Chapter 3, Part 2

 The Blind Beggar

Kelly Armstrong entered her father’s pub briskly, the thick wooden door going back to blocking the outside light as it shut.  She hung her backpack on one of the adjacent wall’s brass coatrack hooks and counted four familiar jackets, one with a purse.  The noise of the distant vid screen punctuated the discussions from those four patrons at two of the small round-tops.  The cleaning bot worked off in a distant corner.

Kelly pulled her hair into a customary ponytail, the soft neon lights neatly accenting its reddish brown hew.  She proceeded behind the counter and grabbed a small towel from underneath. The bar itself almost threatened to engulf her small frame.  But, what Kelly lacked in height, she more than compensated with force of personality.

Kelly’s father inherited the watering hole from his father and his father from his father before him.  The line went back to time immemorial it seemed.  The legend behind the pub’s origins had long become lost in the historical ebbs of the community.  A time did not exist, nevertheless, when The Blind Beggar did not serve as one of those hidden treasure dives, forever favored by locals but remaining relatively unknown to unsuspecting travelers.  Yet, the roster of visitors formed a practical collection of who’s who at almost any point in history one could name, which the collection of photographs covering a far wall more than testified.

She paused and looked at one picture in particular.  She studied it while tying a small apron about her waist:  in it, her umpteenth great-great grandfather stood behind this same bar.  The camera caught him laughing, wiping his hands on a towel as he talked to a young man. That young man’s face should have appeared as clear as crystal but, for some unknown reason, had blurred.  Odd, since his body stood in perfect focus.

That particular visit of course occurred many generations ago.  A sheriff, Adam Meiks, from a not too distant county had popped-in while passing through Hendersonville.  He stayed at the pub and visited with several locals as they came and left. Charming, affable, well-liked, he talked with each and every one as well as Kelly’s great-grandfather, and he did so well into the evening. When Sheriff Meiks finally departed, after swapping tales for hours, he firmly shook the hand of Kelly’s grandfather.  Meiks then clasped him by the arm and leaned forward to whisper “You’re a good man.”

The next day, when Hendersonville’s own local sheriff found Eugene, a distant relative of Eddy McNally, dead, murdered in fact by blows from an axe and his body simply left in a cabin, the event didn’t strike anyone as particularly bizarre, given the family’s colorful background – except maybe for the one fact nothing appeared missing – that is, it remained unremarkable until a story broke several years after the visit.  The public came to learn that Sheriff Adam Meiks was a son of the original “Hand of God Killer,” a murderous spree Adam apparently continued.

Eugene McNally had indeed also visited the pub that fateful day and also swapped tales with Sheriff Meiks along with everyone else. Oddly enough, however, no one, who visited the pub, nor Kelly’s great grandfather, could remember what Meiks actually looked like.

‘Guess it was a good thing I was a good man’ Kelly’s great grandfather would then joke.  It probably didn’t need saying that no one around Hendersonville particularly mourned the loss of a McNally – except maybe the Phelpses.  When the investigation re-opened, they concluded that Eugene had simply become another statistic of this serial killer, and the picture’s obscurity deftly symbolized the mystery behind the whole affair.

Kelly smiled at her older sister Rebekah, who wiped down the counter’s far end.  Rebekah stood about a head taller than Kelly with hair slightly shorter but accented considerably more red.  No one, however, would mistake them for not being sisters. Kelly tucked the end of the towel she had grabbed in her back pocket and checked the ice bins. 

The counter top betrayed the bar’s age, and the stories it could tell would no doubt prove legendary.  Still, a mere ten stools commanded its length, and it possessed an old fashioned brass railing. It had just enough space for intimate gatherings.  The main floor sported but six small tables. ‘Personable’, her father would often say – not too big nor too small.  The place also maintained its share of regulars.

Kelly glanced about the room. Two men sat at one round-top discussing something apparently rather intense. She counted four empty mugs and two others more than half full.  Another couple sat more quietly nearby, he watching the news on the vid screen, she worked away on a P.A.D.D.  Her wine glass appeared almost full while Kelly noted his whisky on the rocks (or scotch or bourbon) would soon need refilled.   Kelly also noticed the news ticker feed mentioned the recent death of yet another serial killer while the anchor announced a new space program or something called Jupiter.  The outside door opened, and Rebekah greeted the new arrival.

