Hidden Embers: Mist Over Monticello

HIDDEN EMBERS

Mist Over Monticello (part one)

by Bevie James

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The door opened. A short, husky man dressed in a suit emerged. Looking around he saw but one person: an aged old man with a long white beard hanging against his chest. The burgundy robe made him look priestly. The short man left the security of the building and hurried to the man in red. “Did anyone see you?”
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“No,” the old man’s voice sounded like a crackling fire. “Why do we have to meet here?”
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“What’s wrong?”
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“It’s filthy! Look at the ground. You’ve got oil spills.”
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The man gazed down. A large stain of oil covered a significant area around the dumpsters.
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“Damn garbage trucks!”
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“If you would like, I can clean it up for you,” said the old man. He spit wad of flame down and it sizzled into the oil. “It’ll cost you extra, though.”
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The man considered for a moment and then shook his head.
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“No. I’ll get one of my employees to clean it up later. Now, what about our deal? Is he willing to do business?”
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The old man spit another fire wad. “He’s willing. But it’s going to cost you more than you offered.”
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“How much more?”
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Another spit. “Five thousand.”
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The man gasped and shook his head. “Five thousand! I haven’t got twenty-five thousand dollars!”
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Spit. “Then you haven’t got a deal.”
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The old man started to leave.
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“Wait!” The old man returned. “I’ll pay it.”
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The old man chuckled and spit again. “So you have it after all?”
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“I can get it, but it’ll break me if he’s not successful.”
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“Oh, he’ll be successful, all right. No need to concern yourself with that.” The old man spit again, and again the oil sizzled.
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“I have to be concerned. If that light rail goes through I’ll lose all of my business. They’ll all go to St. Cloud. I can’t afford that. I’ll lose everything.”
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“Don’t worry. When Wafula finishes, they’ll abandon all plans for light rail.” Spit.
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The man hesitated, as if having second doubts. “Where will he strike?”
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“Does it matter?” Spit.
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“I – I just was wondering. That’s all.”
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“Monticello.”
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“Monticello! But there’s a nuclear power plant there.”
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The old man smiled and spit again. “So there is. We’ll act when we have the money. You know where to bring it?”
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The man nodded. “The Crow River, just outside Rogers. I’m to drop it over the side as I drive over the bridge.”
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“Be sure you do,” said the old man. He made one last wad of flame and spit it into the center of the oil slick. “I’ll clean that up for you. For a thousand.”
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“No. I’ll get an employee to do it.”
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The old man walked away and the man in the suit reentered the building. After they left the oil stain began to move. It coagulated into the form of a man and eventually showed itself to be a man in costume. The man looked down at the spit stains.
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“Shi’it, man. I just washed this.” .