TAX BREAK
By Jay Williams
CHAPTER I
(Note from Jay: I wrote this back in 1991. At that time we writers were all saying to ourselves, "well, with the fall of the Soviet Empire, who will be our enemy of choice?" I decided to try the government. After all, throughout our history this has been a popular target of writers. So with Tax Break, instead of having a war with the Soviets, I came up with a war on the IRS. Oddly, shortly after this was the OK City bombing and now we have the nut who flew into the building here in Austin. Me? I'm no right or left wing nut, nor do I have any animosity toward anyone—okay, I still hate Col. Fluke.)
Green. Just like everything else they issued, it was green. Better to hide it, to camouflage it, they would undoubtedly argue. The young private weighed it with his hand, rolled a couple of fingers over the raised lettering, felt the texture of the plastic casing and stared at the green object. No, not much of an argument, he thought, it was barely larger than that paperback he had just completed. Something that small, easily tucked away behind a thin bush, would hardly be noticed no matter the color. At least, not until a person had moved well within its killing range.
“Close your eyes,” Sergeant Beatty said. “Imagine that you’re in a thick jungle, late at night. Ya can’t see nothin’, not even the tree a few feet in front of you. Now, hold it to your chest.” He paused to make sure his students were doing as instructed, then continued. “If you can rock it easily from side to side, you’re holding that sucker backwards! And let me tell you, if you don’t do this little check, and set it up not knowing for sure, well, when you detonate that mother, you’ll know you set it up facing your position, and you and all your buddies will never get another chance to stick your little peckers in your lovers’ cunts again. ‘Cause when this demon goes off, it sends a deadly barrage of small ball bearings heading your way. And those little pellets will tear through your soft skin like a needle through cotton.”
Beatty looked around the small circle again to see if that frightening bit of knowledge had sunk in, and satisfied that the young soldiers understood, nodded his head and smiled. “Yes, gentlemen, if you want to set this baby up so that it’ll waste the enemy and not your friends, you make sure that the Claymore fits smoothly against your chest. If it can’t be rocked from side to side, you know that when you set it up, it will be pointed toward your prey. And when that prey steps into the ambush and you detonate this Claymore mine, the ones that aren’t killed outright will be so mangled they’ll never make it back to their lines. They’ll be so full of holes there is no way in hell that any commie witch doctor could patch them up to save them. And that means your ambush has been successful, for the first goal of an ambush is extreme violence. And the M18A1 Claymore mine fits that bill just fine.”
Jim Greenwald thought about the extreme violence the Sarge had just described. With everyone in the group firing their weapons at the same time, the only image he could see of a victim was of a small pile of fresh, sliced meat. A mass of skin, blood and bone that once might have been considered a man. For some reason, this thought didn’t bother him. Maybe because during his training he had learned so much about killing it didn’t hold much meaning to him anymore. Or maybe it was because he knew that mound of flesh would be some communist bastard—and he couldn’t wait to kill a lot of communist bastards. If he didn’t break his arm or fail some test along the way, he calculated that within ten weeks he’d have his beret and would be winging toward ‘Nam and his first kill.
Jim pulled the Claymore away from his chest, ran his fingers over the plastic casing and smiled. Soon, very soon, he’d get to put all of this training his Uncle Sam had given him to good use. Soon he’d pay back his debt to his Uncle.
The wood was smooth and highly polished. Lovingly, slowly, he ran his hand across it and sighed deeply. Looking down the bar’s length, he could picture the people who would be sitting at it in a few hours. There would be loud music coming from the jukebox, smoke hanging in the air, a constant hum of voices and the pleasant aroma of beer, perfume and anticipation. It would be so alive with activity, so hectic. But to him, this bar was alive even now. It breathed in and out whenever he stood behind his bar, cleaning the mugs, ordering new stock or checking receipts. It warmed him when he was cold, cooled him when he was angry, but more importantly, brought him back up when he was in the pits of despair. The Library was part of Jim. It was him.
“Of course we’ll appeal this. Hell, we’ll fight them all the way.”
Jim looked up from the bar toward his lawyer. He nodded his head, but he didn’t feel anywhere near that positive. “Yes, appeal it. They can’t take this away from me. They can’t,” Jim said softly.