Kelly’s father preferred to keep the atmosphere subdued, dim but not too dark, the shadows kept at bay, punched by lights from the occasional neon sign and that one large vid screen kept primarily to accommodate the many sporting events patrons liked to watch. Much money would change hands on those days.  Smartly decorated with wooden panels and spouting a worn wooden floor, the pub also contained an archaic ‘juke box’, though it seldom found use.  Most of the boisterous activity revolved around the periodic poker games – games, which a certain Jon Burcham never failed to miss … if ever.

“Ladies,” an older man nodded while planting himself on the bar stool just to Kelly’s right. He placed a cigar in his mouth. “Jim Beam Black. Neat.”

Kelly smiled to herself as she reached for the bottle behind her. “You come here practically every day, Ron. And, you order the same thing practically every time.”  She flipped over a glass and started to pour. “And, you always want three fingers.”

Ron grunted an affirmation as he lit his cigar.  Kelly slid the glass in front of him.

Ron kept his salt and pepper hair short, if not a bit disheveled.  The pronounced lines on his darkly tanned, seasoned skin revealed to even the casual observer a hard life filled no doubt with considerable mileage.  He always seemed garbed in flannel shirts and well-worn denim. His stocky yet quite muscular frame let everyone around him know that he could handle himself.  The thick stubble on his face neatly accented his square jawline. Kelly could not remember a time when Ron did not frequent the pub.  She would often make-up stories for her regulars, and she pictured Ron on some distant oil rig or a fishing trawler.  She made a mental note to have a small brass plaque in his honor placed on that stool the day he ceased to visit.

Rebekah tossed her towel on the counter beside Kelly and stepped toward them. “Did you hear?” She asked looking at them both. “The Cannonball Run’s been moved up a couple of weeks this year?  Rumor has it that Jamie Blake and Morris Fenderbaum will participate this time.”

Kelly frowned. “You know I don’t follow open wheeled racing.”

“Nascar,” Ron interjected, the smoke swirling around his head.

“Damn straight,” Kelly nodded. They bumped fists.

Rebekah rolled her eyes slightly.

“Besides,” Kelly retorted. “Didn’t he retire?”

“Jamie? Oh, some time ago, but this is the Cannonball.” Rebekah placed a small cutting board on the counter. “So tell me,” she continued as she prepared to slice some limes. “How was school?” The knife hit the board splitting the first one.

“School.”

Rebekah paused cutting. “Well, don’t leave me hanging, sis. Anything interesting happen?” Rebekah continued to slice.

“It’s Hawkins,” Kelly sighed.  She placed both hands on the counter. “You know, never a dull moment. Oh, there was a fight in the library this morning-“

“Before classes?” Rebekah interrupted. “Nice.”

“Oh, and Gwen talked to some new boy from Doss.”

“Get out!” Rebekah laughed.

“You ‘get out’. I think his name is Nathan.  He had just saved her from a falling bookshelf knocked over during the scuffle. Real hero stuff there. All of this happened in front of Shane too.”

“This Nathan cute?”

“Adorable,” Kelly popped, then checked herself.  “Well, if you go for that whole clean-cut, dirty blond athletic thing.”

Rebekah smiled. “Good for her. Smart?”

“Well, Bekah, I didn’t have time to review his resume, but, tell you what, I’ll request it from Matt first thing tomorrow.” She folded her arms. “Though, now that I think about it, I believe this Nathan was one of those kids involved in the stabbing at the Doss football game last year.”  She shook her head. “At least, those were the rumors floating around by lunch time. He also apparently tangled with Todd during gym.”

“So, a new bad boy?”

Ron smirked while taking a drink from his glass.

“I don’t think so,” Kelly mused.  “Though Matt went out of his way to become his pal awfully fast.”

Rebekah finished the last of the limes and wiped the blade of the knife with her towel. “And how is Mr. McClane?”

“Nosy, as ever.”  Kelly held-up the bottle of Jim Beam again, and Ron nodded at his empty glass.

