deport these MS-13 goons who assassinated Senator Rosehall. Mancini will win his war, not through the streets, but through Washington.”
    Paul kept digging. “You don’t say? And how will the feds find my body in the middle of nowhere?”
    “We’ll tell them to search the area around the Arch of Ichthys.”
    Paul stopped digging and looked up. The Arch of Ichthys sat in the distance in front of them. The night was thick, but the senator could make out the rock formation. He had visited the rock formation during a campaign event. Some pilgrim, centuries earlier, had chiseled a fish into the side of the rock. He had laughed his drunken chuckle when he first saw it; it looked like a child’s doodle, surely a grown man could do better than that. Now he realized the beauty in it, the beauty of a man wandering an unexplored desert, leaving his mark for future generations to see.
    “That’s deep enough,” Enrico said.
    Paul dropped the shovel. He took his flask from his jacket and turned it up to drink. He saw the stars and hoped his life was as finite as theirs. He hoped there wasn’t an afterlife. Saint Peter was not going to call Paul’s name, not after the sins he had committed.
    Hennessey hit his lips, but he did not part them. He dropped the flask to the sand and closed his eyes when he heard the click-clack of Enrico chambering a round. All these years he had heard the ballad of the world. He had heard the morning birds outside of Rose Hall and had propane cannons installed to run them off. The beauty of their morning songs was replaced with noise pollution. He had heard the children’s laughter that came to play kickball on his lawn and thought his neatly trimmed grass was more important than their gaiety, so he had them removed. He had seen the sanctity of marriage with his own eyes when he witnessed the love his father shared with his mother. A true gentleman his father was. Harvey Rosehall had served all women, but loved only one until the Lord called him home. Paul had seen the sanctity of marriage and desecrated it when he married Lisa for political gain only. He understood he was a cynic, seeing selfishness in everyone he met, for he had a selfish soul. He understood he saw corruption in righteousness, for his heart was corrupt. He understood he saw ugliness in beauty, for his spirit was ugly. Epiphanies came to men in their dreams, in moments of incidental brilliance, and even on their deathbeds.
    A gunshot rang out.
    There was nothing but an endless night.
    A voice cut through the void, a shout.
    Then darkness became light.
    “You okay, Paul?!”
    Paul opened his eyes and spun around in a frenzy. Pierce stood about twenty feet away, his pistol smoking.
    “You okay?!” Pierce screamed again, running towards the senator.
    “Who shot first, Han or Greedo?” Paul asked.
    “You know damn well Han shot first,” Pierce said.
    Paul looked down at Enrico. A bullet hole wept blood and brain matter out the back of his head. “What do we do with him?”
    “Leave him for the coyotes and buzzards.” Pierce wiped his prints off the thirty-eight revolver. “The circle of life and all that.”
    He handed the gun to Paul. “Why do I need this? Why would you give it to me? I damn well should shoot you.”
    Pierce nodded. “You probably should, but I don’t think you have it in you. Your prints are on the gun now. Drop it by the body.”
    Paul did as Pierce said; you do not hesitate to follow the advice of a man who’s knowledgeable in an area in which you are not. He dropped the gun to the desert floor.
    “The gun’s registered in your name,” Pierce said. “Mancini will think you killed Enrico. That’s why I didn’t use my Desert Eagle”
    “But I fired all six shots in the limo.”
    Pierce raised his pants legs, revealing an ankle holster, a snub nosed revolver resting snugly in it. “I took the bullets out of my gun and put them in yours.”
    “That’s pretty swift and nifty thinking, Pierce. Fucking swifty,” Paul said. “You’re agile and adaptive. That’s why you’re my bodyguard, but what if Mancini finds out the truth. You’ll die for it. Mancini will have your cojones.”
    “God would have never forgiven me if I had let you die, Paul.” Pierce meant what he had said. Who had taken him, a homeless Iraq War veteran, off the street? Who had paid out of pocket for his daughter’s kidney transplant? Paul Rosehall, that’s who.
    Paul’s hands shook with adrenaline. He needed a drink, but he did not pick up the flask from the ground. He strode towards the direction of his limo. “I got to warn Emilia. They’ll kill her and Grace.”
    “What about your wife?” Pierce asked.
    “I tried to warn her. I might as well been talking to the Arch of Ichthys.”
    “Mancini’s going to kill her, you know? Probably Taeshawn, too.”
    Paul thought as he walked, the only true friend he ever had kept pace beside him.
    “Mancini said he had you whisper sweet nothings in my ear. I need you to whisper sweet everythings into Mancini’s. Tell him he shouldn’t kill my wife and adoptive son. Tell him, Lisa and Taeshawn are in the bank. Get her to run for office, lament on what a bad man I was. The media will love it; we’ll give them something to talk about. Whisper to Mancini: put Lisa Rosehall in your pocket. Hell, have her change her surname if you want to be theatrical. That’s politics ... Theatre.”
    “I don’t know if he’ll go for that,” Pierce said,
    “I know Mancini. If I know anyone, it’s a bad man. I see one when I look into the mirror each morning. That fat bastard will eat it up like a chicken panini sandwich. Lisa will go along with it. She married me for power.”
    “I’ll give it a shot,” Pierce said. “And what will happen to Senator Paul Rosehall?”
    “I’m going to pull a Houdini.”
    “What? You’re going to die when a Mancini guido punch you in the gut?”
    “Funny, Pierce.” Paul cracked a smile at the sarcastic joke. “I’m going to disappear.”

