Going For The Kid by Samuel C. Hasler

Going For The Kid by Samuel C. Hasler

Charleston Blau strolled into The Potter’s Field like a cool cat should. Everything between his frizzy hair and his Cuban heels—a pink shirt and a black tie matching his wool-blend suit – blared he was everything The Buzzards hated in their bones, but here he was in the bikers’ clubhouse. Anyone else from north of the river popping up on the south side faced a beating or being killed on sight, not Charleston. It had been twenty years ago The Protocols had kept the peace between the Reserved Areas and the Union since 1951; they made the courier between the Reserved Area on the north side of the river and the city to south untouchable. He stopped at the end of the bar. The bartender ignored Charleston but let out a long, loud whistle. A man approached. On his leather vest was a patch reading President, right next to the patch with the Party’s colors. Charleston turned his head—slightly. He did not see the man he wanted to see.

“Charleston,” said the man, “we have to let you in here, but you know we don’t serve your kind.”

“Ron, you know why I’m here. Where is The Kid? I’ve got the gelt.”

“Don’t know. Don’t care. Change of plan. He’s staying on this side of the river.”

Ron had always pushed his limits when Charleston showed up on one of these ransom runs into The Potter’s Run. This time he’d crashed the limits without blinking an eye. Charleston hoped they had not waited too long. His people had thought they could move before the United Fascists faction gained enough power over the government.

“You think you can trash The Protocols?”

“Don’t play me for a fool. You know UFA is in charge again.”

“You’re a fool if you think they’ll let start a war with the New United States. They’re still guaranteeing the Protocol. Your people talk a lot about the Reservations, but they know they can’t get rid of us. Get me The Kid and I’ll forget about your bullshit.”

 “UFA is going to finish what we started back in Forty-one. Fuck The Protocols. Fuck the New United States. Fuck you scum on the Reservations. We’ve suffered long enough having to live with you Yids and coons and beaners. The Kid is staying, so are you, and so is your Packard. Yids like you don’t get cars like that. It’d be better in my hands. Hand me over the keys and you can spend your last hours without a load of pain.”

The biker’s left hand moved back his vest to show the automatic hanging in a shoulder harness.

Charleston shook his head slowly. His people and the New United States had started talking as soon as the UFA won the leadership at the Party conclave. They’d thought it’d be the Army they’d be fighting, not the Party militia. The Kid was supposed to have info on Union troops from what Resistance remained in the city. Now everything was going to shit. Charleston felt his people were on the short end of the stick – again.

He laughed softly at Ron. “You keeping the cash and my car aren’t going to go over with your bosses.”

“You mean the bag you ran off with? I suppose you’ll lose that when you jump in the river. You ran off, instead of driving.”

“Well, when you put it like that.”

Charleston’s hands moved fast—too fast for the bartender and far, far too fast for Ron.

 The razor in Charleston’s left hand sliced open Ron’s carotid a few seconds before his right hand had Ron’s pistol in hand, a well-kept Model 1911 Browning. The razor went into his pocket while pivoting towards the bartender, who was now reaching for a shotgun, but was stopped by a round through the bartender’s forehead. He emptied the pistol into the closest Buzzards. Groping into a pocket of Ron’s vest, Charleston found another magazine. The empty magazine was released; the full one loaded. He fired into the crowd and began backing towards the hallway behind him. Bullets from the bikers were shredding the bottles and mirror behind the bar. Charleston peered around the corner, into the empty hallway and considered its length for a second. Rising alcohol fumes gave him an idea for shortening the distance between bar and back door. He pulled his Zippo, got the flame going, tossed it up into the alcohol, and as the blaze started, he ran to and through the back door.

Out in the alley, he checked his watch. He had just enough time to take the long way back to his car. Turning onto the street where he had parked his Packard, he could see the Buzzards standing in front of their blazing bar, cursing the fire department, and yelling for buckets of water as the bar blazed. South of the river might think they were the superior race, but their fire department was just plain wretched. He did not mind seeing in the fire’s light four bodies lying in front of the bar, too still to be anything but corpses.

