CHAPTER FOUR

Malik raised the steaming cup of coffee to his lips and blew on it, spilling some of the dark, murky liquid onto the newspaper below. His nerves were shot. This was the day. Two months of intensive planning was finally coming to a culmination. It was not so much what he had to do that bothered him, but the question of whether he could successfully pull it off. He instinctively understood that even the most intricate plan had at least a dozen unforeseen pitfalls, and if this one failed, there would never be a second chance. He refused to consider the fact that his life was also on the line. He was a soldier, a soldier in the crusade for justice. The possibility of losing his life had been well thought out and accepted. He knew this was right. What was it brother Malcolm had said, "By any means necessary!"

He began looking through the newspapers searching for anything about Branford Amsley. As he browsed through the entertainment section, another article caught his eye. It was a piece on the singer, Marshall Garnett. A sinister smile captured his normally stoic features. Marshall Garnett, the epitome of the black bourgeoisie. Rich, successful and totally alienated from the struggling black masses who put him where he was in the first place. Brothers like him would have to be dealt with before the struggle was over, but for now…Bradford Amsley was the target. He did not see anything contrary to what he expected about the speech Amsley was scheduled to give at the Diplomat Hotel tonight. He was certain if there had been any cancellation or change of plans it would have been in the morning news. It was a definite go.

He jumped slightly as soft, slender arms slid down his pajama clad shoulders and began massaging his chest. The woman's kisses started at the back of his ears finding their way down his neck until they finally reached his lips. He pulled away and turned to face the sleepy eyed woman.

"Oh, it's like that, huh?"

Malik made another attempt at his coffee, this time he succeeded in spite of the erotic touch of her body as she continued massaging his broad shoulders. The feel of her swollen nipples caused a quickening in his loins, but he quickly blocked it out.

"You want some breakfast or something…maybe some eggs and sausage?" she asked softly.

"No…I'll get something at work."

"How about a fresh pot of coffee?"

"Naw…can't seem to handle the petroleum pudding this morning. I seem to keep spilling it."

He stole a quick glance at her as she walked away. He knew that remark stung. In truth, she was a better than average cook, it was just that she had never mastered the art of making a decent cup of coffee. On any other occasion it would have been considered an inside joke between the two of them and they would have enjoyed a good laugh, but today was not like other days. In fact, after today, no day would ever be the same for them again.

He had been with many women in his thirty-three years on this earth, but had never come close to feeling what he felt for Dolores Colon, affectionately known as Dee. When he had met her two years ago, she was three months pregnant and dancing topless at a local DC bar. He had to make at least seven trips to the sleazy shit hole before he could convince her to go out and have a cup of coffee with him. They hit it off right away. For some reason unknown to him even to this day, she was attracted to him. She poured out her heart to him on their second date, explaining to him that she was pregnant by a previous boyfriend who had been killed while selling crack. They soon discovered they were sexually and emotionally compatible, and he moved in with her three weeks later. They had never been apart since. The only drawback was the fact that she was Puerto Rican. He had long ago committed himself to dating only black women, but she had been an exception to that rule and he had never regretted his decision. He had adopted her son and called him Latif, refusing to acknowledge his given name, Leon. He was determined to give the kid a decent life.

Dee stopped and turned in the middle of the kitchen, her long slender fingers perched firmly on each side of her full hips. Her face was tight, a sure sign that her Latin temper was straining to erupt.

"Look, Malik…things are tough enough without you acting like a little child just because I couldn't make love this morning…I mean you're leaving here today to go and do God knows what…I mean, damn it, Papi, give me a break…I'm trying to make our last morning nice, you know?"

Malik stared up at her. "It wasn't that you couldn't, you didn't want to." Malik finished his mug of coffee and did his best to tear his eyes away from the dark triangle in the center of her pink panties that stared mockingly back at him.

"Look baby, I'm on my period, OK…I don't like to make love at that time of the month…you know that…why in the hell are you giving me a hard time about this?"

"You know I'm gonna be gone for a while…I needed you this morning…you let me down." She became hysterical. He jumped to his feet and embraced her. He had not realized he had pushed her that far. "OK baby, calm down…calm down Dee…I'm in check…come on baby, chill now, just chill."

