The Woke and the Dead – Mark S. Bacon
CHAPTER 43
Lyle listened to Jim Croce singing “Time in a Bottle” as he accelerated.
He wanted to get to the barbecue early to make it easier to meet people as they
arrived. Apparently, a handful of other guys had a similar idea.
Lyle parked in front of a broad
adobe Southwest territorial style home. A gravel drive led around the side of
the house and continued through heavy oak gates opened wide. Brick-bordered
cactus gardens connected by narrow gravel paths circled the backyard that
covered a half acre or more. In the middle, conversation groups of teak tables
and chairs, shaded by umbrellas, surrounded a curving, lighted swimming pool.
At the far side of the pool, a
clutch of five men in casual clothes stood talking near a fire pit. As Lyle
approached, his shoes crunching on the gravel, they all looked up and the
conversation ebbed. The words, “I mean it, man,” died in the air.
“C’mere Lyle.” The guy Lyle
remembered as Ed, the wild Suburban driver, motioned to him.
Lyle recognized Wylie, the
supervisor—and dead shot—from the shooting range. The man extended his hand.
“Lyle, I’m Wylie,” he said with his
dimpled-chin smile. “We owe you a thanks for your quick thinking to help save
Bobby’s life. Saved him from his own carelessness.”
“Jake and Ed helped. Took all of us
to get him treated.”
“Glad you could make it here
tonight,” Wiley said. “You can meet the guys and find out about us. And about
our mission for the country.”
“That’s why I’m here.” Lyle studied
Wylie’s face, wondering if his name was an appropriate adjective.
“We tol’ him some about CB,” Ed
added.
Wylie pointed to a galvanized tub
loaded with ice and beer in bottles. “Help yourself, Lyle.”
Floodlights along the edge of the
house and around a ramada next to a large, smoking barbecue supplemented the
setting sun. Lyle looked at the three other men in the group and introduced
himself. For a moment he forgot where he was. The clink of glasses, the smell
of meat searing on the grill, the light shimmering on the pool surface made him
imagine a barbecue with guys who might be in the same bowling league, softball
team, or Kiwanis Club. But they were hate group members, possibly killers. He
tried to remember the faces.
Lyle wandered to the ice tub and
helped himself. He planned to circulate and collect information—casually. His
back to the fire pit, he set his beer bottle on a table. He pulled out his
phone and, pretending to do something innocuous, he took several pictures of
the group. Enlarged, the photos might provide decent mug shots.
“Keeping up on Instagram?” a voice
behind him said.
Lyle lowered his phone and turned
it off in one motion. “Hey, Jake. You just come from work?” Lyle pointed to his
shirt and tie.
“Yeah, working late on specs for a
new commercial development. Citizens are worried about more traffic.”
Lyle turned halfway round, looking
at the grounds. “This is a beautiful place.”
“Wylie does all right. So you took
the invitation to come.”
“I’m interested in the Cadre Brave
and would like to know more. What are you guys concerned about?”
“I guess concerned is a good way to describe the group.”
“So help me understand. What’s
wrong with the country? What does Cadre Brave want to change?” Lyle picked up
his beer and held it in front of him.
“It’s like what Ed and I said the
other day. We want to maintain American values. They’re slipping away. The
values that our forefathers fought and died for. You think George Washington
fought so drag queens could read books to students?”
Yes,
exactly. He helped guarantee freedom of self expression. “Did they have
drag queens then? The guys did all wear wigs.”
“Seriously, it’s what our heritage
represents,” Jake said. “But today, values and priorities are shifting. Back in
Washington and here.
“Look, I’m not a racist, but can’t you see how our cities,
our culture, are being diluted by the mass of immigrants, illegals?
Karen thanks for hosting my book.
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