“Shit, this’ll be easy!” the lawyer swore. “Thar ain’t a court in the world, let alone Texas, that’ud take away your bar for a few tax dollars. Not a one,” he said nodding.
“I don’t know, Bill,” Jim started slowly. “I try not to be too pessimistic, but I just don’t feel good about this. I’ve been fucked over a lot by the government. This won’t be any different,” Jim said, shaking his head.
“Trust me, Jimmy, trust me,” Bill said. “Why, I...”
“Horse fuckin’ shit, man! Horse fuckin’ shit!”
Jim looked from Bill toward his partner, Lenny Manning, who had just sprung up from his chair at a table across the room from their lawyer. Lenny glared at the man and stabbed his finger angrily through the air in his direction.
“You said the same fuckin’ shit before!” Lenny cursed. “You swore they’d let us pay it off by steps! Swore it’d never get this far! Absolutely promised that we’d still be serving beer for years to come! Now we got two fuckin’ weeks! Two weeks!” Lenny snapped.
“Listen, boy, don’t give up on the law yet!” Bill responded.
“Oh, bull shit!” Lenny barked. “I’m sick and tired of hearing how the law won’t suck us in. Fed up to here with your legal mumbo jumbo about how justice prevails. Well, here’s to your justice,” Lenny said as he gave the grimacing lawyer the finger.
“Now, Lenny, come on,” Jim broke in. “Bill has helped us a lot. Don’t go blaming him for the legal system.”
“Dang, Jim, you’re still as naive as the day I met you in ‘Nam,” Lenny groaned. “Don’t you see that this jerk is a servant of the system that is taking our bar? It’s like a little game to them! One lawyer fighting another, all the while takin’ our money and gettin’ us nowhere! Well, this isn’t a game for us,” Lenny thumped his chest. “This is our life! If they take away our bar, we’re back on the streets where we started. And these damn lawyers will just be back chasin’ some other ambulance, looking for another game, another case to make a few of their lousy bucks!” Lenny shouted.
“Ya’ll have a cynical view of the law, Mr. Manning, and ah think it’s just a little unfair to some of us,” Bill said as strongly as he could after the barrage just leveled at him. “But ah’m not goin’ ta argue with you, suh, no, ah know ya’ll are angry right now and won’t see any other side.”
“Oh, don’t patronize me like you do Jim,” Lenny said smirking. “I know you’re a weasel, and the only reason Jim doesn’t know it is ‘cause he’s too trusting, too caring.” Lenny pointed at the lawyer. “Well, I’m not about to be taken advantage of by you or your precious legal system, and I’m not going to let it happen to Jim either—even if it means I gotta knock some sense into him,” Lenny declared.
“Lenny, calm down,” Jim said, frowning.
“No, no, let the man rant all he wants. It’s probably good for him,” Bill said. He stood up, shook his head as he buttoned his black suit, and then picked up his briefcase. “And while he’s in this state, thar’s no sense me hangin’ ‘round here. Ah’ll just go chase me some of them ambulances he’s talkin’ about, ‘cause like you all, ah’ve gotta make some money if ah want to stay off the streets,” he said, as he started for the door, looking sadly at Lenny. “Ah hope that after he blows off some of his steam, we can get together again and discuss—quietly—our next steps.”
“I’ll give you a call later, Bill,” Jim said. “Take it easy—and thanks. I do appreciate all the work you’ve done.”
“Thanks, Jimmy. Ah’ll see ya’ll later,” Bill replied, heading to the door.
Jim watched quietly as he walked out. Lenny just glared, but when the older man passed by the front window and looked in, he shot him another finger for one last jab. Bill just shook his head again, frowned, and continued toward his car.
“There was no need to blow up at Bill. Bill Wilson has done a lot for us,” Jim said, turning toward his friend.
Lenny sat back down at the table and winced. “Jim, Jim, Jim. You are sooo blind! Just because he helped your family in the past sure doesn’t mean he’s helping us now. He’s one of those good-old-boys who’d just as soon see two ‘Nam vets—who I know he sees as nothin’ more than a hippie and a nigger—begging on the streets as owning a small business,” Lenny said. “Us winnin’ the case doesn’t matter to him. Us payin’ his bill is all that matters.”