They stood that way for long moments just holding each other, attempting to find some balance, that center of calm they had always managed to find in each other's arms. The wet warmness of her tears cascaded down onto his chest.

"Malik…what's going to happen to us…I'm scared…what if you don't come back. Malik I need to know something about what's going on…something to hold on to …please!"

Malik kissed her eyes and then her cheeks. It was at that moment that he realized he loved her. He had never loved any woman he had ever been with, but he loved Dee, at least he wanted to love her. He was certain of his affection for Latif.

"Look baby, the less you know about what's going on the better off you'll be…trust me." He pulled her away from him and looked deeply into her luminous brown eyes. "Look, I want you to know one thing, I…I love you, Dee…I love you and Latif and ain't nothing on God's green earth going to stop me from coming back to you and my son…I swear this. If there is such a thing as a God, I swear it on him baby."

Dolores poured herself a cup of coffee with unsteady hands. She had never really cared for the beverage, but she needed something for her jangled nerves. She sat across from Malik, blowing gently into the steaming cup, lost in thought. When she finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper. "Malik…maybe you can help me understand something?"

Malik looked up. "Sure baby, what's that?"

You know you're only the second man I've ever been involved with, at least…I mean…a real serious involvement, you know like…love and all that."

"Yeah?"

Dolores laugh was self-conscious with a brittle edge.

"Well…you're going to think I'm bugging…or crazy…but it's something I've noticed about men for a long time and I have just never understood it…I mean, like anything that has to be done around the house, the shopping, paying the bills and even advice about most things that are important to you…I'm number one…I know for a fact you would not even attempt most things without my input or advice."

"So…what are you trying to say?"

Dolores looked directly into his eyes.

"So Malik, why is it that men always make this big thing about being in charge…you know, like what you just said…the less I know the better off I'll be and all that crap as though I serve a secondary function in your life…when the truth is I'm the one who makes most of the decisions…its like that in most families…you know, men playing king of the mountain when women actually run the show…when are men going to wake up and cut that shit out? It would make for much healthier relationships!"

Malik sat back stunned. What in the hell was she talking about? He did not have time to deal with this feminist garbage. Not today anyway. He was not sure how he should answer her, but he knew he had to say something.

"Look Dee…I don't understand where you're coming from with all this women's lib shit…maybe we'll get a chance to get into it at another time, OK? I've got to get ready to go. You have everything written down, right?…the bank account numbers and that P.O. box where you're to write me in case of an emergency?"

Dolores made a halfhearted attempt at the coffee. She seemed unnaturally depressed, almost deflated. She did not look at him. "Yes, Malik…I've got everything. Listen, its almost Christmas, don't you have any idea how long you'll be gone?"

"No…I don't…listen, you've got to be strong for me, baby…I promise you, it won't be more than two months…I'll write. The only problem is that there won't be any return address. I gotta go and get dressed now."

He reached over and kissed the woman on the forehead and walked out of the kitchen. Dolores heard him open the creaky door to Latif's bedroom. The same squeaky door he had promised to fix over four months ago. No real problem, she knew where the oilcan was. He had not understood a word she was trying to say about women actually running things. There was no way that men were as foolish as they appeared to be…no, it was just not possible!

Malik reached down and kissed his sleeping son, careful not to wake him. He knew someday the boy would learn of what he was to do on this day…how would he judge him? Did it really matter? A man did what he had to do. It was as simple and yet as complex as that. He dressed quickly.

Dolores did not leave her seat at the table as he opened the door. He did not like gushy farewells. They stared at each other as he stood in the opened doorway. Finally she smiled and offered a weak wave.

Malik walked out. Dolores took another sip of the coffee and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She did not like the salt-like taste of tears mingled with coffee. One thing was certain, she was not the only woman who had tasted that strange brew.

