5. A Political Race

Chapter Five

Ranger, Number Three

Waspwood, Locksley County

“Hey, Range, look what I found.”

Ranger turned around at the sound of his friend’s voice. He straightened and held the pool cue suspended in the air in front of himself. “What is it, Cobra? You’re wrecking my shot.”

Cobra grinned and sauntered through the bar to drop an armload onto the pool table, scattering a good number of the balls. “Campaign signs,” Cobra said before Ranger had the chance to paw through the pile.

“Why, pray tell, did you ruin my game for campaign signs?” he asked. He shot his pool partner, Twister, an apologetic look. Twister only shrugged and laid his cue back on the table. Then he sauntered up to the bar counter and ordered another drink.

“Check it,” Cobra said nudging the top sign of the pile towards Ranger.

Ranger dropped his own cue stick and took the sign.

“Come on, it ain’t like you’re any good at pool,” Cobra said. “You’re a better driver.”

“A. I don’t need your flattery,” Ranger said. “And B. Maybe I wouldn’t suck so bad if you didn’t constantly interrupt my games.”

“Yeah, that’s why you suck,” Cobra said. “You were only ever any good when Bronze was your partner.”

Ranger heard Fuel sigh from a booth bench along the wall nearby. He glanced over at the older racer and bowed his head. Even Cobra fell silent for a moment as he quickly averted his own gaze.

“But, uh, yeah, you should look at these,” Cobra said then, nudging the top few signs toward Ranger.

The sign pushed against Ranger’s palms as he tightened his grip on it and lifted it off the table. It was predominately red, with white letters and blue stars. Across the center were large letters that spelled out “Cherrywood”. Below that, smaller white letters spelled out “Chase.” Ranger dropped the sign and looked over his shoulder, towards Fuel again. A half-empty glass sweated next to an empty one on the edge of the table nearest Ranger. A full one rested next to Fuel’s curled hand.

Regaining himself, Ranger turned back to Cobra. “Is that Melvin Chase, Raymond senator?”

“Yeah, the very same one who was born and raised in Locksley County,” Cobra said.

“I’ve seen bits of his career throughout the years,” Ranger said, trying to shrug off the sweat he felt pooling on his forehead. “I didn’t realize the man was running for vice president.”

“How weird would that be?” Cobra asked. “First Raymond native in the White House. Comes from our stomping grounds.”

“That’s a little too close for my comfort,” Ranger said. “I wonder if Mercedes knows about this.”

“He better start,” Cobra said. “Election is, like, next week.”

“Melvin Chase,” Ranger said. I should call him, he thought.

“We gonna finish?” Twister asked as he came back over. He offered Ranger a beer then set his own glass on the table in front of Fuel.

Ranger took a swig, grateful for the alcoholic tang his cola couldn’t offer. “Yeah, I guess,” he said tossing the campaign sign back on the pile. “I want these all gone. Every last one. Pull ‘em out of the ground. We’ll have a nice bonfire.”

“But, Ranger,” Cobra gasped. “That’s vandalism.”

He didn’t have to say that Bronze wouldn’t have approved for Ranger’s chest to seize with guilt. But whether his puppyish best friend would’ve approved of vandalizing or not didn’t change Ranger’s feelings towards Melvin Chase.

“Yeah, right.” He rolled his eyes over to Fuel, who was staring a distant point on the far wall of the bar. “Go with him, Fuel,” Ranger said. “And call the czars. I don’t want any of these signs standing in Locksley County.”

Fuel’s gaze snapped back to focus on the three men in front of him. He nodded and finished his drink before standing and grabbing Cobra by the arm. Fuel slowly picked up the signs in his other hand. “Czars won’t listen to me,” he said, eyes glinting in the half light of the bar as he looked through Ranger.

“Start with Knightmare,” Ranger said, turning his face to the side. “He’ll listen to Cobra and the others will listen to him.”

“Come on,” Cobra sighed.

Twister watched them go. “Why’d you send them away?” he asked as Ranger racked the balls. “We could’ve done doubles.”

“I need to make sure it gets done,” Ranger said.

“Why does it have to be done anyway?” Twister asked.

At least talking about his anger towards Melvin Chase allowed him to fill the void Bronze had left in his chest. “I’ve seen Chase’s career develop,” Ranger said. “A huge part of his platform has always been to make the streets of Raymond safe again. Even as governor, he never had enough real power for that to matter. But if he gets into the White House, even as vice president, we could all be in serious trouble.”

“And you know a lot about politics,” Twister said as he leaned forward to break.

