America Rising (20 page)

Neighbors paid attention now, watching from behind pulled curtains as a slight, fair-skinned young man who appeared to be in his late thirties began turning the trio of once-dilapidated homes into tidy, middle-class jewels. In two weeks the buzz about this mysterious, do-gooding stranger had spread throughout the entire subdivision. Residents warmed by the tiniest spark of hope drove by and admired the young man’s handiwork, all the while dreading what would happen when word reached the community’s more rapacious elements.

They didn’t have to wait long.

On a sunny but cold Saturday afternoon two cars parked in front of the young man’s home, disgorging a dozen men in their twenties wearing the wannabe-thug’s uniform of do-rags, hoodies and jeans sagging to their knees. Joking loudly among themselves, they strolled up the neat front yard, stopping midway when the door opened and the slight young man stepped out and planted himself in their path.

Neighbors cowered behind their curtains, too scared to even dial 911. Not that it would have mattered. The town’s police force had been disbanded—more fallout of the real estate collapse—leaving only a handful of disillusioned, overwhelmed county sheriffs to deal with an ever larger and bolder criminal element.

But the young man appeared unafraid. He said something to the mob in a voice too soft to carry across the street and their jokey bravado faded. He said something else and they hesitated, looked at each other, confused, wary. One of them, whom neighbors recognized as the gang’s leader, turned on his companions, cursing them as cowards and weaklings, ginning himself up into a nervous, deadly rage. He faced the young man, reached beneath his hoodie, pulled out a flat-black pistol. Held it horizontal, like he’d seen in the movies. Sneered and said, “You want somma this, fool?”

The young man didn’t move. Neighbors grabbed their children, fled from their windows. The gangbanger spit at the young man’s feet. Now the young man moved. He pivoted away from the gunman’s pistol, reached behind his back and in a single fluid motion brought out a revolver the size of a small cannon and squeezed off a single shot. The bullet caught the gangbanger in the chest and splattered his companions with blood and bones and shreds of internal organs.

No one spoke. No one moved.

“Go on home,” the young man finally said. There was hurt in his eyes, pity in his voice. The gangbangers avoided his gaze. They dragged their leader’s shattered body to his car, slung it in and peeled rubber off the curb.. When their cars were no longer in sight the young man went back inside his house and quietly closed the door.

I
first heard Ed Bane’s attack on AnnaLynn and SayNo when Jeff O’Neill emailed me an audio file of the show and a link to a report on the attack on SayNo’s office. Listening to Ed Bane was like masturbating with a porcupine glove but I forced myself to sit through the entire thing, then deleted it with an angry stab at my keyboard.

I debated whether to call AnnaLynn and see how she was doing, not wanting to come off like an anxious parent. On the other hand, getting personally reamed on-air by the country’s most potent media figure might warrant a little moral support so I put my doubts aside and called. She picked up right away. The strain of the past several weeks was grinding her down, though she tried hard not to show it. She sounded like she wanted to crawl in bed, pull the covers over her head and stay there until all the bad news went away. Which gave me an idea.

“It’s been rough, Josh,” she admitted when I pressed her. “Bane really has the Neanderthals all stirred up. Somebody broke all the windows in my car last night and slashed the tires. They spray-painted graffiti on my house, threw a rock through the window. I’m staying at a hotel now. And it’s not just me; everyone on our staff has been harassed. Our office is destroyed; we have no place to work. . .”

Her voice trailed off. I’d never heard her sound so despondent.

“Honestly, I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” she said. “Maybe it’s just too hard. Maybe there are just too many of them. Maybe they’ve already won.” She sighed wearily. “You know, all I really want to do right now is sail away to some tropical island and say the hell with everything.”

That was all the opening I needed.

“You don’t need to sail to one,” I said.

“What?”

“You don’t need to sail to one. I have a tropical island right here. They don’t call the Keys the ‘American Caribbean’ for nothing, you know. You have everything on computers, right? You can work from anywhere. Why don’t you and your staff come down here for a couple of weeks? I can fix you up in a gorgeous place in Islamorada, a few miles down the road from me. It’s huge, plenty of room. Totally private. Right on the water. Killer views. Your own beach. Boat dock. Outdoor barbecue. A friend of mine owns it; he’s a trust fund baby who spends his summers in Europe. I know he wouldn’t mind letting you stay there for awhile. What do you say?”

AnnaLynn didn’t know what to say. Or she didn’t know what to say to me. But she was thinking about it. I could hear the gears clanking.

“It’s not as crazy as it sounds,” I said, suddenly giddy at the thought of her actually being here. “It’s just an overnight trip by car. You’ll still be able to get your work done but you can also chill, get some R&R. Go out on the reef. Catch a fish. Sit in the sun. Get away from it all. Once the cretins realize you’re not there they’ll crawl back under their rocks and you can go home. And I can promise you a hogfish dinner that will blow your mind.”

She was wavering now.

“Wow, Josh, I don’t know. I mean, it sounds wonderful but. . .”

I wanted to close this deal. Fast. And, to be truthful, for reasons not wholly altruistic.

“Look, AnnaLynn,” I said. “Don’t decide right now. Talk to your staff. I’ll call my friend Peter, make sure he’s okay with it. Then I’ll call you back. Alright?”

I had her now. She just needed a little time to digest the idea. I called Peter, left a message on his cell. An hour later he called back.

“Sorry I missed you earlier,” he said. “I was up to my elbows in
palombacci alla giotta.
That’s roasted pigeon with a really complicated sauce. I’m on a break now.”

I couldn’t help but feel envious. “So where are you this time?” I asked

“Umbria. One of the wineries here holds a six-week culinary school every year. I thought it was time I learned how to cook something besides steaks and hamburgers.”

