Chapter 4: Don’t Know Much About History...

Logan Kelly, an only child, had been raised by two San Francisco academicians. Laurel and Bentley Kelly hadn’t really tried to shed their hippie/Oregon-commune past; they had a casual attitude toward child-rearing. And to family life in general.

The two of them taught at the University of San Francisco and managed to find a way to enjoy both the city’s permissive attitude and the disciplined logic of the Jesuits.

Laurel and Bentley had never discussed having an open marriage because there simply wasn’t any need to belabor the obvious. They’d been free spirits before they met, and never felt the need to alter their lifestyles because of marriage and a child.

Logan’s father had a thing for older women, and the university faculty lounges and lecture halls were indeed happy hunting grounds.

Laurel was even more free with her favors. Logan had often come downstairs for breakfast to see her, casually nude, sometimes wearing heels, pouring coffee for yet another naked student. Usually, but not always, a boy.

“Hi, honey, cereal or eggs?”

Once Logan became old enough to understand that this was not conventional family behavior, he still decided to treat it as if it were perfectly normal. Norman Rockwell normal.

“Eggs, please. Over easy, and some bacon if we have it.”

He quickly learned to do the grocery shopping; otherwise ... well, it worked out better for him to just take care of things. By the time he was 14, Logan did most of the cooking as well.

And this was simply the way it was in the Kelly household. Logan occasionally, but not often, wondered what influence his unorthodox upbringing had had on his own psychological development. An openly promiscuous mother, and the almost complete absence of a traditional father figure.

By the time he was 11 or maybe 12, Logan had come to realize that he preferred structure, discipline, order, in his life.

As young as he was — 14 — when he started college in Berkeley, Logan quickly became known as that fucking Kelly. It wasn’t that he was rigid; he just felt he had to do things his own way. Had to act in ways that seemed appropriate to him.

He would smoke some dope, go late-night skinny dipping when a bunch of his friends snuck into the country club. But he never ignored his books, never cut class, never went into an exam unprepared.

After majoring in American Literature, and after law school, the nickname didn’t follow him into Annapolis. But it was applied — and stuck with him — three months into his Plebe year. This time it — that fucking Kelly — did follow him from graduation as a Political Science major, 5th in his class, into active duty.

No one but the Superintendent and Commandant of Midshipmen knew he was admitted on a waiver because of his previous degrees. And he saw no reason to discuss the fact with his classmates that he had, in fact, passed the bar in California.

Logan didn’t think of himself as stubborn, but he knew right from wrong; even when ‘right’ was harder, less pleasant.

Logan Fucking Kelly.

Quintin Apache was an independent contractor. A freelancer who lived and worked in the underbelly of America. He’d been referred to Paul Citron by a transportation executive whose regional railway lines shipped coal from northeastern Wyoming to the Port of Vancouver, British Columbia.

Warren Fogarty told Citron, “Quintin Apache is a handy man to know. Expensive, but he delivers.”

“How did you meet him?”

“We have a vacation home north of Coeur d’Alene. Apache lives up that way, probably off the grid. Well, I don’t know that for sure. He plays his cards pretty close.”

“I see.”

“I contracted with him one time and was more than satisfied. He takes his time, looks around, takes the path of least resistance. You have to pay him up front, cash only, but he’s worth it. He built a firewall around me. No connection, no rumors, no nothing.”

“What did he do for you?”

Fogarty just shot him a look.

Citron wondered if Apache were a white nationalist. A survivalist. Then decided it didn’t really matter. He went ahead and contracted with the man when the Amalgamated Mine Workers of America were nosing around. Looking to expand from Kentucky and West Virginia into Wyoming.

After two men were severely beaten, and another one disappeared for three days, the union decided to continue to evaluate future opportunities in Wyoming. But from its International Headquarters back in Columbus, Ohio.