Jim put two beers down on the center of Lenny’s table and dropped into a chair across from him. He picked up one of the beers, popped the top and smiled at his friend. “You mean, commie, pinko hippie and fuckin’, lazy nigger, don’t you?” Jim winked.
Lenny smiled briefly, but his frown quickly returned. He grabbed the remaining beer, opened it and took a long swig. “You’re too nice ‘a guy, Jim. Always were. Try to be lighthearted ‘bout everything. But this is too serious man. This is our life! Adding cute adjectives won’t get us out of this mess,” Lenny declared, using the beer to point.
Jim ran a hand through his thinning, short-cropped hair and wished someone would still think of him as a longhaired hippie. “I know, I know. Things are different nowadays.”
“It’s not just that things are different, Jim, things are shitty,” Lenny sputtered. “Hell, we’re in shit city, man. This is it! All we’ve worked for, all we’ve overcome—it’s all going to be taken away! Then what do we do? Go back to sleepin’ in the streets? Back to rehab? See? That’s why we can’t just sit around and think some lawyer’s goin’ ta save us. We’ve gotta do something,” Lenny exclaimed.
Jim took a drink out of his can and stared out the front window. “Well, what do you think we should do?”
Lenny rocked back in his chair and shook his head. “I don’t know, man, I don’t know. I just don’t want ta sit around doing nothin’. I can’t stand thinkin’ that they’re going to take this away and we can’t do anything. We’ve got to do somethin’!” Lenny fumed.
Jim looked at Lenny and shrugged. “That’s why we have to trust Bill, Lenny. The only thing we can do is sit back and let the lawyers play their game. As much as you hate it, and can’t admit it, that’s our only hope.”
Lenny’s jaw tightened and he moaned as he thought about what his partner said. “Damn! Damn, damn, damn! It’s not fair, Jim. It’s just not fair.”
“I know, I know,” Jim said quietly.
Lenny set his beer down and raised his hands. “What did we do wrong? Did we kill anyone? Sell drugs? No. We trusted an accountant and ran our business as usual. We didn’t pay all those damn taxes ‘cause we didn’t even know about them, and now they’re goin’ to kick us onto the streets,” Lenny continued. “I mean, sure they grabbed Willie Nelson’s land a few years back, but that was millions they wanted. Ours is peanuts! Why can’t they just give us some time to pay them back their peanuts?” Lenny said exasperated.
“I don’t know, Lenny. The government’s never been fair to me before, I guess it’s no time to start now,” Jim said, shaking his head.
Lenny wiped a hand gently across a wet eye, then picked up his beer. “What really pisses me off is how helpless I feel. I want to hit someone, but there’s no one to hit. All I can do is sit here, drink beer, cuss our lawyer and wait. Wait to get kicked out of my life!” Lenny intoned.
Jim laughed slightly, looked down at the floor, then back at Lenny. “Maybe we should just go blow up the courthouse.”
Lenny laughed and smiled at Jim. “You and your demolitions, man. No, the best thing to do is something more personal, something you can really feel—like garroting the judge, slittin’ some lawyer’s throat. Something where you’re right there, feeling it all, relieving that pent up stress.”
Jim took another swig out of his can. “That’s the problem with us, Lenny. All we know how to do is sling beer or kill people.”
Lenny frowned again as he thought about it. “Yeah, what a great government,” he said shrugging. “Trains us to be such efficient killers, dumps us on the streets, and once we get our heads back to normal, come along and throw us on the streets again. What a place to live, what a place!” Lenny exclaimed.
“Back to normal,” Jim repeated.
Lenny looked askance at Jim. “Well, maybe not you.”
“Oh?”
“Ever since I’ve known you, you were a quiet type,” Lenny began. “Kept your thoughts to yourself. Who knows what’s cookin’ in that brain of yours. Me? Well, I just react, I don’t think.”
“You can say that again,” Jim added.
Lenny rolled his eyes. “Damn, that didn’t come out right.”
“Anyway, back to the subject at hand,” Jim said levelly. “Let’s give Bill a chance and see if he can pull our asses out of the fire, and then play it from there.”
Lenny shrugged. “What else can we do man, what else?”
