The Austin Job, Page 2

  This was a breakfast Starr didn’t mind sinking his teeth into. He’d survived two years on his meager wages from the government before his recent job at the bank provided a level of comfort he’d never known—not even during his most successful stints in the rodeo. But he hadn’t grown so rich he’d turn down a free breakfast from a strange Ukrainian.

  “Thanks,” he gave the boy a grin along with his best twinkle. Unfazed, the boy retreated to the kitchen. As he did so, Starr noticed the two students from before staring at him unapologetically. He scratched the scar on his cheek, left there by an encounter with a horn, before returning his attention to Oleg.

  “Please, eat.” Oleg said.

  Starr grabbed an egg and bit off half. Barely taking the time to chew, he swallowed. “I don’t mean to be rude, Professor Rodchenko, but where is all this going?”

  “This, Mr. Starr, is right question.” He nodded before continuing almost to himself, “this why I like you.” Having just met the man after talking on the phone for a few minutes, Starr had no idea why the professor had a need to like him, much less how he’d developed such an opinion. Still, a sweet roll was a sweet roll. He picked one up and buttered it, having already shoved the rest of the egg in his mouth. If the strange breakfast meeting ended abruptly, he didn’t want it to do so on an empty stomach.

  With roll still in his mouth he picked up his line of questioning, “It’s good to be liked and all, but—”

  “Of course. I am one being rude, Mr. Starr. Again, I apologize. We both know value of honest work. We both know value of hearty breakfast.” Starr raised his mug in salute. As he tipped back the unsweetened black tea, the direction of the conversation suddenly struck him. So obvious now that it embarrassed him to have missed it. “We both—”

  “This is about the strikes.” Starr put his mug down gently, glancing over his shoulder at the students. Seated without food, they did nothing but stare. “You support them.” Oleg nodded, waiting for Starr to continue. “And… you want to know if I do too.” Oleg took a bite of egg. The bells above the door jingled behind Starr’s back, the restaurant getting crowded.

  The senator slapped his forehead, wiping away beads of sweat with a cut triangle of napkin while Oleg fiddled with his mustache. “I’ve seen you before, at the riots.”

  “Protests,” Oleg corrected.

  “Look, we both know better than to come at a horse from behind.” He crammed in another big bite of roll and spoke with his mouth full. “Despite being set up, I don’t mind saying I think tenant farming stinks to high heaven. I’ve gone on record saying as much dozens of times. And sure, the right to strike is American, while the right for a man to enjoy the fruits of his labor is God-given.” The tea having cooled enough, Starr knocked the rest of it back in a gulp. “Nothing will change my beliefs on that.”

  “Well spoken, Mr. Starr. And yet you support government that take God-given right away—government owned by wealthy industrialists at expense of poor farmers.”

  “I support no such thing.” Starr slapped the table as the bells behind him jingled again.

  “Do not be naive, Mr. Starr. All government is tool of wealthy to oppress poor.” Oleg sat forward and pierced Starr with his gaze. “Money is power and power is poison, like alcohol.” He paused slightly, indicating he knew of Starr’s past with booze and his decision to break from it. “Small amounts make man feel good. But man not content with small amounts.” He tore a piece of sweet roll between his teeth and swallowed.

  “Is universal truth, Mr. Starr. Men drunk with power will never stop until world on fire.” He nodded slowly to himself as he sat back in his seat. “Some fire is bad, while some is good. Every man has same choice.” Starr glanced over his shoulder where a crowd of young people had gathered, every pair of eyes intent on him and the professor. Oleg continued, “Good fire purify. From ashes of corrupt institutions, true humanity rise.”

  “Interesting lecture, professor Rodchenko, but you’re talking about anarchy. Here in Texas we shoe a horse one hoof at a time, and we sure as hell don’t put him down for having a loose one. Governor Hobby will call a special session. If I were—”

  “If you were governor? If you were governor, then what? This is right question, Mr. Starr. You think about this question tonight at fancy party among corrupt and wasteful men and women of power.” He emphasized the word ‘women.’ “Sorry to be abrupt, but I have previous engagement.” He shuffled out of the bench and stood while calling toward the kitchen, “сосиска.”