Lucky bastard.

I told him about what I wanted with AnnaLynn and her staff and he said, “Of course. Tell them they can stay as long as they like. I’ll have my guy who takes care of the place bring you the keys. Just two conditions.” He told me his conditions and I laughed and said, “I don’t think that will be a problem.” His teachers were calling him back to finish his pigeon so I let him go. “Thanks, Peter. I appreciate it. I owe you a cold one next time you’re at Pilot House.”

“You owe me two cold ones, Josh.”

Peter always did drive a hard bargain.

This time it was my turn to rein in my emotions. I called AnnaLynn, careful to keep the excitement out of my voice.

“It’s all set,” I said. “Peter said come when you want, stay as long as you want. What do you think?”

“Well. . .”

“What does your staff think?”

She laughed sheepishly. “I just finished talking to them. They’re already packing.”

“And you?”

She laughed again. “Okay, okay, Josh. You all talked me into it. Give us a couple of days to get everything together, sign off on a new office and we’ll be there. But just until the office is ready. You sure this isn’t too much trouble.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “Of course it’s not too much trouble. Oh, there’s just one thing I forgot to tell you. Peter does have two conditions.” I told her Peter’s conditions and she laughed once more.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Would I kid about a thing like that?”

“I better not tell Ian and the rest of them. They’ll never leave.”

“Maybe you won’t either.”

“Enough, Josh. Enough. You’re relentless.” She tried to say it sternly but it came out happy. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

“You sure will.” I think I sounded happy too.

* * *

Twenty-four hours after watching a man die on a sunny midday afternoon, a delegation of Diamond Rock residents ambled over to the young man’s home, carefully avoiding the bloodstained walkway, and knocked on the front door. When he answered they were struck by how much smaller and less imposing he seemed than when faced off against the gang of thugs. They were also struck by the force of his personality. Even standing there mute he had an undeniable presence.

The man who’d assembled the delegation cleared his throat nervously, stuck out his hand and said, “I’m your across-the-street neighbor, Bob Johnson.” He was short and balding, with the portly build of a desk jockey and the vaguely downcast manner of someone who’d once been of some small importance. He flicked his eyes over the other members of his party. “This is Eric Schmidt, Oscar Gabriel, Lisa Turnbull. . .” His voice trailed off as he realized the futility of rattling off a long list of unfamiliar names.

“Anyway,” he said, picking up his broken monologue. “We wanted to say thank you for what you did yesterday, for what you’ve done fixing up these houses. And to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

The young man shook hands with a grip that wasn’t particularly firm nor especially weak. “I just did what I had to do,” he said. “But thank you for coming by. I’ve been meaning to get out and try to meet all of you but, as you can see, I’ve been pretty busy around here.” He stopped and slapped himself on the forehead reproachfully. “And where are my manners? Please, come in.”

The little party trooped in. They looked around the house, admiring the young man’s efforts. The place was little more than a plundered shell when he’d moved in. Now new drywall was up and freshly painted. Newish carpet, probably remnants from someone else’s remodel, had been laid. The house had been replumbed and old but carefully refurbished appliances fitted into their long-empty places. The young man filled in his guests on the details, told them of his plans for the other two properties. There was something bothering them, though, They threw covert looks at each other, wondering who would make the first move.

It fell to Bob Johnson. He cleared his throat again. “You’ve done a tremendous job here,” he said. “You really have. But we didn’t get your name.”

The young man smiled that diffident smile of his.

“Call me John Doe,” he said. “And now that I’ve met all of you and the house is at least presentable, I’d like to invite you and your families and everyone else in the neighborhood to a barbecue next weekend. Nothing fancy, but I do grill a mean hot dog, and I know where I can get a good deal on a couple of kegs of beer.”

That seemed to lessen their uneasiness, and when the day of the party rolled around more than three dozen people showed up at John Doe’s little compound. In a neighborly way they brought food and drink, and their host had somehow managed to scrounge up enough hot dogs and hamburgers to feed everyone, plus the promised kegs of beer and cases of cheap red and white wine.

After everyone had eaten, the kids played tag and dodgeball in the yard, and the adults stood around in little clots talking. John Doe led the men, many of whom were once in construction, through each of the houses. He showed them what he had done and asked their advice about what he had left to do. He flirted with the single women and was respectful to the wives, many of whom, at least for a moment, wished they were still single.

As the night sky arrived and temperatures dropped, partygoers began to trickle away, until it was just John Doe and a small group of diehards and the last bottles of red wine. They talked until the early hours. Next morning they were back, a little construction crew. They went to work on the other two houses and by the end of the week had made all the major repairs and were putting on the finishing touches. By the end of the next week the crew was larger, the three houses ready to inhabit, and the crew decided to begin renovating another trio of dilapidated homes two blocks away.

By the end of February John Doe was head of a small company of more than thirty men and women: experienced plumbers, electricians and carpenters; a half-dozen “designers” who combed flea markets, garage sales and Craig’s List for cheap but useable furniture and appliances; a “support staff” of one—Bob Johnson, the laid-off banker—who recorded every bit of work done, every man-hour put in, husbanding each and every dollar as if they were solid gold.

John Doe contributed some unusual skills of his own. Along with a rudimentary knowledge of plumbing, electrical and carpentry, he knew how to pirate electricity from one house to another without the power company being any wiser. He identified abandoned construction sites and led midnight raids to “liberate” tools and materials. And he seemed to have a sixth sense for deals. If anybody was selling anything that was good and cheap and useful within a hundred-mile radius, he would somehow find out about it and within hours be hauling it back in his ratty old pickup truck.