The man who went missing had been the lead negotiator, Andrew McDowel, age 38. When he finally showed back up, he was missing the tips of his two little fingers. And, he was a changed man.

All McDowel would tell the Laramie police was, “He knows where I live.” Nothing more.

McDowel tried, one more time, to generate interest in a union startup at a bituminous coal mine in Clearfield County, Pennsylvania. But he gave up and came home after two days. His mother, Charlotte McDowel, told her daughter-in-law, “They may as well have cut off his balls.”

Cindy nodded glumly, “Tell me about it.”

Paul Citron’s contribution to the labor negotiations had required a one-time investment of $137,000. In cash, paid directly to Quintin Apache in advance. Expenses included.

Now it was time for the second Citron-directed assignment. He looked at Apache, looked into black eyes that seemed bottomless, “Fix Ethan Dalton.”

“Expensive.” He nodded to himself, “A United States Senator.”

Citron gave him his bleakest December smile, “How much?”

“$287,000, no links back to you.”

Another December smile was the handshake.

Among other things, Marie Guidry studied Sausalito’s school system. It was about average for the state of Mississippi, which meant it was abysmal. The School Board was composed of five earnest men and one lively woman — Gigi Fontenot. They were tame administrators; would do as the City Attorney directed them.

The problem, Marie decided, was the District Superintendent, Clyde Rogaine. He was one of those men who yearned to be liked. Not admired, not feared — simply liked.

In fact, Rogaine wasn’t unpopular; he was simply ineffective. So, Marie asked around, expanded her search, and settled on a Black woman who was a high school vice-principal in Lafayette, Louisiana.

Helene Washington had a fire in her belly. She loved kids and was aggressively protective of them. Shielded them against inept administrators, uncaring teachers, classroom bullies, and a variety of inadequate parents.

Marie won her over, “You’ll run the show. A tame school board, a compliant City Council, a town that doesn’t pay all that much attention to the schools. Turn things around and...” She showed Helene the specific goals, and the well-considered incentive program with its generous bonus structures.

Marie called her younger sister at school the day after they’d met in Contrary Mary’s.

“I’m still thinking about Logan Kelly.”

“Okay.”

“And I’m still amazed that he turned you down.”

“Maybe he has a serious girlfriend, Marie. Maybe he’s faithful to her. There could be men like that. Maybe.”

“Or maybe he’s deep in the closet. I could borrow Étienne for a night. Last time his mama only changed me a hundred bucks for him.”

“That’s crazy! Remember when I gave Étienne to Jimmy? For the band’s first anniversary?”

“Vaguely.”

“Well, I just took him from Sabine. Told her I need him all night and she knew better than to argue.” Eulalie smiled at the memory, “All three of them fucked him, told me he was the tightest pussy they’d had in years. Although Caroline wasn’t happy about Jimmy.”

“Then she shouldn’t have married a musician. Anyway ... Logan and Étienne?”

“I can get him for free, Marie. No sense in paying for pussy.”

“Focus, Eulalie. I’m not talking about petty cash.”

“I know, I know. Let me think. I could just knock on Logan’s door and introduce Étienne. Have him wearing those tight short-shorts that Sabine buys. When is he back in town, Logan?”

“A week or so. Let me think about Étienne. But you have a talk with Sabine, make sure the kid’s available. Remember your goal?”

“Of course. Find out who Logan is working for. Who our customer will be.”

“That’s right, hon. Might not do me any good. Or it might give me some extra leverage. I think I may already know who he is — a guy named Dalton, but I’d like a confirmation.”

“And leverage means extra money.”

“You know it, chere.”

Lacy Danube returned Logan’s coded call and agreed to meet him in Baltimore.

“I’m on my way to New York and can stop over.” She was actually heading to Boston.

This time, she didn’t bother with a bath house, with checking for wires. They were partners, along with Marie and Rémy, for better or worse.

Logan remembered her fine scent, the one that hinted of money. Then he put personal feelings aside, and started to recap the conversation they’d had in Brighton Beach.

