Ace of Spades XXX, the Final Installment: a micro-novel by Brian Powell

Acceptance

It may have been 10 at night, but the day’s heat was still trapped in the Phoenix concrete. It was 101 degrees. The air was stagnant. It was not supposed to feel like this without the sun shining, especially on the first day of October.

Quinn turned on the local jazz station. He always liked the voice of the DJ who would provide a little background and context before playing the song. Quinn wondered how old she was and what she looked like. When you become familiar with a voice, especially one like hers, it’s natural to want to know a little more.

Quinn knew it would be easy to find out everything he wanted to know. But did he really want to? In today’s world, one can find out pretty much anything in an instant. If a fun debate erupts at dinner, a phone can provide the answer. The mystery is short-lived. Is that a good or bad thing, Quinn wondered.

For years, he resisted typing the DJ’s name. She remained a mystery, that voice coming through his radio, penetrating the Phoenix heat with her talk of Miles Davis and Thelonious Monk and Harry “Sweets” Edison. He realized in this instance he liked the unknown and could imagine her however he wanted.

Quinn began to wonder whether perhaps ignorance was bliss. Maybe life would be more enjoyable by staying in the dark and not paying attention and tuning out those trying to shed light on the world.

Why question those people and institutions with great reputations? Why seek out more information than is being offered to you? You are not supposed to know what a DJ looks like. Perhaps the face is pretty, but what if it’s not? There is no going back. You cannot erase the image from your mind. If you believe that Bob Dylan is right and all the truth in the world adds up to one big lie, you cannot return to the version of the truth you once thought was reality.

The sociopaths in the world like Dominic DeSimone are out there and can fool anyone. Quinn smiled at the memory of the original conversation in Shady’s that got him into this mess in the first place. Now he wondered why more people didn’t see it, including himself before he started getting dizzy, his head and ears full of pressure and his whole world tilting off balance.

Quinn remembered the days when he admired his bosses, when he liked his job and what the Institute stood for in the community. He wanted to go back to those days. But that was all in the past. There was no reason to dwell on it.

The summer had been hot and brutal with no break in the heat in the four months since Hugh Quinn went into the Phoenix police headquarters and told them a story about an unknown man approaching him at the Rhythm Room and following him until he kidnapped him.

The man was quickly identified by his Garfield neighbors, who were shocked at his actions. Quinn heard the man was likely to take a plea deal to avoid a trial. The media stories were plentiful but remained on a superficial level.

Using the trauma as an excuse, Quinn took an immediate leave of absence from the Institute for Arizona’s Common Good. Despite solid support from Institute leaders, Quinn chose to resign, saying he was ready to explore new options and perhaps open his own consulting firm with Lana.

The release of the Garfield Streetcar report was a smashing success. Next week, its backers would gather along the route for a neighborhood celebration.

That October morning was beautiful. A cold front swept through, and the season was changing to one of pleasant, sunny days. The corner had turned and optimism was in the air. Such is the cycle of life in Phoenix.

Quinn stood toward the back of the celebration as speaker after speaker praised this new era in the history of the Garfield neighborhood. DeSimone and Garcia represented the Institute well, Quinn had to admit.

Angelica Winslow, touting public transportation and neighborhood gentrification, said she would be introducing a funding bill for the Garfield Streetcar during the next legislative session. The crowd erupted in applause.

“What an amazing way to honor the history of the Garfield neighborhood while setting it on a path to preserve its unlimited future,” Sen. Winslow said.

Fr. Patrick McSorley, who received the largest ovation of all, said this project would transform the lives of all the residents of Garfield and those yet to discover this special slice of Phoenix.

“Hey, Hugh, what are you doing here?” asked a familiar voice.

Benjamin Biers walked up and shook his hand. The two had spoken sparingly over the past several months. Quinn thought Biers was disappointed that he allowed the cover-up to happen, but Biers had never questioned his friend’s motives.