#

    Paul was more nervous this time than the first when he climbed the stoop outside Emilia’s mother’s house. Adrenaline caused his legs to shake. He rang the doorbell. The door opened; Pablo with his heavy eyes stared at Paul with a lazy gaze.
    “Emilia, the insurance salesmen here to see you again.”
    Emilia stepped onto the front porch. “I heard the news. Your career’s over.”
    Paul smiled. “I guess it is.”
    “Why did you do that?” The disbelief in Emilia’s voice was tangible. “For me?”
    “For us ... For all of us ... For Grace.”
    “So, can you be in your daughter’s life now.”
    “Maybe,” Paul said. He looked at the rotten wood beneath his feet. “We can be together, but we have to leave.”
    “And go where?”
    “Mexico.”
    “I came to America to leave poverty behind, and you’re asking me to go back?”
    “I have millions in offshore accounts. I can give you and Grace the lives you came here seeking.”
    “Why do you need to leave the US? Your political career’s over. But what are you really running from?”
    “I can’t tell you that. I just need you to trust me.”
    “I’ve done everything for you. I hid our relationship from the media. I hid my pregnancy from the media. I did it for you. What have you done for me? And you ask me to trust you?”
    A walk with Death in the desert had purged cynicism from Paul. He knew when Emilia said she did it for him, she did it out of love.
    “And all I can do for you is take you away from all of this. From this shotgun house. From the brothel. You and our daughter will never be hungry, will never be without what you want, what you need. I just need you to trust me. I need you to come with me.”
    He extended his hand towards his mistress, palm up. To his surprise, she took it and led him into the house. There was no smell of marijuana. The old man was sitting in his rocking chair in the living room, a shotgun resting on his lap, but Emilia’s mother was not resting in her room, with tubes running up her nose.
    “It doesn’t smell like a trap house in here anymore,” Paul said.
    “I told Pablo to go outside with his weed. You were right; our daughter shouldn’t have to smell that.”
    “God called your mother home?” Paul asked.
    “Yes, she’s with Christ now.”
    Emilia entered her room and leaned over the baby’s crib. Grace was asleep. Paul had not seen anything more beautiful in the world: his baby girl fast asleep. He nearly wept. He now had a beautiful soul, for he saw beautiful meanings in beautiful things.
    He took Grace gently into his arms and whispered to his love, “We have to go, now.”
    “Do I have time to say goodbye to my family?”
    “We’ll send for them once we’re in Mexico. I’ll buy us a villa in the countryside. We’ll be one big family.”
    “You promise?”
    “I do,” Paul said. “Follow me.”
    He led his love down the hall and out the front porch. Pablo was sitting on the bottom step, smoking a blunt. “Emilia, take Grace for a second.”
    Emilia took Grace into her arms while Paul reached into his pocket. He pulled out a prepaid phone—cheap and disposable—and handed it to Pablo. “You’ll get a call from me and your sister in a few weeks. We’re moving to Mexico. I’m going to buy us a fine home to live in. We want you and your family to come and live with us. Leave this ghetto behind.”
    Pablo took the phone. “Thanks, senor, I needed a phone.” He took another pull on his blunt.
    Paul shook his head; he didn’t think Pablo had heard him. He had no time to try and get on the same page/rolling paper, with a pothead. He led Emilia to the limo. His most trusted friend stood at the rear with the door open. Pierce took Grace as Emilia and Paul entered the rear of the limo. The chauffeur handed them their child and raced around the car with unmatched urgency.
    He pulled the limo around the culdesac at the end of the street and headed toward the city limits, towards the desert. They would not be going through a border checkpoint because of Emilia’s illegal status.
    Pierce pulled the limo to a stop on the desert road. There was a ATV waiting for them. Paul exited the limo with his family, holding his daughter. His daughter had awakened and was giggling, playing with her father’s tie. He held Grace tightly to his chest, and would never leave her again.
    “So, this is where we part ways, huh?” Pierce said.
    “I guess so.”
    “Stay in touch.”
    “We have to be strangers, Pierce. Mancini can’t know we’re in contact with each other.”
    “I’m going to miss you, Paul.”
    The senator chuckled. It was not a drunken laugh, but one of sober joy, the best laugh he had had in a long while. “You’d make a good politician.”
    “I don’t know if I could lie for a living,” Pierce said.
    “It’s easy,” Paul replied. “You simply fib enough until you start believing the lies that come out of your own mouth. Or until you simply stop caring for the truth.”
    “That easy, huh?”
    Paul hugged his friend. “That easy.”
    The senator left his friend and mounted the ATV. Emilia took her seat behind him, their daughter in her motherly clutch. Paul started the ATV and pulled off towards the border. He drove slowly as he could, for there was precious cargo aboard, more precious than any metal or gemstone, more important than any political office in the world. It would be days before they crossed into Mexico, at the pace at which the ATV crawled along, but it would be fine. He had packed canned food and canteens of water. Even so, Emilia reassured Paul that good Samaritans left food and water in the desert at various rendezvous points.
    “You’re a good man, Paul!” Pierce’s voice carried over the desert wind.
    “See,” Paul said to himself. “I told you you’d make a good politician.”
    They continued to travel the desert on the ATV. The Arch of Ichthys sat on the horizon. The morning sun rose into the middle of the rock formation, like an eye watching all. The sun’s light was blinding.

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