Chapter Thirty
THIRTY
“Faye?” Greg called out early that same morning. “You here?”
Magic Mud Pottery was eerily quiet. Greg checked upstairs, downstairs, the back garden and studio—before finally giving up. She had taken off and, it seemed, hadn’t even bothered to leave him a note. Still, he tried not to take it personally. He settled himself on helping her out, opening the store for the day—but then, on second thought, decided to just head to Jumbos.
An hour later, Greg was texting John to come meet him. By noon, Mike had arrived. They were three plates down on buffalo wings when Lewis appeared, and Mike laid another fifty down on the bar.
“Another round on me,” Mike said.
John whooped, jumping on Mike’s shoulder. Mike pushed him back from the bar. “Seriously, dude,” Mike said, scolding him like a small child, “where the hell are your manners? Let the new guy go first.”
Greg assumed that by new guy, Mike meant him.
“Thanks,” Greg said, taking the beer.
It struck Greg how they operated in a hierarchy. Mike at the top, obviously. Then Lewis. John at the very bottom. Where Greg was fitting into things, however, was anyone’s guess. But he was getting the sense that the drinks, like the fact they had all managed to arrive early in the afternoon, meant that they had plans for something.
“I wish I could return the favor,” Greg said, returning to his cover story.
“No worries, man.” Mike clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll get me back another day.”
“Definitely.”
“It’s what we do for friends, right? And you know, we can help you find a job, Greg. We can help you with a lot of things in Woodstock. Maybe even figure out a way to take care of your little warrant problem.”
Now they were getting somewhere. “You would really do that for me?”
“Hell yeah,” Mike said. “Our kind has to stick together.”
Our kind. It took everything Greg had to maintain his facade. “So,” he said, lifting the beer up to his lips, “what are you thinking?”
Mike moved in closer. “We have a little problem.”
“A problem, huh?”
“There’s this Jew bitch downtown,” he said beneath his breath. “She’s been getting...well, let’s just say she’s been getting uppity.”
“Uppity?” Greg gripped his beer glass harder. “Uppity, how?”
“Who the hell does she think she is?” John suddenly interjected.
“Don’t worry.” Mike smiled gleefully. “Big dog has a plan.”
“I’m sorry.” Greg feigned ignorance. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
Mike began to explain. “You know, we don’t just work to educate the masses. That’s only a small part of what we do. Another big part is protecting our communities from Jews. Getting rid of them, you know? Getting them out of our community. So, over the last few months...we’ve taken steps to help them understand they’re not wanted.”
“What type of steps?”
“Oh, you know...” Mike said casually. “Graffiti, vandalism, bricks through windows. Nothing too wild. Just a warning that people need to close shop and leave. That we’re not gonna sit around and have our communities be destroyed by the Zionist conspiracy.”
Greg forced the words out of his mouth. “That’s...awesome.”
“Right?” Mike nudged him. “So, anyway... We hit this one Jew bitch a month ago. Caught her in the dead of night, tossed a brick right through her window. But instead of taking the hint, she wants to show she’s not afraid. She wants to laugh at us, keep operating her business. So tonight, we’re gonna teach that uppity Jew rat a lesson. Make sure she closes shop and never comes back.”
Greg could feel a rumble building in his chest. They are talking about Faye. They are talking about Magic Mud Pottery. He forced himself to maintain his cool, though all he wanted to do was toss Mike across the room.
Greg lifted the beer to his lips once more. “Y’all need help?”
“What do you say?” Lewis nodded at him. “You up for it?”
“Well, hell yeah,” Greg said, finishing his beer, slamming it down on the bar. “Count me in, man. You know you don’t have to ask me twice.”
The news made everybody happy.
“Great,” Mike said, pulling out his phone and quickly texting somebody. “Then grab your jacket, man, because we’re heading out.”
“Out,” Greg stammered. “You mean, right now?”
“Yeah, right now.”
“But...” He glanced towards the windows. “It’s still light out?”
The men looked askance at each other before Mike intervened once more. “Don’t worry.” He grinned, keeping one hand on Greg’s back as he pushed him towards the exit. “We got you. Nothing to worry about at all.”
They drove for hours in circles around Woodstock with no clear destination. Mike occasionally texting someone at a red light. John reaching over the front seat to increase the volume on some heavy-metal song blaring on the radio, much to everyone’s annoyance. But otherwise, they offered Greg no hints about where they were heading. No escape, either.
He knew this was a bad situation. He was also still reeling from learning that Faye would be the intended target of a hate crime this evening—but he was so close to the truth. He just had to maintain his cool, keep his cover going for a little while longer.
At least until he had evidence.
The car turned, swinging into a neighborhood. He gazed out the window, surprised to find tiny ranchers, set upon manicured lawns decorated for the Thanksgiving holidays.
“This is a real nice neighborhood,” Greg said, shifting in his seat to meet Mike’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
“Not your type of people?” Mike asked, smirking.