Lacy waved it off, “The money is still the same?”

“The money is still the same.”

“Why will Citron pay to kill the senator? It has to be more than bad blood, more than just an ancient feud.”

Logan summarized the history between the two men. Dalton’s op-ed that had set everything in motion. The clandestine insertion of a single sentence in the mining bill. And Citron’s embarrassment and subsequent overreaction.

“Once Citron threatened retaliation, Ethan was quietly enraged. Mostly because his daughter — her name is Madison — might be vulnerable. As for Citron — he has no one in the world that he cares about. His father is more of a business mentor than a relative.”

Lacy nodded.

“So, Ethan went proactive. He hired a Denver investigator to dig into Citron’s life. It was partly timing and partly luck that his PI came up with some union dirt.”

“Who was he, the private dick?”

“A 46-year old woman named Cheryl Rodriquez. She uncovered a tenuous link between Citron and the unsuccessful attempt to unionize his coal mine workers.”

“God, unionization can get messy.”

“Rodriquez wasn’t sure how Citron did it, but the Amalgamated Mine Workers of America tucked tail and ran. Retreated to headquarters back in Columbus, Ohio.”

“What did she find out?”

“That someone roughed up two or three, most probably three, of the organizers. She offered to dig deeper, but Ethan told her not to. Citron has a preternatural awareness of what’s going on around him. Ethan decided to let that dog sleep a while longer.”

Lacy frowned, but didn’t comment on the strategy. Then she changed her mind, “Anything strike you as unusual about the union contretemps?”

“One of the union organizers — a guy named Andrew McDowel — disappeared for a few days. He came back missing the tips of his little fingers.”

“Could be a warning — keep your mouth shut. Or it could tell us something about the stranger.”

“Like what?”

“Like he enjoys his work.”

“Maybe. There was one other oddity.”

“Oh?”

“When McDowel was released, he had a playing card — the four of spades — tucked into his shirt pocket. He claimed he didn’t know what it meant, why it was there.”

“Did the authorities look into it?”

“A little. They concluded it was simply misdirection. Had no real meaning. The guy may have seen it in a movie, read it in a book.”

Lacy frowned again. She didn’t like unexplored paths. “What did you think?”

Logan was impressed. This woman didn’t settle for obvious answers.

“I asked a friend of mine, a gal who had twenty years in Naval Intelligence, to look into it.”

“And?”

“Nada. She said it might have had some symbolic meaning if it had been a picture card. The ‘four’ didn’t ring any database bells. Neither did ‘spades’ except for the obvious derogatory slang. And the organizers were white.”

“Still, it’s an odd thing, that card. Discordant. What brand?”

“About the most common in America — Bicycle Playing Cards, stock No. 808.”

“So, nothing exotic.”

“Nope. My friend drilled down fairly deep too. Looked at number theory and occult symbolism. She talked to a couple of semiotic professors at MIT. A linguist at Smith. Nothing.”

“Not completely nothing. It had folks spinning their wheels, wasting their time. The motive could have been to cover his butt. Or maybe, just orneriness, pettiness.”

“In any case, Ethan was still angry at Citron. And also a little concerned for Madison, so he arranged to run into Citron at lunch the next week. He asked Citron, ‘Cost you much to run off that union?’”

“Citron didn’t react, didn’t show any emotion. But Ethan said the tip of his ears colored just slightly.”

“The senator had gotten to him.”

“That’s right. Then Citron made the mistake that he’s going to pay for. As he left the restaurant, he detoured over to Ethan’s table. And said, ‘How’s your lovely daughter, Ethan? What’s her name, Madison?”

“Pretty heavy-handed. There are more subtle ways to threaten someone.”

Logan nodded, “Citron has no idea how enraged Ethan was. Now Citron has more to worry about than how much the senator knows about the tush hog who beat up those union reps.”