“Nothing, absolutely nothing.” Jim stood up and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Which is why I think I’ll go for a stroll. Relieve that stress you mentioned.”
Lenny smiled at his partner and friend. “Take a long one. I think you may have a lot more stress than you think or I know about. Just be back when we open.”
Jim took his right hand out of his pocket and saluted Lenny. “Yes, sir! Gotta make some pocket money for when we hit the streets.”
“I’m sure they’ll take that too,” Lenny said.
Jim sighed and opened the door. “Yeah, probably so.” He walked out and gently closed the door behind him.
Lenny stood up, went to the window and watched as Jim walked down the sidewalk. He nodded his head. “Brooding. I should have mentioned brooding.” He turned and walked behind the bar to make a pot of coffee to counteract the beer he just finished.
Sixth Street was dead. At least, dead compared to how it would be in four hours. And definitely not like the frenzy and bedlam on a Friday night. At four in the afternoon on a Wednesday, about all that was happening on the street was an occasional car honking at someone who ran a light, or some cop yelling at a wino to get to a shelter. At the moment, all of the parking spaces were taken, the entire street completely devoid of an open space for anyone else to park their car, but the people who parked there now were there for just a few moments. There to run into some shop or cafe’, do a little business, then rush back out. All to keep from paying a quarter for fifteen minutes. At night a different mob took over. When they parked, the space was like gold and they’d hang onto it for hours on end, perhaps hitting a bar or two, or maybe just leaning against the side of the vehicle watching the people. For that was what Sixth Street was really all about. Watching people. Even on a Wednesday night there would be a steady stream of people rambling down the sidewalks. A constant line of humanity, there to watch or be watched, to interact with a stranger or two, visit with old friends, but mainly, to get away from everyday life.
Sixth Street wasn’t Austin. No, the city was too varied, too eclectic to say that one street represented what it stood for. There were the free thinkers of the university, the circus of the state legislature, the bristling intelligence of the high-tech industry, the calm of the hill country, the Bubba’s south of the river, the yuppies north—too many differences to claim that any one fit the perfect example of Austin. But Sixth Street was where everyone went to party en masse. A person might hit the Hole In the Wall to hear some local musician who dreamed of making it big, but if that person wanted to get really crazy, and do it with thousands of others, that person headed to Sixth Street. Where else would you go if you wanted to see sixty thousand costumed crazies on Halloween night? Where you could see six different music groups—just in the doorways of the abandoned or closed businesses? Where else in the city could you find street venders who sell breakfast tacos for a dollar in front of a restaurant that serves fifteen-dollar steaks? Or where do you go to find twelve bars within a two-block distance?
As Jim strolled west down the street, he smiled at his unusual moment of luck in getting a business on such a thoroughfare. The Library had opened a little over nine years earlier. Just before the street began to change from a run-down, prostitute hangout, to an upscale, entertainment hotspot. Jim and Lenny struggled like all the other bar owners to eke out an existence in a place where the turnover rate was almost monthly. After experiencing all manner of famine, such as sleeping in the back of the bar or having leftover popcorn for dinner, they were finally experiencing feasts. No, they weren’t living out on Cat Mountain with the rich entrepreneurs, but at least they weren’t sleeping on anyone’s floor. In fact, they were to the enviable stage where they only owed the public utilities and Uncle Sam.
Unfortunately, their Uncle was demanding more than they had even realized—and more than they could hope to pay.
“Hey, Jim! How’s it goin’?”
Jim looked up at Howie Cleve, a friend and owner of The Reunion Bar who stood in the doorway to the left. “Um, fine, fine Howie,” Jim said.
Howie smiled and leaned back against the doorjamb. “So, how’s the case going?”
“They’re thinking about it. Yeah, still trying to decide,” Jim lied, and he managed to smile back.
“Well, I hope it turns out okay,” Howie said sympathetically. “Damn! I hate the IRS. Hope you kick their butts!”
“Me too. We will, we will, Howie,” Jim vowed.