“You ask him out yet?” Rebekah almost whispered.  She glanced at Kelly from the corners of her eyes, smiling. “He ask you?”

“Will you give it a rest?” Kelly snapped with exaggerated irritation.  She poured Ron another drink.

“I can write down instructions, if you wish.”

This time, Kelly rolled her eyes and returned the bottle to its place. “Matt’s far too busy filling Peter’s shoes.”  She opened the beer chiller.  “But I will wager real money it’ll be that new kid. Seems Matt introduced him to the Tai-Pan at lunch.”

“’Drama’,” Rebekah mouthed at her. “It also tells me that you’ve been keeping tabs on Matt.”

Kelly grunted as she closed the bin. “Why do I bother telling you anything?”

“Because,” Rebekah grinned once more.  She turned to face Kelly. “That little club of theirs excites you. It did me too.  And, need I remind you, the ‘O’ runs shit through this place-“

“Which reminds me,” Kelly interrupted. She promptly turned and marched toward her backpack.

“-and it’s good for business,” Rebekah added after her.

Kelly returned with her P.A.D.D. “Did those cases of wine come-in?”

Rebekah leaned against the bar. “Why yes, yes they did. I already set aside the case you need.”

“Good.” Kelly nodded and tapped a couple of times on the P.A.D.D.’s screen.   She glanced over. “Hey, Ron. You wouldn’t happen to know where one could get metal anodized, do you?”

Ron gazed into his glass, puffing on his cigar, his elbows planted firmly on the counter, seemingly lost in thought.

Kelly took a step toward him. “Some place local, I mean.”

Ron continued to look into his class.

“RON!”

He shifted his eyes and, not moving, squinted at Kelly.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Kelly asked, holding up her arms at him.

Ron grunted.

“Do you ever listen to us?”

Ron finished the last of his second drink. “Most of the time … no.”

Kelly glared.

“Aw, now pretty girl, I don’t listen to anyone much anymore. Gets me in trouble. Got me in trouble. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt.” He took a puff from his cigar. “I did my time. I went where they told me to go. I did what they told me to do. I have the scars to prove it. Now, I just want to mind my own business and watch the sun set.” He slid his glass toward her. “And, yes, I have a buddy, who can help you.”

Kelly smiled gleefully and reached for the bottle again.  Her P.A.D.D. lit-up as she poured. She glanced to Rebekah. “Where’s that case?”

Rebekah pointed toward the rear door, adjacent the restrooms.

Ron pointed his cigar at Kelly. “Take the advice of an old man,” he said when Kelly started around the counter. “Life’s short. Take it by the horns. Don’t let go. This Matt fella, like him? Tell him.” Kelly paused right beside him. He puffed the cigar again.  “Never let the world make anything ‘too late’ for you.” He turned to look at her. “Or don’t.” He took a drink.

Kelly hit Ron in the shoulder softly.  She bounded to the case of wine and made a second mental note to follow-up this conversation with Ron. She simply had to know his backstory now. Funny, all this time, since she was a little girl, and they had never really talked.  Weren’t bartenders supposed to be the first ones in which people confided?

“Dames,” Ron sighed as Kelly disappeared out the back door with the case of wine.

“Men,” Rebekah shot back.

“Whatever,” Ron whispered and took another drink.

Kelly watched as a red, white canopied and slightly beat-up 4x4 pick-up came to a halt next to her in the parking lot.  The canopy, she noticed, proved just a bit too large for the bed.  She shrugged – at least this person had transportation.

Kelly smiled at the young lady, who emerged. Petite and just a tad shorter than Kelly, this girl wore tight faded jeans and old fashioned converse tennis shoes.  She also donned a dark zip-up hoody sweatshirt.

The girl pulled her hood down as she rounded the front of the truck.  She kept her hair cropped quite short, and it appeared a tad redder than Kelly’s own – more like her sister’s hair.  Meh, a serious number of redheads around here suddenly, Kelly thought. Granted, none of them were ‘MJ’ red, but aren’t we gingers supposed to be a rare treasure? This young girl also sported a round face with just a hint of freckles. Cute as a button, Kelly observed, just suggesting a tomboy like quality to boot. Someone would undoubtedly find that combination irresistible.

