The postcard arrived the same day the baby arrived. Pure coincidence in a whole lot of coincidences that day. It said nothing, but was postmarked from Barbados. I knew instantly who the sender was; it was my old friend, Mayor Booker.
Barbados was a running joke between us. An old running joke that old friends usually have between them. I could no longer remember how it started, maybe as the place we would retire to one day. Barbados was our key word when things were going bad or not our way, when someone escaped, or tried to - they never succeeded, or a business deal did not go our way, or stupid people annoyed us. We would look at each other and say, sometimes simultaneously, "Barbados".
This was good news. My friend sent me a message. I decided to forgive him. I needed him. I needed his skills. I decided to forget his bad business choices and that he lost me quite a bit of money in the FEDC deal. I sent him a message back via a private Facebook post.
Come home. All is forgiven. You have my word.
The mayor knew I was a man of my word. I knew he was as good as on his way home, and this was excellent. I might need his help in the next few days. That damnable Randall Michael Wall was an amateur. I liked him and appreciated his cold heartedness, but he rattled too easily when it came time to cut up the girl. And, he was not smart. God forbid, he ever had to improvise - it would be a disaster. For all his past experience, he was an amateur in the collecting business. He was more used to disposal than acquisition.
I needed a professional, one used to dirty deeds and thinking outside the box. I needed my friend, Humble Booker. I made him what he became. I gave him permission to ignore the rules and conventions that kept him normal and ordinary. I gave him permission to be the person he really was after all. A person who would not balk at cutting a swollen belly for something that I wanted and needed.
The postcard carried good news - a professional in the area of dirty deeds was on the way home.
Welcome home, Mayor Booker.
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A Tourist in Mayberry
Ficção GeralThis is the real Mayberry where everything is not black and white. The real Mayberry where your neighbor keeps a collection below his house that's not talked about in polite company. The real Mayberry where the sheriff is trying to find more than on...