Malik could actually feel his pores close as he watched the cold, swirling winds blow the trash and papers that dotted the sidewalk into miniature tornadoes. He loved Washington, D.C. It was not only because it had a majority black population. The city had a strange chemistry about it, a curious mixture of north and south with a gentle edge to it. It was the seat of government for the United States and one always had the feeling that anything was possible under the right circumstances, totally unlike New York and Chicago that had long since transformed themselves into ravenous monoliths. Each time a new president was elected, it felt like a new broom sweeping the city clean with the promise of change. Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse, but always there was change. That was one of the reasons he had never been for self-government for the city. To him, that would only make the city a carbon copy of other large cities--dirty, poor and totally unmanageable. Now if the Reagan and Bush administrations were any indication of the coming trend, you could also add largely forgotten. Either way, blacks and other minorities were out.

He glanced around at what was his community, a fading collection of huge old apartment buildings with scattered brownstones, anchored at most corners by gas stations and churches. The government's lone contribution was a neighborhood post office that sat uncomfortably between a check cashing service and a known crack house. At 8:15 a.m., the street was alive with the sounds of school kids waiting on buses and Asian businessmen sweeping the front of their Chinese restaurants. He looked at the kids as he walked. They were so naïve. All they thought about was rap music and the latest video. Raging hormones made the seemingly innocent games they played with each other at the bleak, windswept bus stops far more insidious than they appeared. He thought of something he had once read…something Karl Marx, the father of communism, had once written about religion being the opiate for the masses. In his opinion, it needed to be updated for black American youth with music being substituted for religion.

The more he thought of it the more he realized he could not blame the kids. They were children of the media just as surely as they were the children of their own blood parents. They knew little if anything of their own history. They grew up on a steady diet of music, movies and clothes and nearly every facet of their daily lives had been influenced by visual and audible programming. They were thoroughly and methodically brainwashed. He himself had almost fallen into that trap. If it were not for the special circumstances in his background that allowed him to break free and pursue the truth, he would have been just like them.

The last five years of his life had been a period of study and deep contemplation about who and what he was. He felt a sense of shame that it had taken nearly twenty-eight years of his life before he finally understood where he stood in the scheme of things in his own native country. The white European male, who dominated politics and determined the social fabric of this country, was never going to give him his just do…his right to be a man with the same dignity and rights they enjoyed. In the entire history of this country, they had never given anything away. Anything obtained from them had to be taken. As a man, he understood that and had decided so be it. What they misunderstood about him, and all black American men, was that they evolved from a people that had survived the most intolerable and inhumane form of slavery the modern world had ever known. They had destroyed the black family, but they had underestimated the inbred warrior spirit of the people they had enslaved. Like all men, African American men understood war, and Malik had no doubt that this is what the black man in America had to engage in to be free. Martin Luther King, Jr. had tried peace, the Ghandi approach, and look what it had gotten him.

Malik had become so absorbed in his thoughts had not realized he was coming into Dupont Circle. He looked at the entrance to the restaurant and felt a tightness in his chest. He was not afraid, just concerned that he might botch the job. This was the first solo project that he had ever been involved in. If he made a mistake, there would be no second chance and no help.

The restaurant had at the most ten customers. The early morning breakfast crowd had come and gone and the only sounds in the place were the breakfast dishes as the waiters cleared the tables and made their way to the kitchen with tired eyes and sour expressions. Nene Brewster, the daytime manager, looked over at Malik. He brushed past her with an over the shoulder "hello." He walked into the dressing room and began changing from his jeans into the modified penguin suit they made the help wear. The room was empty. He carefully took the towel wrapped object from his pocket and placed it onto a shelf at the bottom of his locker. He sensed someone or something watching him and turned to see the hulking form of Nene staring at him from the doorway. He attempted to ignore the woman and continued pulling up his uniform pants.

The entire plan had been practically airtight. The one thing that had not been taken into consideration was the fact that he would have to screw this horny amazon. She was the one who had interviewed him for the job and accepted his shady references. He was almost forced to go along with whatever she wanted. He was working under an assumed name, false social security number and a fictitious address. When he had first met the woman, he was almost certain she was a lesbian, but the dick crazy slut had him in her bed before he had received his first paycheck.