“Thank-you,” the girl almost sighed. “You really saved us for this weekend.” She lowered the tail door to her truck.

“My pleasure, Miss … ?”

“Denaro. The name is Mel Denaro.”

Interlude I: William Matthew McClane on Nathaniel Bartholomew Baird

Painting Nathan Baird’s actions and practices within the ‘O’, or at CS Hawkins, as unique to ‘Nathan Baird’ would create a false image.  The role of ‘Chief of Staff’, as well as the manic enthusiasms of the couple of Deputies, whom they select to cluster, runs back to the beginning of the O’s history. The students, who sought the power of the Tai-Pan, learned quickly to use trusted lieutenants to organize the Organization and then make the Tai-Pan’s personal appeal to all students from the varying high schools about Hendersonville and the immediately neighboring cities.

In fact, Jamie Addison (the 2nd Tai-Pan) served in effect as the Chief of Staff for Timothy Charleson. Martin Burke (the 7th Tai-Pan) first organized the staff of Andy Wilson (the 6th Tai-Pan). One indelible mark, however, which Nathan left on the ‘O’, partly due to his rather unique situation as well as lack of desire (in that he never challenged Richard), remains not succeeding to the role of Tai-Pan. That task should have fallen to Peter.

One can nonetheless draw a direct line from the past Tai-Pans practices to the present day beginning only with the 71st Tai-Pan: Troy Milton, a rather large boy with glossy chestnut hair. His career in the ‘O’ began as a sophomore Chief of Staff for James Bardeaux.  Milton meticulously kept Bardeaux’s schedule and ran a very tight ship.  When Troy found zeal he thought deficient, he personally signed a Circular (internal memo) exhorting his own Deputy “to push things.”

The connection from Troy Milton to Nathaniel Baird stretches for generations as well as the many other Chiefs of Staffs, who all made “their mark” on the Organization’s history.  Nathan Baird, however, probably proved the ablest of them all – and different (though, understandably, I might be somewhat biased here; I recruited him after-all). So, though, were the students’ lives by the time of our Administration. So, too, were the professional touches the ‘O’ required at that time. Like Troy Milton learned, Nathan too learned (all too quickly) that one had “to push things.”

The Organization does not recognize any conflict between ends and means.  The ends forever remain to win, to obtain victory, and, as in war, the means do not matter. The ‘O’ will not tolerate and has never tolerated the squeamish – and that will forever remain its dark underside.

A man of great charm when friendly and total ruthlessness when frustrated, Nathaniel Baird becomes quite impressive in either mood.  Lithe, graceful, his body moving with an athlete’s suppleness, soft of voice (when required) but capable of booming presence (when needed), Nathan was far more handsome with his dirty blond hair cut long than when he (occasionally) wore it crewcut  and flat-topped, and he could terrify the Organization either way when necessary.

The Bairds had become an established (if not broken) family by the time Nathan attended CS Hawkins.  He was sixteen generation Tennessean, and his mother’s side of the family had lived for centuries in the mountainous regions between Tennessee and Kentucky. Above all, however, the Bairds – and Nathan – were patriots.

Nathaniel Baird, as remembered by his family and friends (me among them), did not enjoy “politics,” nor had he become particularly active locally. He did volunteer, when time permitted, for community service (though not generally known to this day), and he thoroughly enjoyed his time playing soccer – football, as he would insist – as well as marching band and debate.  If he had any institutional commitments while in high school, then those commitments remained narrowly focused on those three institutions.

To the outside observer, Nathan possessed many intriguing qualities within his personality.  He had his endless work ethic, that sharp and quick mind with an insatiable desire to learn and almost encyclopedic recall.  He also had that professional administrator’s approach, which caused one student (whose name escapes me at the moment) to remark after his first meeting with Nathan “oh yes, he knows what the ‘O’ is all right, but does he know what it’s all about?”  But, as we would come to learn over the next four years, Nathan probably understood its purpose better than any one of us.