What Charleston did not like seeing were the four men in suits standing around his car. Recognizing one of them as Abbott soured him further. Leaving without The Kid was bad enough; running up against Union Security Police was worse. Charleston wished he had a full clip in the Browning. If everything was going sideways tonight, he’d not mind killing some cops.

And it had to be Abbott who spotted him with his service revolver in hand as soon as he did. The other three pulled their revolvers as Charleston approached.

“Knew you were a cat with nine lives,” said Abbott. He cracked a smile, trying to show he was funny, but his meanness erased any humor. He claimed he was related to the old-time comedian, only that guy had been thin and sad-looking, where this Abbott looked like a heavyweight going to seed. “Told Ron to wait until we got here. I guess he got ambitious.”

“He broke the rules,” said Charleston. “The Buzzards pulled a double-cross

“Rules changed tonight. The Kid isn’t going back. You’re not going back. Nothing is going back to the way it’s been. We’re finishing the old business with your people. Hand over those car keys.”

“Don’t think so. I give you the keys; you’ll just blow yourselves up.” Charleston checked his wristwatch. “In fact, if I’m not in it in another five minutes, it’ll blow and take you, me, and a lot of this fine, rundown architecture you people have over here.”

One of the others accused Charleston of bluffing.

Abbott snorted, “Shut up, dumbass. Charleston bluffing? Look at him. He’s as straight as one of his kind can be. We can’t let you just drive out of here. What’ll it take to shut off the bomb and give us the car?”

“It’ll take me talking to the new boss and half the ransom. I’m not a freedom fighter, and I don’t want to die here. I might have info your boss will want.”

Abbott got paid for using his brains, and his answer came quick.

“Done. Get in your car. Follow us.”

The cops melted away from the Packard, got in their unmarked  Edsel, and started up. Charleston got in his car. He locked the door and switched off the timer. He flipped a switch under the dash as he started the Packard, and when the static cleared, he asked for Morganfield.

“Listening, Charleston.”

“Things are going sideways. They’re planning on coming across the river tomorrow.”

“Shit, they’re starting early.”

“Yeah, not waiting for the Army. I’ve been told twice I’m not going home, and neither is The Kid. I don’t think he’s talked, but I’m trying to get to him. Also, they’re wanting my car. If the Packie comes to you without me calling you…”

“We’ll blow it to Kingdom Come.”

“Okay.”

Charleston turned off the radio. He stayed as close to Abbott’s car as a drunk to his bottle. When they stopped, he was in front of their District Headquarters. This was as close to the place as he’d ever been. He left the Browning in the glove compartment. No way anyone in this building was going to let him get close to their District Leader with any pistol. Looking up at the building’s roof, he let his eyes run over the arrays of radio antennas. Those alone demonstrated the place’s importance to the Party.

The guards wore the official party uniform of blue that made them look like they were out of a Charlton Heston Civil War movie. They patted him down, and were ever so proud of themselves having found Charleston’s knife. The did not find anything else, just as he had wanted.

Charleston glanced around the building’s interior as the cops led him to the elevators.

“Impressive, ain’t it?” said one of the previously silent cops. “A real reminder of what this country is about. Style, class.”

Nodding, Charleston let the cops think he was awed by the pile of old limestone. No sense pointing out hairline fractures in the tiled ceiling, or the tarnished gilt, or the cobwebby corners. It also let him eye the room with the sign “Communications” and all the activity without drawing attention.

The elevator stopped at the fourteenth floor. Two more blue-uniformed guards snapped to attention, their sidearms buttoned down in their holsters. Abbott led the way to the door at the end of the hallway, with Charleston behind him and the remainder of the cops behind Charleston. Another pair of guards stood on each side of the door with the freshly painted words: D. Rhoades, Deputy District Leader. So, he’d not been the only one to use their radio on the way here.