"Good morning, brother Malik!" Malik's mind raced. He did not feel like dealing with Nene today, but he could not risk getting fired either. He decided to play her game. The coarse nasal tone of her voice had always irritate him, he gritted his teeth and tried to be pleasant.

"Good morning, Ms. Brewster…anything special you want me to do today?" Nene strode into the room. Her anger was obvious by the tight expression she displayed in her face.

"Good morning, Ms. Brewster…my ass! "Why haven't you called me, Malik?"

Malik was offended by the way she had used a falsetto voice to mock him. The bitch was pushing it! "What's up…baby girl?" The woman stood over him, glaring down at him. "Motherfucker, don't play with me…what the fuck you mean what's up? You don't come get my pussy and just drop me like some bar ho. I'm a respectable woman. I make enough money to buy and sell your black ass and still have change left over…I don't need this shit!"

Malik stood up. He fought a screaming impulse to deck the ignorant bitch but that would have ruined all his plans. He exhaled and turned to face the woman, forcing a smile. Too much was at stake. "Hey Nene…I explained to you when this thing first went down…I have a lady that I live with and it could never be more than an occasional thing…what do you want from me?"

"You could have called or something…we need to talk about this shit!" "Malik saw his way out.

"You know what? You're right…we do need to talk about this. How about tonight…say 9 or 9:30?"

"No, how about 8:00 sharp? I'm not hanging around the house waiting for some nigger that might not show…I've got a life, you know!"

Nene had a strange look in her eyes. It was almost primal, like a hurt, wounded animal. He decided not to antagonize her any further…hell, she stood six one and two hundred plus. She would be something to deal with if she decided to get physical and with Nene Brewster anything was possible. He walked up to the irate woman and placed his arm around her ample waist, feeling a slight tinge of disgust as he felt the soft spare tire that she tried to conceal with her oversized sweater.

"Deal…baby, 8:00 sharp."

"You better be there, Malik!" Malik smiled. At 8:00 p.m., he would be somewhere in Connecticut, at one of the safe houses the group provided for members on the run.

"Well Nene…er…I'd better get on the floor and start setting up."

Nene suddenly turned business like. "Yeah, maybe you'd better. We've got an important party planned for this afternoon."

"A party?" Malik knew very well whom the party was for. He only hoped there had been no change in plans. "A party for who?"

"I swear to God, Malik, I don't know where your mind is at sometimes…you know, the party for…what's his face…that white shit head that ran for governor of Utah…you know that racist ex Klan guy…what's his name, Branford something or other?"

"Branford Amsley!" replied Malik.

Nene stared at Malik with a curious expression. "Oh, you keep up with all that political stuff?"

Malik had slipped. He would have to be more careful. The first person the authorities would question would be Nene. It was important that she knew nothing.

"Oh no, baby. I'm not into that political trip at all, but you know…they run that shit in the papers every day…how he was an ex Klan man and now he's the Governor Elect of Utah…you know how white folks trip on that kind of shit…you can't help but know about it…it's in your face every day."

The rest of the morning in the restaurant was more or less uneventful. There was the quiet hustle of setting up for the big party in the afternoon and the sharp-witted banter between the waiters and kitchen help. Malik, being a busboy, seldom joined in. He was considered by most of the regular workers as a weirdo and that was exactly the kind of image he had tried to cultivate. As he worked, he looked the place over. He was almost certain how he was going to do what he had to do, but he had to be sure. There was no margin for error.

He glanced up at the restaurant's large ornate clock. It read 11:50. He quietly slipped away from the rest of the workers and made his way to the men's dressing room. The restaurant was rapidly filling up with the lunch hour crowd so no one missed his absence. He eased open his locker and carefully looked around before he slipped down and picked up the small tan package that contained the partially broken glass. It was the one he had stolen from the restaurant three weeks earlier and given to his cell leader, who had returned it to him a couple of days ago. He had been instructed to be extremely careful with it and under no circumstances to allow himself to be pricked by its jagged edge. He carefully removed the thick cloth and cut the brown paper wrapping. He placed the scissors on top of his locker and carefully inspected the jagged tip. He could see nothing unusual, no discoloration or strange odors. He decided to just hold the glass down by his side and walk back into the main room. He could not take the risk of hiding it on his body and being accidentally stuck by the damn thing. If by some small chance someone questioned him about the glass, he could easily say he had just broken it and was throwing it away. What was it they always said, the best plan was the most simple one. Malik walked past the kitchen and into the main room. It was noisy and getting crowded. He was surprised…he could actually hear the beating of his heart through all that racket.