He told Quinn how the condemnation proceedings for his property had begun. Biers didn’t like their offer and didn’t think his house was essential for the project, but he knew it was probably a done deal.

“Maybe I should’ve taken the cash in the first place and smiled and thanked them for their offer,” Biers said.

The men shared a laugh.

“Hey, Benjamin, now was not the time,” Quinn said.

“I know.”

When the speeches were over, DeSimone started walking around and shaking hands. He caught Quinn’s eyes and smiled. The message was clear: “I won.” Quinn conceded with a nod.

As Quinn returned to his central Phoenix condo, he felt a strange sensation. The room was still, and his head and ears were not full of pressure. The vertigo that had taught him to see the truth, past the lies and spin that bombard society every day, could not be felt. He had indeed seen, and even accepted, the truth. Quinn sat there for a minute in complete silence, absorbing the internal peace that had eluded him for so long.

He walked to the kitchen table and grabbed the Ace of Spades and returned it to its deck.

____________________________________________________________________

Start reading what started it all: Ace of Spades I

Ace of Spades XXIX: a micro-novel by Brian Powell

Confession

Quinn looked back and saw an elderly woman walking her dog toward the tunnel.

“What about her?” Quinn asked.

As DeSimone and Marco turned around to look, Quinn sprinted in the direction of the woman and dog and kept running toward the small bridge that crossed over the canal. From the other side, he saw Marco walking toward him to not draw the attention of the woman. Quinn looked up at the Wrigley Mansion on the hill above the canal and ran toward the steep, winding road that led to the former chewing gum magnate’s home that was now a popular place for Sunday brunch and cocktails at sunset.

DeSimone put a hand on Garcia’s shoulder. “Roberto, let’s go.”

Quinn looked back toward the tunnel, and the man was now sprinting over the bridge. Quinn left the road and started climbing the grass hill toward the mansion. He could now see a few souls braving the heat on the patio enjoying their Sunday brunch. He circled to the far side of the mansion and saw two helicopters flying his way. Quinn climbed until he reached the patio area just off the main entrance, where smiling, well-dressed families were valeting their cars and walking up the stairs to the large front door of the elegant, Spanish-style mansion. As he stared out at Camelback Mountain, Quinn was waving his arms at the helicopters that were approaching then turned around as they flew overhead.

As Marco made the final turn on the winding road, he spotted Quinn and kept walking toward him. Quinn sprinted into the main entrance and past the hostess up the lobby’s grand, winding staircase to the empty second-floor rooms. As the man started climbing the staircase, loud voices shouted at him to stop. He turned around, and four Phoenix police officers used his hesitation to close in and tackle the man among the screams from the families below.

Quinn turned back around and, after seeing the police, came back toward the stairs.

“Are you OK?” an officer asked.

“Yes. I’m fine.”

A few moments later, Fr. McSorley and Lana walked through the door. Lana was crying, but Fr. McSorley looked far different than this morning. He seemed relaxed and at peace.

“Hugh, are you OK?”

“I’m fine, Lana,” Hugh said while embracing his girlfriend. “They got him.”

“I’m sorry, Hugh,” Fr. McSorley said.

Quinn just looked at him but didn’t know what to say.

The man was placed in handcuffs and put in the back of a police car. Fr. McSorley offered to drive Quinn and Lana to the police station for Quinn to be interviewed. He opened their doors for them, but first he told them he needed to keep their cell phones in the glove compartment. The second police car followed them to the main downtown Phoenix police headquarters.

Fr. McSorley started talking the moment they began their winding descent down the Wrigley Mansion road and didn’t stop until they reached their destination.

“Hugh, first I would like to apologize for what has happened to you today. You have entered a nasty part of the world that fortunately few people ever experience. Otherwise, those running the world would never get away with the things they do.

“I knew what was going to happen to you today and was told not to stop it. I was too afraid to do the right thing. I want you and Lana to know the truth.”