  Starr rose as the young waiter scampered out straight away with two boiled sausages on a plate. “I think we both need this today.” Oleg offered a sausage to Starr before taking one himself and biting off the end. Not knowing what else to do, Starr accompanied the older man to the door. When he swung it open, the two men were greeted by a sea of cheers.

  ~~~

  Stooped and uncomfortable, Lickter pressed his ear against the wooden box in his left hand. The noise from the alley and the street beyond intensified, disturbing his ability to hear the amplified sound waves traveling through the cafe wall, into the collapsible cone, around the winding metal tubes, through the electrified transistors and finally into his ear. Standing in a pile of rancid garbage didn’t help his concentration either. I’m getting too old for this.

  Starr spoke more loudly, making the conversation easier to track.

  “Nothing will change my beliefs on that.”

  “Well spoken, Mr. Starr. And yet you support government that take God-given right away, government owned by wealthy industrialists at expense of poor farmers.”

  “I support no such thing.”

  A loud slap from within the cafe reverberated through the device, forcing Lickter to pull away. At the same moment a scuffling arose from behind. While ducking and spinning around, he leveled his pistol. “Dammit, you were supposed to be here ten minutes ago.”

  “Look, Sheriff. It doesn’t always work like that. Now do you mind?”

  Lickter holstered his weapon and collapsed the cone of the amplifier before slipping it into a pouch dangling from his belt. “I told you, I’m not a sheriff here in Austin. I’m a private consultant, making you a—”

  “A hired informant. I got it. Sheesh. And I assume I’m not supposed to ask what that contraption was?”

  Lickter nodded. “You’re supposed to tell me what Oleg’s got planned and get the hell out of here before we’re seen together.”

  “It’s my ass on the line.”

  “Report.”

  Lickter’s mole kicked a discarded tin can with his boot. “There isn’t much. He doesn’t trust anyone.”

  Using his imposing size, Lickter stepped close enough for the cocky greenling to smell the onions on his breath. “What the hell do you think I’ve been paying—”

  “He’s been focusing everything on the auction, tomorrow.” the mole said.

  “For the love of all things, I’m the one who told you that!”

  “But…”

  “But?” Lickter couldn’t believe this kid’s flare for the dramatic.

  “He’s got us all gathering tonight.”

  Lickter perked up. “A pep talk?”

  “Maybe, but I think it’s something else.”

  “What else?” Nearly throttling the kid, Lickter chose instead to run his hand under the brim of his hat. “Give me something I can work with. Where’s his lab?”

  “I don’t know, okay. I’m working on it.”

  “Working? Courting co-eds at a bar downtown—”

  “Hey, she’s close to him,” the mole defended himself. “Anyway, we get further instructions tonight. All hands on deck. Trust me, this is it. He always gets like this just before.”

  “Like what?”

  “Angry. Self-righteous.” The mole shook his head. “The little prig. He keeps talking about the cleansing fires. I think he’s snapped.”

  Lickter backed off and twiddled the toothpick dangling from his lips. “Alright, good j
ob. But make sure you’re on time tomorrow. If this guy’s about to go off half-cocked, I need to know about it.”

  Cheers and thunderous applause arose from the street. “That’s my cue.” The mole disappeared around the back of the building while Lickter crept cautiously toward the ruckus.

  “Protestors.” Lickter surveyed the scene from behind empty vegetable crates. The crowd was over a hundred people and growing—a mixture of farmers on foot and horseback peppered with students. His mole popped out from the next alley down and joined their ranks without a hiccup. The little pain in the ass is a good actor, I’ll give him that.

  It wasn’t until he himself decided to join the crowd that he spotted the focus of the adulation. The sight nearly caused him to bite his toothpick in half.

  THREE

  Warming Up

  Before Starr could duck back into the restaurant, Oleg gripped him by the elbow. Twisting it, the diminutive professor slipped behind the much larger senator and levered him into the midst of the mob. Moments later cheering students had filled the void behind them. Oleg released his grip and smiled, waving to his fans with one hand and embracing Starr with the other.