Branford Amsley strolled casually into The Minuteman Inn. He was flanked by two of his long time deputies and two professional bodyguards. Malik observed the group closely. He recognized the two assistants. They were in almost every picture or press conference that Amsley attended. Pure suits, career lower level politicians that were with Amsley as long as his star was on the rise. The moment he went down, they would be like the proverbial rats that deserted the sinking ship. No physical threat there. The other two were more interesting, large, beefy types, perhaps retired wrestlers or people of that ilk. The two large men looked carefully around the restaurant and their cheap suits did little to conceal the obvious bulge that indicated the fact that they were armed.

This was Malik's first up close look at his hated adversary, and he had to admit that he was an impressive looking man, tall, dirty blonde and white folks handsome. He appeared to be in his late forties and in good shape, as though he worked out frequently. Two things stood out in sharp contrast to his overall body image. He had soft, gentle eyes overlapped by the longest lashes that Malik had ever seen on a man and small, almost feminine hands. Those two appendages appeared as though they belonged to another body.

The Minuteman Inn was a large restaurant that specialized in American cuisine. Nothing fancy or trendy was to be found on its simple yet pricey menu. They were also out to take your money, but by God, you could bet your last savings bond it would be with good, old fashioned American food. Once inside the flower lined foyer, the place took on the shape of a half moon with a dark brown and orange color scheme generously sprinkled throughout with plants. Pictures of all the Presidents lined the walls and the tablecloths were replicas of the striped portion of the American flag. It was not considered a four star restaurant by any stretch of the imagination but had managed to become extremely popular by word of mouth with mid-level government employees. The menu was basic steak and potatoes served by neatly dressed waiters at four star prices.

Branford and his associates were shown to their table by Nene. They milled around the table sampling hors d'oeuvre and drinking beer. Minutes later they were joined by three other men, all middle class straight-laced types. Malik was beginning to think it was going be some sort of stag party until a group of seven women approached Nene asking for the Amsley party. Malik watched the group closely, waiting for his chance.

Kandi Marin pushed her liquor cart slowly down the carpeted aisle. She stopped every few minutes or so to glance at her order sheet before placing the drinks onto the quickly filling tables. She hated this damn job! She was a junior at Georgetown and every table she waited and glass she filled was taking her one step closer to her degree in economics. This goal was the only thing that enabled her to put up with the whole screwed up scene. Then she would show these gringo assholes who looked past her as though she was part of the wallpaper! Kandi was a large woman with Mexican features who wore a permanent dour expression that suggested she had never had a pleasant experience in her life. Her long, dark lifeless hair draped a mean face that was a perfect indicator of her social life. Nonexistent! Nothing exciting ever seemed to happen to Kandi. She had never had a boyfriend and even had a difficult time maintaining friendships with her female classmates. She did not trust people or even like them.

Branford felt great. The only way he could have felt better would be if he had just been elected President of the United States instead of the governor of Utah. If Branford was nothing else, he was a realist. His whole political life was based on the fact that he was a pragmatic politician. Sure, the hotheads knocked him and said he had gone soft and lost the ideals that he had embraced as a young Klansman, but they had not understood how the game was played. That was the reason he was now the Governor Elect of a state while the majority of the men he had started out with were still leading rallies of twenty to thirty misfits and getting beat up and arrested in every piss ass little burg in the country. He realized that a chance for national office was probably out of his reach forever thanks to the left leaning, Jew controlled media. He also understood that there were still pockets of the country where a man of his qualifications and beliefs could flourish, and so he had sought them out and planted his roots.