Charleston estimated across the river three families would’ve been living in a space this large. This room had a large desk, four chairs, and nothing else taking up space. Its only decorations were the obligatory Union photographs. Charleston assumed the biggest one, the one behind the desk, was the new President-for-Life; the hard eyes probably meant to defy knowing his new title was such short on longevity. The one to the left showing a fat man with the receding hairline had to be of the new District Leader. The Mussolini and the Lindbergh portraits on the right kept Charleston’s eyes a moment longer than the others; they told him UFA was already in charge. His eyes snapped to the man behind the desk, looking down at a thick file.

Charleston heard Arkansas in the voice offering him a seat. Charleston sat with Abbott and his crew standing behind him. He stiffened when he saw the black medallion in the newcomer’s lapel. Charleston had seen pictures of that pin, but never met anyone who wore one. It meant Rhoades was a hardcore Fascist, a veteran of the League War, a member of the Lindbergh Brigade who had to have served over there to get that pin. The Fascists had been beaten by the League of Nations, and UFA had lost power to the Corporatists back when Charleston had been in diapers. Charleston felt he understood now why the Party had moved faster than Jessup and others across the river had expected. Twenty years of revenge repressed is a grand motivator. Charleston and his people had repressed their anger even longer.                                                         since

“Charleston Bloy, you’ve got a sure interesting file. You’re described here as the only courier between the legitimate government and the gangster running the city north of the river. It also notes suspicions of you being a smuggler, a killer, a gambler, and other miscellaneous crimes against the government of the Union of American States. But in the flesh, you look like just another member of a degenerate race that’s been polluting this land for too long.”

“I think you’ve got some people over here with a lot of imagination. I’m just a driver, and I’m supposed to be picking up a package.”

“As of today, the old Protocols don’t mean shit in the UAS.”

“The Republic won’t like that. That’ll mean giving up the Protocols.”

Rhoades sneered. “Marshall and Patton are long dead; the renegade Republic is toothless. The League is not what it was in 1953; they are not coming to save your people. You’re not ransoming Tecumseh Jones-”

“That’d be The Kid.”

 The backhanded blow from behind forced Charleston’s head forward. He assumed the hand belonged to Abbott since he warned him against interrupting the Deputy Leader.

Rhoades had ignored the interruption: “You know all that don’t you? That’s why you want to make a deal.”

“Been told I’m not going back to the Rez.”

“You aren’t. Not breathing, anyway. You want half of the Jones ransom?”

Charleston nodded.

“You people aren’t loyal to anyone and to nothing. History shows us that.”

“Yep, and a head-start towards the Republic. Plane tickets, too. And I drive the Packard to the airport.”

“We’ve wanted your kind out of this country as quickly as possible. We’ve spent decades trying to get you all to leave voluntarily, but some of you have been too stubborn for your own good. I’ll be happy to let you leave. I will also want the keys to your car, and the bombs disarmed. How you got your hands on a 1970 Shelby Packard Viper must be an interesting story, but not one I’ve got no time to hear.”

“Well, I’m getting the idea you aren’t going to let many of us just go. I guess you’ll keep enough to keep the factories running. I’m not a factory rat. If giving up my car means getting out, you’ve got it. Can’t take it on the plane, can I?”

Rhodes waved a hand. “Of course. I dislike haggling with white men, even less with your kind. We don’t want to kill all of you, but no one will take all of your people. Automation will run the factories. UAS wit and skill make the reservation system redundant.”

A phone rang. Charleston had not paid much attention to there being three. The Deputy Leader answered and listened for a minute.

“You’re sure that it’s done? Good.”

Rhodes hung up the phone and turned to Charleston.

“The deal is off, Mr. Bloy. Our techs disabled your bombs. I’ll keep your car. The Party will take the ransom for our treasury. I like that better than thinking I let scum like you to pollute this world. Abbott, get that key, and then put him with Mr. Jones. You will die when the north side is burning, so you can also celebrate our day of National Renewal.”