  In the time it took Starr to swallow the bite of sausage in his mouth, he’d been politically tied to an anarchist ringleader over the largest and most explosive issue of the day. It felt worse than drawing the local flea-bitten nag at the rodeo finals. Then at least he could’ve ridden out the eight seconds doing his best to put on an elaborate show for the crowd. Without any better ideas he decided to do just that. Rodchenko wasn’t the winning ride, but if he rode what he was given he might still taste prize money.

  Smiling, he followed Rodchenko’s lead as the two men swam deeper into the cheering ocean, bobbing up and down amid chants and placards. Before he knew it, the human wave crested down Sixth Street, headed for Congress Avenue and the heart of the downtown financial district. The closer they got, the worse his scar twitched.

  The angry contingent of tenant farmers represented the 53% of the farming profession statewide who worked land they didn’t own. After two straight years of terrible drought they’d been saddled with an untenable burden. The failure to produce even a salvageable crop of truck vegetables for the autumn would leave many of them starving while land owners threatened to remove tenants who couldn’t pull their weight. The young, including Starr’s little brother, joined the war effort in Europe, leaving the countryside to whither. Now Rodchenko seemed determined to provide the final spark, but he was going to get people hurt.

  Two blocks from the Grandview building and the office where Starr worked, the crowd compressed, jolting him more violently. Tensions rose in direct relation to the opulence of their surroundings as cheers morphed into angry chants. Rodchenko’s grip tightened, refusing to release his trophy and dupe, until with crushing violence a blow from behind severed them.

  Starr staggered sideways. A familiar voice joined the chanting masses as Sheriff Benjamin Lickter’s hand clutched him, helping him regain his balance. “A man should work the land he owns. A man should own the land he works!” Lickter clasped both Starr and Oleg in a bear hug, laying it on thick while whispering something into Oleg’s ear. By the time a half dozen students pried the professor free of the burly sheriff’s embrace, Lickter and Starr had distanced themselves from the heart of the mob.

  “What the hell are you thinking?” Lickter moved the two of them toward the edge of the crowd via elbow jabs and ugly looks.

  “He set me up. I fell for it.”

  “I’ll say. Damn boy, I thought politicians were supposed to do the shucking.”

  “Let’s just get out of here.” Starr said.

  “Easier said than done, boy. We got trouble.” Chanting dissolved into mayhem as the wave of protesters crashed into the bases of the nine-story Grandview and Scarborough buildings and turned violent. Lickter ducked, covering the two of them as a store window shattered. “There ain’t enough lawmen in town to settle this.”

  “What about the Rangers?”

  “They’re off chasing the Motorcycle Mexican and dealing with the border.” Of course, Starr nodded and brushed glass from his hair. He’d followed the fugitive’s status over the last week—a goat herder turned icon for the rural worker.

  “Maybe we can just ride it out.” Starr winced as gunfire punctuated his remark, a nervous deputy firing shots into the air. “Oh crap.”

  After a pregnant pause, a volley of angry yells burst from the mob, followed by a scattering of rifles and shotguns returning fire. Like a mess of cockroaches disturbed by sudden movement, the crowd spilled into every alley, door and window. Whether the majority sought refuge or revenge, it made little difference. “We gotta do something!” Starr insisted as they crouched behind a Model T parked in front of the venerable Antler Hotel.

  “You gotta do something.” The windshield shattered, spraying them again with glass. “They’re your crowd now.” Lickter held his pistol ready.

  “Hey down there!” A woman’s voice rang out from above. “It looks like you two could use a line.”

  “Dammit, Daisy.” Lickter cursed. “Can’t you stay out of harm’s way for half a day?”

  “Not when I’m with you apparently.” The sheriff’s daughter tied the Antler Hotel’s plush, blackout curtains to the balcony railing. Lickter tripped a farmer racing past with a shotgun and snatched the weapon as the man skidded into the street. He fired the shotgun into the air while waiving his badge and gesturing upward toward the balcony.

  A nearby deputy caught his drift and worked his way toward them. Starr lunged up the curtain hand over hand as Lickter emptied the shotgun over the heads of anyone showing threat. Tossing the gun, Lickter heaved himself up the curtain ladder next. No sooner than Starr’s boots had landed on the balcony he started hoisting the curtain upward, pulling the massive sheriff with it. From his elevated vantage he saw a clump of protestors standing like statues in the middle of the street, a bemused Oleg at their center.