Ranger sipped his beer. “It’s my job as one of the Numbers to be aware of these things,” he said.

“The only redeeming quality that title has is how close you get to be to Mercedes,” Twister said.

“You’re telling me,” Ranger said as he took aim at the yellow striped nine ball. He always went for the yellow ones first. “The man is a god.”

The cue ball hit the nine and it ricocheted off the side before landing in a pocket. “Stripes again,” Ranger said lining up his next shot.

“I only see him from a distance,” Twister said. He prowled around the pool table as though contemplating. “He’s too good to wrestle with little guys like me.”

“He’s not ‘too good,’” Ranger said taking a shot at the fifteen ball. The cue ball ricocheted off the far wall and clattered against the blue two ball instead. “He’s just careful. In some ways. In others he’s just fucking clueless.”

Twister stepped up to the table and lined up a shot at the purple four ball. “Like his love life?” Twister asked, smacking the cue ball with the end of his stick.

Ranger tightened his grip on his own cue stick as he watched the balls roll around the table. He took his own turn, this time aiming at lucky thirteen.

“Sore spot,” Twister said.

“Leave it,” Ranger said, downing the contents of his bottle. He caught sight of the clock on the far wall of the bar. “Almost morning,” he said.

“You got somewhere to be?” Twister asked.

“I need to get some sleep,” Ranger said. The statement was only partially true. He did want to leave, but only because he was bored of hanging with Twister. It wasn’t like it had been before. Would never be like that again. Not without Bronze.

“We didn’t finish the game,” Twister said.

Ranger placed his cue stick on the table. “We both know I was going to lose anyway,” he said.

He finished his beer and turned to leave, throwing up a hand to Twister in farewell. No one tried to stop him as he stepped out the back door of the bar, pulling out the keys to his yellow Corvette as he did so. A smile touched his lips at that, knowing that he was the only other street racer in the state to drive a Corvette. He figured that anyone else was too afraid to step on Mercedes’ turf to do so.

Even so, Ranger wasn’t thinking about Mercedes as he climbed into his Corvette a block later. It was Melvin Chase who occupied his mind. Election Day was fast approaching and there was a very real possibility that the Raymond native would be elected to vice president. Ranger had to doubt that Mercedes was aware of that fact at all.

The Psypher system in his Corvette went live as he started the engine and pulled out of the parking garage. A map of Waspwood, inclusive of a yellow triangle marking his present location, loaded on the screen. He sat on the side of the road a moment as he clicked through the system to access his mobile, which had connected once the system had turned on. A dial pad appeared on the screen along with a green send button and red hang up button.

Ranger dialed 9666, Mercedes’ four digit Strike County mobile number, and hit send. As the phone rang through the car’s speakers, Ranger drove down the street cruising at speed limit.

With dawn not far off, Waspwood was quiet. The only lights around were street lamps and his headlights.

The phone continued to ring. Ranger didn’t think Mercedes would be asleep and thought it odd that the younger man wasn’t answering. The Psypher network wasn’t developed with voice mail or text messaging services. Such things would’ve left a paper trail, so to speak, and would’ve defeated the purpose. When Mercedes didn’t answer on the thirteenth ring, Ranger hung up and dialed 2123 instead.

“Hello?” a young male voice answered after three rings.

“Don’t you have school tomorrow?” Ranger asked. He didn’t give Cat the chance to respond before speaking again. “Where’s your guardian?”

Cat was silent on the line for three blocks. “He left the Keg hours ago and said he was going home,” Cat said finally. “He wasn’t here when I came in.”

Ranger clicked his tongue. “That’s odd,” he said. “What happened?”

“Officer Corey Curse happened,” Cat said.

Ranger nearly collided with a civilian car that had stopped at the next stoplight. Catching himself in time, he swerved around the car and sped through the red light. The engine of his Corvette roared as he rocketed down the street. Aside from the color, the only difference between Ranger’s Corvette and Mercedes’ was that his was an automatic transmission. He had never learned to drive a manual.

“They got him?” Ranger asked. Why hadn’t the TVs at the bar been blowing up with that news?

“No,” Cat replied but his tone didn’t improve any. “They spoke for a bit outside the club. Mercedes left after that.”

“The cop came by to speak to Mercedes?” Ranger asked. He knew there was some sort of convoluted history between the two but Mercedes had never given Ranger the details. Ranger always assumed it had something to do with Mercedes’ life prior to becoming a street racer.

“Just have him call me when you see him again,” Ranger said and hung up.