Date: Wed, 06 Jul 2011 11:19:17 -0600
From: applesandpears@hushmail.com
Subject: A Little Revolution: Jackson

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and make any other comments or requests, to Adrian at:

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Editor's Note: Naturally, this is all fiction, don't take it seriously,
don't fuck your kids, etc., or anyone else`s. We don't live in this
world. If you have a hard time telling fantasy from reality, seek
professional help.


CHAPTER TWO-JACKSON

It was still a dive bar.

The area along Esplanade had gentrified since Katrina, as folks bought up
the old places and went all DIY, priced out of the Quarter and the Garden
District. But that was mostly on the other side of Rampart. This here was
the north side, technically the Treme not the Marigny, and while some
signs of order and money had appeared, there were still pockets of seedy
like this long low building. On a hot summer afternoon they gave up on the
A/C and threw open the doors, the brilliant wet light not reaching very far
into the shadowy interior of the space, the wisps of steamy air no match
against the old smell of beer, mold and puke. Jackson sat there, at three
in the afternoon, drinking a Jamison's with a beer chaser. He didn't raise
his head as a shadow fell across the doorway. Or when a man folded onto the
next barstool, despite all the empty spaces. He paid attention only when
the man ordered a sazarac in the clipped accent of the French professional
class.

Beaulieu hadn't aged in the three years since he'd seen him. He had been
old then, but he was no older now. A thin man, tall for his generation, he
had that long satisfied hook-nosed face of a French bureaucrat. He wore a
lightweight cream suit, perfectly cut, a thin pale pink cotton shirt, an
impressively knotted wide silk tie in sky blue. Despite the heat he wasn't
sweating, but smelled of talcum powder.

"Beaulieu".

"Jackson".

"Long way".

"I always wanted to see New Orleans."

"How do you find it?"

"It would be lovely if it wasn't attached to America".

"Yeah. That's about it."

Jackson sipped his drink. He couldn't for the life of him figure out why a
senior official in the Gendarmerie Nationale would have traveled five
thousand miles to speak to him.

"And you, you are enjoying it, being stationed here?"

"It's as good a place as any."

"And the work?"

"I chase stolen cars across the Caribbean. In Belize they announce on the
local news before my team shows up at the airport, so everyone remembers to
change their license plates."

Beaulieu let out a rich chuckle.

"Ah, wasted talent. I know a thing about that."

"Tell my bosses you think I'm talented. Maybe they might listen."

"They won't."

"No. That's why I'm wondering why the hell you are here."

Beaulieu sipped his sazarac, the original cocktail. He ran his tongue over
his lips with pleasure. Even a dive bar in NOLA could make a decent
sazarac.

"In the last meeting of our task force, you said that he would come to
Europe next. That having escaped you, he would likely be our problem. You
were right."

Jackson felt his stomach flop. He had to use every once of nerve not to
turn and stare.

"How do you know?"

"The same signs you found before. But now they point to France, or maybe
Spain. Smith is in my country, I fear."

"I'm sorry."

"I know you are. That is why I am here."

"You're wasting your time. Smith is officially dead in the Bureau's
eyes. The Deputy Director told me directly before he busted me down here
that if I raised the 'Smith Scenario' again, I would not be seeing my
pension."

"They think it is your own obsession, yes. Your, how do you say, paranoid
fantasy?"

"That's exactly how they said it."

"I didn't believe that then, Jackson. I don't now. Smith is in my
country. Doing what he did in yours."

From down the street, the long low wail of a trombone disturbed the moist
air. A siren sounded in the distance. A cricket sang a love song. Light
flashed off a dull iron balustrade. Jackson could feel the wet and heat off
the walls, the sweat under his collar.

"I wish I could help."

"You can."

"The Bureau.."

"Excuse me Jackson, but fuck your Bureau. This matters more."

Jackson let out a long sigh and finished his shot of Jamison. When the
bartender reached for the bottle he raised a hand to stop him.

"How?"

"Your mother."

"My mother?"

"As the son of a French national, you are entitled to citizenship in the
Republic. As a full citizen of the Republic, you may serve in the capacity
of law enforcement."

"I waived my right to French citizenship when I was eighteen."

"It is the state that grants that right. We decide."

"Duel citizenship? I'd have to leave the Bureau."

"Of course. You would have to come work for me. With all your pension and
benefits intact, and a small but significant increase in your wage. Europe
is expensive, Jackson."

"Work for the Gendarmerie?"

"A special multi-national unit created in Brussels with one task. To go
after Smith. I want you with us Jackson. You know him better then anyone"

Beaulieu lifted a large envelope from his briefcase at his feet. He opened
it. It contained a French passport with his name and photo, and a police
identification also with his photo, identifying him as a special inspector
in the Gendarmerie Nationale.

"It is only a matter of some paperwork" Beaulieu said, pulling a two inch
stack from the envelope, the French bureaucrat to the end.

"It is a large decision Jackson. You can never go back. But I would let you
do what you want to do more then anything."

"That is?"

"Hunt Smith. Hunt Smith with the resources of the Union Europeanne. Hunt
Smith with my protection, and no interference from the cursed F.B.I."

Jackson finished the beer. He looked around, as if noticing his
surroundings for the first time, not the hundredth.

"But I'd be giving up all this".

Beaulieu's ancient lined face cracked into a wide smile.

"I always did like you, Jackson. Together, we will find and destroy the
most prolific and devious child exploiter in history. It will be my last
act as a police, and your greatest."

Jackson knew it was a line, but still, it stirred something deep in him,
the old rage and fury he had spent three years trying to drown in the
brackish brown liquor of New Orleans. It only took a fraction of a second
to decide.

"On-y-va, then."

*     *     *