Amsley turned and looked over the table. The strong steady gaze of Mary Ann Thompson met his. They both smiled as their collective minds raced furtively through the hidden dust bin of their shared secret. Mary Ann was a lobbyist for the tobacco industry, one of the most powerful groups in DC. She had been one of his earliest supporters after his move to Utah, as well as a great organizer and diligent and tireless campaigner. She also had been his lover for the last ten years. Amsley had only recently become aware of the fact that her grandmother was a Jew. A fact she had never revealed to him in spite of countless hours of pillow talk. He had been deeply disappointed. He loved her in his own special way, but he loved power more. He had not come this far to jeopardize his career because of an illicit affair with a Jew. The Birchers and the ultra right would be merciless. No, he could never survive such exposure. In his mind, the matter was settled. The only question now was how to handle it.

Amsley glanced around the restaurant, occasionally joining in on the lightweight banter around the table but basically lost in his own thoughts. He noticed all the restaurant staff that he could see was black or Hispanic. He often wondered to himself why it was that the minorities could never be content. There was absolutely no need for all the racial discord that was currently ravaging the country. After all, every intelligent, well-read person knew that Shockley was right…they WERE genetically inferior. The man was a Nobel Prize winner, what more proof could reasonable folks want? He really felt in his heart that he did not hate blacks, after all his entire household staff were Negroes…they just had to understand their position in the scheme of things. The damn liberals had sold them a dream that could never be fulfilled.

Malik's and Kandi's carts were almost completely opposite each other now. Malik took one last look at the ruddy face politician before he moved himself into position. He eased the broken piece of glass into his left hand and mentally made an estimate of how far he had to fall to make sure that he jabbed the piece of glass into the man's leg in one fluid movement. He would not get another chance. Kandi moved the cart along slowly until the wheels were almost touching. Amsley was distracted, holding the hand of an attractive blonde woman. The rest of the table was busy drinking and munching tidbits from the table…the timing was perfect, it was now or never. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Malik slammed his weight against the two carts and both he and Kandi tumbled down in front of Amsley's table.

Malik could only catch bits and pieces of the entire incident…the startled expression on Kandi's face…the surprise then horror on Amsley's face as he leaped to his feet falling into his female companion. It seemed like an eternity as Malik lay at the man's feet staring at his highly polished loafers and black socks before he jammed the deadly piece of glass into Amsley's heel.

Suddenly, sound and motion returned to normal. The restaurant was mass pandemonium! One of Amsley's bodyguards ran up to him screaming, his face red and contorted. "What in the hell is wrong with you, boy…how in the fuck did you let this happen?" The man shoved Malik. He smelled of beer and sprayed tiny streams of spittle in his face. Malik was elated at the fact he had pulled it off.

"Go get some first aid…a kit or something…go on, boy, go get somebody, the governor's been cut on his leg!"

Malik peered over his shoulder at the seated Amsley. His female blonde companion was kneeling and removing his shoes and socks. She looked anxiously at the cut then appeared to relax. She reached up and rubbed his arm as though reassuring a small child. "Its OK everybody, its only a small cut, he'll be OK." The lunch hour crowd that had gathered began to slowly drift away seemingly disappointed that it was not something tragic so that they could return to work and brag about having been there. Amsley seemed to calm down and the color returned to his face. Someone handed him a glass of brandy.

"You all go and sit down now…I'm OK…we've got a party going on here, now let's act like it…I'm OK." Amsley took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. The group broke into nervous laughter, as several of them walked by and patted his shoulder.

Nene burst through the dwindling group. She glared at Malik and Kandi then walked directly up to Governor Amsley. "Sir…are you all right?…Governor…what happened?" Malik took advantage of the lull in the excitement and raced into the kitchen to get a broom, dustpan and small wastebasket from the bathroom. It was imperative that he retrieved the treated piece of glass before the real action took place. He eased his way back through the crowd and began sweeping the splintered piece of glass. He spotted the crucial piece just opposite Amsley's chair. He hesitated. It might not be a good idea to draw much attention to him…but he had to have that piece of glass.