Howie nodded his head and waved, then ducked back into his bar. Jim sighed and continued walking down the street. He just couldn’t say that he was losing his bar. Losing his life. His stomach churned violently as he thought about that. He leaned heavily against a parking meter to his right and closed his eyes. Somehow, the street was still visible, and there in the gutter laid a man, unshaven, unwashed, ragged clothes, and clutching a worn, brown paper bag with a bottle in it tightly against his chest. The blue eyes were unmistakable. A clean-shaven, strict-looking cop came up and violently kicked the derelict in the side.
“Git up, boy! Git yer hippie ass off our street!” the cop screamed.
The man coughed and spit something out of his mouth. “I’m not a hippie! I, I’m a soldier!”
The officer laughed loudly. “Yeah, yeah, sure ya’ll are. So march yo’self off this street and outta mah sight.”
The drunk tried to move, but the policeman put a foot on his shoulder and pushed him back down. “What? Loiterin’? Well, we kin do somethin’ ‘bout that.”
The cop kicked him once more, then grabbed his shoulders and spun him over onto his stomach before clamping a pair of tight handcuffs on him.
Jim shook his head, straightened up, and continued walking down the street. It was at Congress Avenue that he was brought out of his reverie. Luckily, someone yelled at him before he stepped into the street and in front of an approaching bus. The bus driver gave him a perturbed stare, but drove on. As soon as the light changed, Jim hurried across the street. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but for some reason felt compelled to continue west. Why, he didn’t know. It didn’t matter to him anyway, he just wanted to walk to try and clear his head, although so far, it only seemed to make it worse.
He walked one more block to Colorado, then took a right and walked up a small hill. After two more blocks, he understood. Diagonally across the street from him was the U.S. Courthouse. The very place his lawyer had come from only a short while ago to tell them the bad news. He stood for over two minutes just staring at the building. At first, he was slightly dazed. This was the place his case had been decided. This was the place that the United States decided he would have to surrender all he had ever worked for to them. Even though he had killed dozens of people for them! Lost a finger for them. Watched so many of his friends die for them. Even so, they demanded more. Now they wanted what had made him human after all those years of living like an animal. They wanted the one thing that had brought a little order back into his life.
They wanted his bar.
Even though the streets around Jim whirred with activity, he believed the area around the courthouse to be oddly calm. No mass crowds, just the occasional one or two people who would walk in or out every few minutes. The building itself seemed very peaceful and serene—almost picturesque. It was a cream-colored, limestone building with several small plots of grass that bordered the sidewalk and was shaded by numerous large live oak trees. Jim thought the structure looked like a picture from the ‘40s. A deceiving picture though, for he knew from his preliminary hearings that the interior included the typical federal, cold tile, shiny floors and sterile offices which made the place appropriate for the unfeeling, callous proceedings that occurred there daily.
“So calm, yet so uncaring,” Jim said to himself.
A man in a business suit glanced sideways at him but didn’t pause, perhaps assuming Jim to be the typical freak who wandered the streets during the day while all the upright citizens were hard at work. For although Jim could afford any style of clothes he wanted, he still opted for the jeans, cowboy boots and tie-less shirt style that was the calling card of the laid-back set in Austin of the ‘80s. Jim forgot momentarily about his problems as he stared at the businessman and sneered his disapproval. To him the man represented the snobbish-style that was slowly taking over the city. Dallasization, he called it. A feeling of superiority directed at the old-timers who still harked back to the old days of the late ‘60s and early ‘70s when it wasn’t unusual to see a high-powered exec walking down the street in jeans, suit jacket, open-collar shirt and cowboy hat.
“Yuppie scum,” Jim whispered quietly.
About to turn and walk back to The Library, a strange image popped into Jim’s mind. He saw a wall, hands racing quickly over it, placing something on it, then fixing a wire.
“Remember, at least one-and-a-half pounds of charge for each foot of concrete,” the Sarge said. “And don’t forget that you want them to go off simultaneously. That way it’ll shatter the structure, not just weaken it.”
Jim looked over his shoulder, but the Sarge wasn’t there. No one was there. He rubbed his temple and groaned.
“No, not again. I’m over that,” he whispered.
He turned and looked at the courthouse again. Yes, yes, that was it. It was too calm. A place that wreaked havoc on people’s lives, yet presented itself as being peaceful. It wasn’t right, he thought, there should be bedlam. But no demolitions. No, that was their game, not his. He would not resort to violence.