“Not really,” Greg lied.
“Well, that’s okay,” Mike said. “Every war needs soldiers. People not afraid to get their hands dirty. People with few attachments.”
Greg forced a smile. “That would certainly be me.”
The car swung around another block before finally parking on the street in front of a brown wooden-paneled house. An American flag hung from the side, and a cop car sat in the driveway. Everyone began unbuckling their seat belts, moving to pop out of the vehicle, Mike still texting someone on the phone while he walked, but Greg hesitated.
“Is this some sort of a joke?” Greg asked.
“What?” Mike looked up from his phone, and then, realizing Greg’s trepidation, waved his concern away. “Oh, that. Don’t worry about it, man. Big dog is cool.”
“Big dog?” Greg asked.
“You’re about to meet our fearless leader, my friend.”
“The man behind the curtain,” Lewis continued.
“He says go through the garage,” Mike said, looking at his phone. “And straight into the back.”
“The back?”
“Big dog is throwing us a barbecue tonight.”
“A barbecue.” Greg still didn’t completely understand. “Is that like...a euphemism?”
Mike laughed, clapping him on the back, but otherwise didn’t respond.
The garage opened. A series of work tools hung on one side. A car, covered by a blue tarp, was parked in the center. Another American flag hung on the back wall above a desk. Greg slinked past the car and found himself standing in a beige hallway, staring at a montage of photographs. Chief Eric Myers beamed brightly back at him, one arm slung happily around the shoulder of some elected official, as he received an award for commendation.
It didn’t take long for Greg to put it together. Chief Eric Myers was the leader of The Paper Boys in Woodstock. Greg needed to think quick.
“Actually,” Greg said, rubbing the back of his neck, “is there a bathroom here?”
“A bathroom?” Mike asked.
“Too many hot wings.”
Mike pointed down the hallway. “Last door on the left.”
“Thanks.”
“Come out to the back when you’re done.”
Greg wasted no time disappearing into the bathroom. Waiting to hear the men depart to the backyard, the sliding door closing behind them, he attempted to regroup. He had discovered the head of The Paper Boys operating in Woodstock. Members of their cell, too. But if he wanted to bring them to justice permanently, he needed evidence. Something he could give to the FBI directly, since clearly the local police and their investigation had been corrupted.
Greg debated his options. He could use what little time he had to search the house, but he risked Mike and his friends getting suspicious. He could confront Eric directly, but given all that Eric had to lose—and the fact that Greg would be outnumbered four to one in a physical altercation—he quickly scratched that plan.
He debated giving up entirely, leaving the situation without a clear-cut connection to the man and his crimes. But the voice he had heard since coming to Woodstock grew louder inside his mind, egging him forward. Justice, justice, you shall pursue. Justice, justice, you shall pursue.
If Greg were an anti-Semite, where would he hide the evidence?
The answer came to him in an instant. A whisper from the universe. Justice.
Greg opened the door to the bathroom, peeking out, checking to make sure the coast was clear. Then, slinking back down the hallways, he made his way to the garage and the car that was sitting in the middle of it all, covered completely by a blue tarp.
Greg pulled it off, breath hitching at the reveal. There, hidden away in Eric’s own garage, was a blue four-door sedan with the license plate HX3498.
It was the same car he had seen on the night Faye’s store was attacked. The same vehicle and number that Faye had given Eric to run, but Eric had never run the license plate number. He had never had any intention of running it. Because he was the mastermind behind the crimes.
A voice appeared from inside the house.
“Yo, Greg?” Mike called out. “You coming or what?”
There was no time left to spare. Quickly, Greg pulled out his phone and snapped a photo of the car. And then, he took off. Sprinting down sidewalks, he ran as far as he could, as fast as he could, until he found himself a safe distance away. Greg pulled out his phone and texted two different messages.
The first was to Mike in order to buy himself some time: Sorry, man. Too many wings. Bubble gut. Had to go home.
And the second was to Nelly. Chief Eric Myers is the head of The Paper Boys. Contact the FBI. Do not contact the police. They are planning something for tonight at Faye’s. Have evidence. WILL EXPLAIN REST LATER.
He didn’t have time to wait for a reply. Or call an Uber. Digging the phone into his back pocket, he took off again in the direction of downtown Woodstock and Magic Mud Pottery. The voice in his head, the one that always screamed at him to chase justice, fell into a whisper.
Greg only had one thought on his mind now. He had to protect Faye. He had to get her out of that store, to someplace safe...at least until the proper authorities were notified, and all the guilty parties had been apprehended. He ran, and ran, the thought of losing her an ache, the promise of protecting her his central motivation, until finally, sweaty and out of breath, he rounded the corner and burst through the door of Magic Mud Pottery.
Faye was waiting on the couch in the foyer, her jacket on and at the ready, two backpacks resting on the floor.
“Oh.” She beamed, rising from her spot. “You’re back. Perfect timing.”