  Lickter reached the top railing and let go of his end of the curtain, sending Starr stumbling through the opened balcony door with the curtain still in his hands.

  “Here, you might need this.” Daisy stood over him. Sitting up, he took the wire-mesh cylinder from her hand.

  “What—”

  “It’s a microphone,” Lickter responded. He tumbled over the railing as a bullet ricocheted above their heads. Starr’s cheeks puckered while Daisy crouched awkwardly over him. Her proximity re-simmered his emotional soup from the evening before. Eventually she helped both men up, one after the other.

  “And that?” Starr pointed to a large box on wheels connected to the contraption in his hand via a long electrical wire.

  “You don’t wanna know.” Daisy rolled her eyes while giving Starr a peck on the cheek, the brush of her lips making him flush.

  “That, my boy, is called a radiola. One don’t do much good without the other.” Lickter turned toward Daisy, “smart thinking, honey. Now get inside.”

  “Daddy.”

  Lickter ran his thumb across his throat and shoved her into the room. He nodded at Starr. “Get ready to say something heroic.” After fiddling with a couple of knobs, he threw a switch.

  “Huh?” Starr started as his voice echoed from the grate on the box, magnified threefold. A high-pitched squeal rattled his teeth.

  Lickter spun a dial all the way down before slowly climbing it back up. “Sorry about that. Technology.” He shrugged. But the terrible noise had served a purpose. Starr looked out over the chaos below where hundreds of eyes teetering between anger and despair were riveted on him. Temporarily their discontent had been given a fragile focus by the curiosity of a single man amidst a mob standing on a balcony with a contraption in his hand.

  Feeling the crowd’s piercing gaze, he knew he had only fractions of a second to become the champion these disenfranchised, embarrassed, ashamed, infuriated and emasculated men needed to give them purpose again. But even as he opened
his lips to speak, he feared the sting of piercing, hot lead if he failed.

  “Citizens of the great state of Texas!” His voice boomed from the box behind him, echoing off the Scarborough Building across Congress Avenue. They needed someone to give their pleas a voice. That someone couldn’t be Oleg. “Many of you know me as Jim Starr, bronc rider. Some of you know me as Senator Starr, District 14.” A few jeers rose at the mention of his office. “I know myself, first and foremost, as the proud son of tenant farmers from Bastrop. If my father were a younger man, he’d be among you today, I’ve no doubt.”

  Starr locked eyes with Rodchenko, still surrounded by an entourage of angry youth. He used them like he’d used Starr that morning. Worse yet, Oleg Rodchenko was wrong. Government could help the people, if they gave it a chance. No institution could give a man his dignity back, but neither would further violence. Starr gained strength from the grey-haired professor’s smug expression.

  “I don’t know much.” He spoke confidently into the microphone. “But one thing I know for damn sure, is that you and I understand the importance of a hearty breakfast. We know the value of honest work. The importance of holding your head high after a day, after weeks, after years of honest labor, blood and sweat under the sun.”

  He took a deep breath, filled with childhood griefs of his own. “I know that you’ve come here today thinking greedy and lazy men have taken all that from you, stolen your dignity and honor.” An angry shout pierced the stillness in the street. “Well you’re wrong.” Starr swallowed. “No one can take a man’s character against his will. You’ve built it through a lifetime of good, honest actions, and you own it. The man in the big house—” hisses rippled across the mob.

  Starr trembled before redoubling his resolve. “The man in the big house takes the fruit of your labor. He takes your land one harvest at a time.” He choked and rubbed the scar on his cheek with the palm of his hand. “He embarrasses you in front of your children by providing the very things he’s prohibited you from providing. He laughs at the pitiful wooden horse you carved over a month’s worth of late nights as a gift for your oldest boy. He shames your child into rejecting the gift by giving his own son a pony, a saddle, a stable.”