“What are you going to tell the police, Fr. McSorley?” Quinn asked.

“I am going to say I saw a parishioner in distress who said her boyfriend had just been kidnapped. I was shocked that could happen during any Mass. I offered to drive her around so we could find the bastard that took him. We followed the helicopters and police cars and ended up at the Wrigley Mansion. If you weren’t here, we decided we could use the spot to look over the city and follow the choppers.”

“But you knew exactly where I was coming, didn’t you?” Quinn said.

“I didn’t say that,” the priest answered.

“What is that man going to tell police?”

“He will mention no names beyond his own. That is part of his deal and compensation. He’ll admit to only what the police know—following you and kidnapping you. He’ll say he saw you in the Garfield neighborhood and thought you were responsible for buying up the neighborhood where his friends live. Sure, he went to great and perhaps illegal lengths, but he just wanted to talk to you and he was determined to do so. You have been in the Garfield neighborhood, haven’t you, Hugh?”

“Then why did he take me to the same tunnel where you were attacked?”

“After hearing about it on the news, it seemed like a good place to have a private conversation. Perhaps he wanted to scare you a little bit but he was never going to hurt you. He just wanted you to stop. If they ask, he’ll say he’s never seen me in my life. If I’m asked, I’ll say the same.”

Quinn said: “I’m going to tell the police everything. I will implicate all of you. Lana is my witness to this entire conversation.”

“And how are you going to prove anything?”

“What about this thug’s communication with Garcia and DeSimone?”

“Throw-away phones. I’m sure Marco ditched his latest one in the canal. It’s long gone now. Did you ever see him with Garcia and DeSimone?”

“Just now I did.”

“I’m sure DeSimone and Garcia will deny being anywhere near the canal. And then it’s your word against two highly respected men leading a highly respected think tank who have a lot of friends in high places and are about to be heroes for their proposed investment in Phoenix’s forgotten neighborhood. To the police, you could just be a disgruntled employee with an ax to grind.”

“But I have a friend who could identify this man. And the fact he gave me the ‘Death Card.’”

“So? So could an entire church, if they look past the beard, and everyone at the Wrigley Mansion. It doesn’t change a thing. The man kidnapped you; the fact you received a threatening card pales in comparison.”

“And the Four Aces. I know all about that.”

“Go ahead, Hugh. The group is doing nothing illegal. And if the police press hard enough, they’ll eventually talk to a California investor who saw this as a great opportunity to buy up property near a booming downtown. He’ll be surprised and thrilled to hear about the streetcar report.”

Quinn could see they have prepped for every possible situation. It was as solid as the Garfield Streetcar report itself. He had a choice to make when he went into the police station—lay out his entire theory and the presence of DeSimone and Garcia at the canal or just talk about the man following him from the Rhythm Room to the Hotel Clarendon to Santa Croce.

“Is this the same man that attacked you, Father?”

“I assume so. I was attacked one day after I called DeSimone and told him I was having second thoughts. DeSimone agreed to meet me on the canal. He sent a goon instead to make sure I didn’t feel the need to confess to someone. It’s true; I felt a little guilt when I saw what was happening to the families. But I also worried about getting caught, that someone on the inside like you or an enterprising reporter or even someone at the diocese would get suspicious if I started spending money. I was beginning to wonder if it was worth it. Today, they usually prefer not to deal with me, but I’m still a member of Four Aces and I know to keep my mouth shut, not counting this confession of course. And for that, I’ll be rewarded.

“I learned my lesson, Hugh. I have no other choice. That’s why I’m telling you the truth now. I don’t want you to make the same mistake.”

“One more question, Father.”

“Sure.”

“Are you working with Benjamin Biers?”

“No. He brought you in all on his own, looking for a partner to fight the good fight. You guys made a good team from what I hear. Too bad you are going to come up a little short.”

____________________________________________________________________

Start reading from the beginning: Ace of Spades I