Birds of Prey

Aaron Jackson absent mindedly adjusted his tie as he scanned through the production scene before him. It pleased him as the courtyard outside city hall fell into place for the media event he had organized for the presidential candidate over the past three months: flags snapped against their poles with military precision as a perfect backdrop, staff members set up the lectern with microphones, a band of four army soldiers readied their jazz instruments alongside the stadium and men in black suits handed out promotional materials to fans dressed with splashes of the party’s trademark color. A cool breeze fluttered over the activity as though blessing its political purpose.

He checked his smart watch and noted there was still time for last minute details when he heard a thunderous roar that shook the ground beneath him. He watched in horror as an unexpected motorcycle gang parked their bikes in a symmetrical row behind him. They were all expensive, fully rigged black and chrome machines that glittered like fine jewelry under the full day’s sun. The riders dismounted and ringed their helmets over the handlebars, simultaneously, like blackbirds swirling in unity. Similarly, a ripple of foreboding swung through Aaron’s body. His beige suit and striped tie contrasted with their road worn leathers. He approached the group, fixing his hands on his lapels to look official.

Tomás Hernandez threw his cigar to the pavement. He twisted the unsmoked portion to its death under his heel, all the while keeping eyes on Aaron.

Surprised, Aaron extended a hand. “I don’t believe this!” he said. “It’s me, Tomás. Aaron from UCLA.”

Thomás ignored his hand and scanned him head to toe, his fingers threading down his beard. “You haven’t changed one bit,” he croaked.

“Come on Thomás. Don’t give me grief. Shake my hand for old times’ sake.”

 Tomás spat on the cement. “We never got along.”

“Look,” Aaron said as he gestured behind him to the prep area, “You must be here to meet the presidential candidate.”

“Yep. We’re here to protest.”

 Aaron nodded recognition toward the dozen or so riders now gathering loyally behind Tomás. He gulped. “What if I get you a private interview with him once you move you bikes to the other end of the parking lot? you know, out of range of the TV cameras?”

“Nope.”

Aaron glanced at his wrist. “I tell you he’ll be here any minute now.”

Tomás jammed his thumbs into his belt and rocked back, “Good.”

“Look at you,” Aaron dared by pointing to the emblems on his vest, “you’re the perfect representative of the rebellious element in this burg of ours.”

“Don’t use ‘our burg,’ bro. You don’t know nothin’ of what,'' he glanced backward, “what we’ve come from, nor why we’re here.”

“True. I don’t. But I can deliver you to the candidate for a private session to address whatever you want. . . after the show.”

Tomás rubbed his forehead, “Naw. We’re the ones here to show. No talk. Show. You politicians respond to that. “ He nodded, “That’s why Martin Luther King Jr. didn’t succeed n creating his dream. He wanted to work with the government for change but the change never really came. I repeat ‘never came.’ Words and more words. We’re sick of it. We act.” Tomás looked behind him with a raised fist and all his men raised theirs and cheered as though he had just carried the football over the goal line.

Fear radiated like a crow’s hurried screech down Aaron’s body into his fingers. He hid them inside his pant pockets. Icy sweat rolled down his back.

Just then a pretty brunette wearing a full length dress in the party color tapped Aaron’s shoulder. He leaned into her red lips as she whispered. He nodded. She smiled at Tomás as she swirled her skirts with a butterfly flourish to leave them.

Tomás’s tongue clicked in response to her flirtation.

“With political notoriety you get some side benefits,” Aaron said under his breath.

Tomás crossed his arms, leaning forward as though sharing a conspiracy. “Ha. You think we need sex? We turn that away at every bar stop across this whole country.” He opened his arms sideways and stepped back, “what a closed world you’re livin’ in buddy.”

“There’s food and drink afterwards,” Aaron ventured, holding his breath, “a big party which I’m sure . . .”

“You’re the same as when you were in school government – always in charge – even when you didn’t know what’s up. You were never in charge of me and you aren’t now.”

“I know,” said Aaron, “ ‘cause you sat with your feet slapped on top of the desk.” His shoulders tightened, “You know what? You’re the perfect runaway for vigilante warfare. That’s what you did overseas, right?”

“The best,” said Tomás, “irreplaceable.”

“But can you best this? I work for permanent, long term change.”

“We don’t fight for promises which is what you offer at best. We fight for sufferin’ people who have needed change for a long time already. You’ve got the resources. Move your butt now.” Tomás swung both arms straight out in front of him as though speaking to an enemy, “Change. Got it? Change!”

Aaron pulled out his wallet and flashed his party ID. “I’m the candidate’s personal assistant. I can do you a favor.”

Tomás peered at it and said with a gruff voice, “Like what?”

Aaron shoved the wallet back down into his pocket. “Imagine yourself shaking hands today with a new plan in place. Whatever it is you want.”

“Whatever?”

“Yeah,” Aaron raised a palm like taking the witness stand, “whatever.”

Tomás turned to his men. A burly fit guy with the nickname “Bristol” embroidered on his vest and a sinewy guy named “Snarly” stepped forward and they buzzed their heads together like birds in a nest. The rest of them hung out by their seats, ready to be called to action. Aaron seriously thought of walking back toward the staging area when Tomás finally turned around. “We want complete health care for our buddy in the VA hospital. He’s an Afghan vet like us but the docs keep postponing the surgeries for his legs. They tell us its lack of funding, lack of personnel, lack of facilities. Lack, lack and more lack. We’ve seen it happen to hundreds of our guys. Hundreds I tell you.” He pointed to Aaron’s chest. “Vets want to be able to walk on their own two feet when they come home.” Tomás said louder, “Support him by making this country his home.”

Aaron swung a salute and answered yes.

“How are you gonna make it work, huh, buddy?”

“We document it.”

“Then? “Aaron’s eyes and brows squinched. “Then how is it executed?”

“After the presentation we do that. Take my word for it. If nothing else, you know I’m good for my word.”

Tomás put his hands on his hips. “I’ll only shake hands with him if he agrees to ride over to the hospital and order the transaction within the range of my own ears.”

Aaron looked behind him and saw the limousine pull up behind the stadium. By now all the seats on the bleachers were full, media personnel stood with cameramen, and the band awaited his gesture to start. The candidate expected him to open his door any second now. He glanced back at Tomás, torn apart by the two sides he stood between. “That’s the best I can do. The senator is head of the Ways & Means Committee and has the authority to inaugurate this change whether he is elected or not, so run with it, Tomás. That’s the best I can do.” He buttoned his suit jacket, making his decision which way to move. He said in a low tone meant only for Tomás to hear, “With your attitude, you won’t get any action more than what I offer you now.” He turned toward the convoy and tossed louder over his shoulder, “The choice is yours.”

Bristol and Snarly converged with Tomás upon Aaron’s departure. “What now boss,” said Bristol.

“We move ahead?” said Snarly.

“Yep. They’re mercenaries as usual,” He said, signaling in the air for the flock to mount. “Let’s bring them what has spoken for centuries to civilizations.”

When the candidate stepped behind the microphones, they gunned their engines louder than the speakers and rumbled in a single line, forming a circle like birds of prey between the speaker and the audience.

Seen from the air, a black ring surrounded a central target. It tightened and tightened.