CHAPTER FIVE

The sweeper was enjoying his vacation and so far none of his old bosses at the Centre had called him. Well skip, Mr. Parker. He was in the bottom of the North Sea. The old neighborhood looked the same as it always had. Everyone liked him, the appearance he gave of a successful businessman and the money he put into his old place was welcome.

The Centre gave its employees yearly vacations, but staggered those of the Sweepers. He had not taken a vacation for four years, and so his vacation time of two months a year had accumulated. Two time four equals eight months plus sick leave and holidays, leaves a year.

As a senior sweeper he had more than the usual two weeks, and one month of the others. Only a few had the same privilege and that included Gar who was dead.

He did try to contact his friend to tell him that he was coming back, but found the one on the other end had a different voice, one he did not recognize. Raines had entrusted him to help recruit the new sweepers and this one was not one he had any part in hiring.

Part of the Centre policy was to destroy any evidence of those hired to watch and kill, the Sweepers and the Cleaners. He knew when he joined the Centre that he had to be willing to die for The Centre, but so far no one had approached him with gun in hand, ready to shoot.

"So your old bosses didn't give you a call?" asked the man on the sofa besides him.

"No."

"Well my woman and I don't mind you paying for rent, but there comes a time."

"A time, Johnny. We were in the war, together."

"Did you give them a call?" John stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray.

"I did."

"And now you're going skiing Why not try football? You were good in college."

He smiled. "Because I want to go skiing". He grabbed his jacket and went out the door.

He was always trying out new things and because of the Centre expense account, he didn't have to worry about finances. Of course, not all his abilities were in recruitment. Some the Centre especially favored and paid him well for them. When he was in the army, he was in the Rangers, a crack shot, and could extract information from prisoners. The latter had got him dishonorably discharged. He went too far and often followed up on his threats — unlike the others who believed that it was okay to tell that Commie that they had his wife and children and if the prisoner didn't give the correct information, his family would die. Them they would have a change of heart, although often the prisoner knew that he'd see his family many years later. Only The now Sweeper, former Army Ranger, never changed his mind. In fact, he killed the wife and kids, often before the lieutenant brought in the prisoner for interrogation. That ruthlessness was what caused the Centre to recruit him. They were looking for men with no conscience and able to obey orders.

Of course, he was careful not to fight like Sam had, and kill his opponent, and to put the blame on some other poor dude by accusing him of misconduct and dishonoring the Geneva Convention. He even caused one to commit suicide. However, unlike the army administration, the Centre knew about him and when the time was right, gave the army just enough information for them to doubt his credibility and he having a Nazi grandfather helped them immensely.

For security, he put on his shoulder holster before he left the building. He couldn't stand having his old friend berate him on his choice of extra curricular activities, but he had no choice. As of yet, he hadn't gotten a call back from the Centre nor from his employers.

He did not know whether the old man was dead or alive. Their birth certificates, death certificates, etc. were in the Centre. Being on protected ground, the Centre could do that. Once you were employed in the Centre, you were considered no longer an American, but a citizen of the Centre.

Of course, if you had to work on the outside, that is, not in one of the Centre satellites, they gave you back your id papers, and you could take holidays, or live anywhere else until such time as they called you back. You got amply financially rewarded, a luxurious home, an immense expense account, and all the freedom you wanted. You got weapons and if you killed anyone, it was covered up. You got to travel wherever you wanted and whenever, under certain guidelines.

However, he had gotten quite a large sum of money from his employers and did not feel the need to go to the New York bank he dealt with under his American id. Since no one, other than those The Centre dealt with directly knew he was a sweeper, the Centre had a cover story. His employer was a large corporation who had a large and loyal staff. To all who knew him, his parents supposedly had died and left him a considerable sum of money which he invested wisely. This was a good thing because he had no head for business, and would be stuck in middle management for the rest of his life.

In The Centre world, all its employees of the same group were to vacation at the same time. Thus all the lawyers went off to the South of France together. All doctors went off to England together, and so on. The Centre, however, did not have to worry. It had the Pretenders who filled in, albeit at no pay and under compulsion.

And of course, there were those who were of dual citizenship, the Parkers for instance, held citizenship in Scotland, France, United States, and the Centre. That lawyer, Lambourni held citizenship in Mexico, United States, and now the Centre. The nurse, Miss Batlosky held citizenship in Russia and the Centre. And such never gave up their papers. It was an inconvenience to type out a new form for these, but necessary.

The Centre was a no man's land. No one outside of the Blue Cove, except for that Jarod and his family, knew it existed.

Thinking of this made him concerned. His employer should have contacted him, but there was no word. He got in his car, took out his cell phone, and called once more.

But the same unfamiliar voice answered the phone.

"He is no longer here," came the unfamiliar voice. "He had a relapse of his lung cancer and is now in semi retirement."

"That doesn't sound like him."

"Well you can ask the doctor," insisted the one with the unfamiliar voice.

"So who's in charge now? Lyle?"

"Miss Parker and Lambourni"

"Lambourni? He's not a Parker."

"I believe Miss Parker made him an honorary one. He has that killer instinct so he qualifies."

"Well tell them that I'll be in tomorrow morning."

"Thank you."

Before he could say anything, the speaker disconnected.

So Miss Parker's in charge, and made Lambourni an honorary Parker. I guess that baby Parker's too young. Lambourni must be the regent., ah a male influence, he thought.

The moon was hidden behind the clouds, and the streets mingled with the sounds of chatter, mostly young and boastful. There was a club open he liked to attend. It had a cover charge and catered to the professional and successful as long as they were black.

However it expected correct change. Too many people tried to get in by saying, "We'll pay you later." And the bouncers guarding it were the type that the Centre would recruit, very dangerous.

It played jazz and middle of the road, some reggae, a variety that didn't include rap. The clients were thirty and above, his type of people, successful Blacks who despised those who had not reached their pinnacle of success.

He cursed Johnny for still living in the old neighborhood. Certainly he could not go into one of the old family run stores and ask for change for one thousand. He doubted anyone had seen such. He had put most of his cash into a savings account using his American id but since he expected to return to the Centre any time soon, had not bothered with his passport, visa or other registrations.

He drove around outside of the neighborhood until he came to a store that looked well almost successful. There were two cars parked in front and the owner seemed to be busy with two customers. The other shoppers were a mixed bag. This was a working class neighborhood, changing from all white to ethnic so he counted two youths, the ones at the front, a midde-aged woman of Polish descent, a man in a business suit, white haired and Anglo Saxon, and a child of three who clung to her mother, looking anxiously at the youths.

He entered the store, just as the youths turned towards him with a look of surprise for one of them recognized him.

"Cab?" he asked, seeing something shiney hidden in the boy's pocket.

"So you're one of them," shouted the proprietor, reaching for something in his drawer. "Well that's the last time you'll get anything from me!"

Instinctively he reached for his gun. It was a fatal mistake.

Thinking that the sweeper was about to kill him, the proprietor shot.

Willie clutched his heart as his life ebbed away, thinking that he should have gone out in a more glorious manner, perhaps defending the Centre, perhaps capturing Jarod, but this. Not This! Getting caught and mistaken in a simple robbery of a grocery store. How ironic!