Charleston put up no resistance. Still, Abbott’s hand tore his right side pocket from the suit. He held the key in his hand like he had found the Holy Grail before handing it over to Rhoades. The other three cops dragged Charleston from the room.

Back they went down in the elevator, this time to the basement. They shoved him into an unmarked room, shut, and locked the door. Across the room sat The Kid.

“About time you showed up,” said The Kid.

“Screw you.”

The Kid’s smile brought out a matching one on Charleston’s face. Charleston’s eyes swept the room. The Kid nodded towards the corner to Charleston’s left. Not a camera, only a microphone. From within his tie came a razor. He whispered into The Kid’s ear. “Make it sound like I’m strangling you.”

Charleston stepped away from The Kid and moved behind the door with the razor in hand. The Kid started screaming and hollering. Two blue uniforms came flying in with their nightsticks waving. Charleston slit the throat of the second guard as The Kid surprised the first with a kick to the shins and the chair crashing into the side of his head. They left with the guards’ pistols in hand.

Charleston led the way, hugging the wall as they went to their left, and The Kid kept his eyes to the rear. When they stopped at the corner, The Kid jostled Charleston and received an elbow in return. Charleston slid an eye past the corner, then pulled back, whispering.

“Three guards by the elevator shooting the shit and smoking. One standing in the doorway to the office. I take the dude by the door. You go for the ones by the elevator.”

The Kid nodded, and Charleston moved. The guard in the doorway went down with two shots to his chest. The Kid was a bit messier with the three by the elevator, needing Charleston to pick up the spare. Charleston swung into the office, happy to see it empty of life. The Kid was swiping guns and ammunition from the dead when he heard Charleston’s wolf whistle.

“We got trench sweepers,” said a smiling Charleston.

The Kid smiled at the sight of the shotguns on the wall and the boxes of shells.

“Things keep getting better,” said The Kid.

The two picked up a shotgun each and began examining their finds and packing pockets with shells.

“But it wasn’t supposed to cost me my ride.”

“What you mean?”

“They got my keys. I’ve got no way to get us back home. And they’re starting a pogrom tomorrow. Did you get to The Resistance?”

“Yeah. They’re ready to pitch in.”

“How many?”

The Kid’s lips became a grimace.

“A couple of hundred. They said time’s not been helpful to them and I got to agree.”

“Don’t feel sorry for them. Their people started all this back in Thirty-six…. All their communications are up there on the first floor.”

“You thinking of getting a message out or stopping theirs?”

 “Both. Let our people know what’s coming has to come first. Maybe we can let our friends over here know it’s time. You know how to contact them?”

“Not by radio, but let’s go..”

“Get in that elevator. We’ll pay them a visit and then try to get out of this place.”

Up they went. The Kid sprinted to the communications room before the first floor guards turned to see who was arrived. Charleston put them both down and disables the elevator before following The Kid. In the communications room, The Kid was firing his shotgun. Charleston entered to find everyone dead but The Kid., He told The Kid to get to work on the transmitter while taking up a position in the door as guard. The Kid got through, the warning was passed along they got on with destroying every transmitter in the place.

“Well, we’ve done what we can for the cause,” said Charleston. “Let’s see if we can get the hell out of here and into the fight.”

They headed outside.

Outside, Charleston got his biggest shock of the night. The Packard was parked at the curbside. The keys in the ignition would have been an even greater shock, but their not being there was no problem. Every child living on The Rez knows how to hotwire a car. With Morganfield knowing not to blow them to hell, they were heading to the bridge with all the speed they could manage on the city streets. No one stopped Charleston on the south side of the bridge.

Crossing the river, The Kid asked, “Is it going to work this time?”

Charleston sighed and said, “Work? What does that mean? With that Lindbergher running things now, they’re coming to kill us all. We hold out until the NUS comes in, we’re going to live. If it doesn’t, then we’ll go down swinging, like real human beings.”

“Good enough for me.”

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Samuel C. Hasler 2026

Image Source: Dey from Fictom.com