Loyalty stood out as the first and foremost of these qualities. Loyalty to his family, his relationships, his Country, his school – that is, to his vision of an efficient, well-ordered structure within the liberty and autonomy to act as needed (almost an outright contradiction).  Jeff Williams, one of his oldest friends, remembers, for example, Nathan’s devotion to marching band and his straightforward commitment of energy, talent, skills, and outreach, which prompted Jeff to remember Nathaniel with a personal fondness and admiration that make almost schizophrenic his abhorrence to what Nathan later became – what he had to become – to defeat the Cowboys.

Once part of the ‘O’, Nathan’s loyalty ran ultimately to Tai-Pan Richard Holst, above all other institutional loyalties (only Gwen, Suzanne, and Mel could and occasionally did trump it).  “Once he accepted the role, he became totally committed,” Jeff remarked to me one day. “A clear-cut case of hero worship, if I ever saw one, almost a wedding of minds.”  Nathan’s basic loyalty went to the man not the ‘O’, and certainly not even to the traditional processes of the required interactions. Holst became the institution during those turbulent times, and Nathan came to believe Richard remained absolutely indispensable to the future of the Organization.

To this quality of loyalty, I must add Nathan’s second quality: an almost blindingly puritanical discipline that governed his personal life, which affected the way he viewed other people.  He proved totally incorruptible, and possessed an unbending interpretation of what was “right” and what was “wrong.” He thus rigidly froze with his stinging sarcasm all those about him, whom he came to see failing in this respect.  It also led to many reckless and fool hearty actions on his part – and when faced with an impossible decision, it would cost him … dearly.  I still remain dumbfounded that Shane Phelps saw this quality first.

In addition to his loyalty and, for lack of a better term, self-righteousness, Nathan possessed a third quality: his intellectual preoccupation with technique. Rigid self-righteousness coupled with the cold, mechanical techniques of management could make Nathan the Man-of-Terror he became within the Organization during its greatest challenges in the aftermath of hurricane Alycia: unforgiving, cruel, and above all inflexible.  Only Mel would show capable of bending Nathan’s will there; something I think far too many overlook, when they side with Suzanne.

Nathan set the “inner style” of the ‘O’ within two weeks of accepting my invitation. It only took two more weeks for that style to move into full swing.  That style reflected Richard Holst, to be sure, and the man he ultimately chose as his first minister became Nathaniel Bartholomew Baird.  On a personal level, however, Richard could prove engaging, emotive, as well as remarkably kind and generous, and he could crack a mean joke.

"I can't seem to remember anything funny" probably remains one the most innocuous, self-reflective comments Nathan made to me after a staff meeting during those early days. "It's a definite failing I have. I can't even remember a good joke." Odd, considering Nathan loved to laugh.  Jon and I, on the other hand, soon had a running joke around Nathan, whenever he launched some "project" of the Tai-Pan: "It's yet another race between success and a cardiac."

“He doesn’t want to organize,” Nathan said of the Tai-Pan, “he needs to be organized.” Nathan simply proceeded to do what Richard Holst needed. And, yes, I fully supported Nathan in that respect.

Nathan saw to it everything was organized.

He organized ideas; he organized reactions, he organized the staff (and ruthlessly re-organized it when needed); he organized the Tai-Pan’s schedule; he organized the dissemination of the Tai-Pan’s desires; he organized how the Tai-Pan executed orders – in effect he organized the Organization to levels never before seen.  To accomplish this, Nathan needed to step on toes.  Unfortunately, this also meant that anything, which might have needed a light touch, would soon find itself crushed into superorganized pulp.

Once Nathan established himself, nothing went directly to the Tai-Pan ... ever.  Requests, suggestions, and appointments became "staffed out," which, to Nathan, meant "studied by the staff and, if possible, decided at a lower level," but sometimes would come to mean "responsibility irretrievably spread." Nevertheless, Nathan invited and sometimes demanded dissenting opinions. If you told Nathan something you could rest assured it went to the Tai-Pan persuasively, reduced to the essentials -- and that was Nathan's greatest talent and his most important role.

To their adventure together in the Organization, both Richard and Nathan would develop an almost unspoken code: the whole concept of “control.” They both had a belief that events can be, must be managed.

… and then came along the Cowboys.