He eased over to the table trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. He quickly scanned the glass at the point of entry. He could make out only a few drops of blood, but he was sure it had done the job. He dropped it into the basket and quickly shoveled up the small pile of remaining glass. Timing was now of paramount importance. It was time to put the second phase of his plan into effect. He did not have to wait long to implement it. Nene stormed up to him, her face a mask of cold fury.

"Malik…I need to see you in my office…"

Malik reached down to pick up the basket. He could feel the hard stares and hear assorted murmurs from the governor's table behind him. He did not look back as he followed Nene through the small crowd. He did not bother to pick up the broom and dustpan…his work here was completed.

Nene propped herself up on the edge of her desk. Her face was flushed and Malik could see she was fully prepared to administer the full weight of her authority as harshly as she could. It might have mattered to some poor slob who gave a shit about the job, but Malik had no intention of going through any of the woman's bullshit, besides he only had minutes to get the hell out of the place before Amsley experienced the expected reaction.

"Look baby, I'm outta here!" Nene eyes widened and her jaw dropped. "And just where the hell do you think you're going?"

Malik stood in the doorway and yanked the shirt out of his pants as he turned to face the woman.

"Look Nene…I know I fucked up…I mean this man is the Governor Elect and this was a very important function for the restaurant…I also understand that this is going to cause you a lot of problems so I'm going to do us both a favor and save a lot of time…I quit!…I mean the shit was an accident but…look, forget it. I'll be back Friday to get my check OK?…later."

Nene did not know what to say. She had totally forgotten what she intended to say. Malik's reaction had caught her completely off guard. "Look Malik, you don't have to quit…I never said I was going to fire…" Her words bounced off the empty walls as the door swung shut. The stunned woman looked at the door then the wall that was covered with a cheap lithograph before her eyes finally rested on the slightly faded carpet. What in the hell was going on?

Malik changed as fast as he could into his street clothes. He quickly scanned the locker for any trace of paper or identification that could help trace him. Satisfied he had left nothing incriminating behind, he slammed the locker shut and walked from the restaurant as swiftly as he could without drawing any attention. He noticed a couple of waiters staring at him with expressions of relief, assuming he had been fired. He had never fitted into the restaurant's staff clique and he was certain there would be no tears shed over his leaving. He took a deep gulp of the crisp December air and fell heavily against the building. Apprehension crept into his thoughts like an uninvited guest and possibilities of what could go wrong took complete control of his faculties. He forced the negative thoughts from his mind and remembered the plan. Gripping the small, brown package containing the broken glass, he walked away from the restaurant. Three blocks away, he hailed the first cab he could get and headed for Union Station.

Amsley sipped on the brandy and tried to make small talk. It was difficult. Not only was the small cut on his heel bothering him more than he had let on to his associates, but his instincts told him something was wrong. Surely what had happened was just an accident…it could not have been anything more. He was considering posting his security team at strategic points in the restaurant but quickly decided against it. In no way could this be a plot against him.

He looked down at his salad. It truly looked delicious. Perhaps that was what he needed, something in his stomach. The salad and one of the restaurant's steaks should do the trick. He shifted his feet so that he could sit more comfortably at the table. Why in the hell was his ankle throbbing like that? Actually, he had only himself to blame. Why in the hell had he allowed the restaurant staff to treat him. He made a mental note to stop at Dr. Welton's office as soon as they left the restaurant. A shot of antibiotic should do the trick. It appeared to have been a relatively insignificant wound, but why in the hell was it still hurting so much. It seemed that every time his heart beat it was matched by a painful throbbing in his ankle. Ann said something to him that he did not understand. He looked up from his salad to ask what it was she had said, but his throat appeared to be jammed.

Something was not right! He stared at the woman as he broke out into a cold sweat and his breathing became labored. Wally Pace, his chief of security, looked at him with a curious expression on his face.

"Governor…Governor Amsley, are you OK?"

Amsley's eyes seemed to focus on a large winking Santa that was displayed on the far wall of the restaurant. He had forgotten that it was only a couple of days before Christmas. His last thought was of how people did not celebrate the holidays like they did when he was a child. He turned to look at Wally and fell face forward into his chef salad!

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