He crossed Colorado Street to the Brown Building, just across from the courthouse. Walking in, he easily found the public phones and grabbed the 1984 Austin Yellow Pages. His breathing became more rapid as he raced through the blue pages looking for the number. “Government Offices-United States” was the last entry in the blue pages. There were dozens of categories, and not knowing which to look for, it took him a few moments before he finally settled on “Judicial Branch-US Court of Appeals-5th Circuit.” It had the correct street address, just across from him, so he guessed it had to be the one he wanted. But which of the many numbers? Because the “Clerk, US District Court” seemed more general than any of the others, he decided to try that one. Unfortunately, another man used the phone next to his, so he had to wait for him to leave. Not an easy task. In the past, he always considered himself patient, but now that quality eluded him. In fact, he actually began to sweat, and he hoped the man didn’t notice, or notice that Jim seemed overly nervous. No, no easy clues for anyone to trace, he thought.
“Think through every single aspect of the mission,” Captain Haines would say. “Down to what you’re going to do with your garbage, what to do if someone farts. Everything.”
Jim pretended to be confused as he searched the phone book for another number, until finally the intruder left. After checking around the lobby once more, he put a quarter in the phone and dialed. A woman answered.
“Clerk’s office,” she said dryly.
Jim took a deep breath to calm his nerves, and quickly glanced around once more to check for any nearby ears. No one stood close enough to hear him. “There’s a bomb in your office,” he whispered, trying to make his voice sound ominous and serious. “It’s going off in five minutes.”
There was a brief pause, and Jim knew she was only slightly taken aback. Surely, they got these every now and then. “Listen, this isn’t funny,” she said.
“No fun intended,” Jim said, letting his voice crack for effect.
She now sounded much more interested than when she first answered, and Jim felt pleased he had garnered at least some concern, even if slight. “Why would you want to do this?” she pleaded.
Jim paused. She’s trying to get him to talk, find out more, help the phone company trace him. He smiled. It all began to feel familiar. “Heh, heh, you’ve now got four minutes until a lot of people die.”
He hung up the phone before she could say anything more, try to delay him again. The more he talked, the more likely she would doubt him, he thought, now she would have to make a decision. Her first impulse would be that it was a hoax. Probably had one a week. But then would follow the next obvious thought: what if this was the one? Also, she’d have to decide if the guy calling was a real psycho who might be watching for a reaction. If the people didn’t respond at all, the psycho might become incensed and do something even more violent. A lot to decide in such a short time period. Jim guessed she would have no choice. She would have to report it, have to do something. She couldn’t risk the loss of life just because she had some doubts. She had a minute to decide, and then would have to react.
Jim played with the phone book again. He couldn’t rush out and just stand around to see what happened. That would be suspicious behavior. He’d have to wait a few minutes, casually stroll out and see what the results were, then continue on, only giving any disturbance slight attention. As he thumbed through the phone book, he noticed there was a tingling at the back of his neck, so he rolled his head to knock it out. He then realized he not only liked the feeling, but also recognized it. He felt giddy, but his breathing had slowed down and he had stopped sweating. Interesting how quickly some old behaviors just kick in, he thought. It always felt like this before a mission. He’d be nervous beforehand, and there would undoubtedly be those breathless moments during it—such as when he was just feet away from a VC—but soon the adrenaline felt normal and pleasant, and his thoughts became perfectly clear as far as what to do and what was going down. A sweet high they all called it. You didn’t feel normal, but you definitely felt good.
After faking another call, he hung up the phone and casually walked out of the Brown Building. A large group of people gathered in front of the courthouse, and he could hear a bell going off through the open door of that building. They had set off the fire alarm to clear the building. None of the crowd looked nervous or worried, and he figured they were either used to these things or were just glad to have a reason to get away from their desks. Maybe both. At least now the building looked right though. Not pandemonium, but at least not sedate either.
He smiled and walked back to Colorado Street, then retraced his steps back to The Library. The trip back seemed so much shorter, and part of the way there he cheerily sung an old Beatles tune. Yes, the effect of this drug lasted until opening time an hour later, and as he always loved working in his bar, he never noticed that the effect had worn off until the next morning.
END CHAPTER I