The Voting Machine

The Man Cave

They let me off at the Waterman Avenue exit and I walked one mile north, to the neighborhood where my old friend Ned Santini lived. Ned was a former colleague who from the Passion Financial call center. He was retirement age and suffering from Parkinson's disease. I'd visited a few times in the past year. He and his wife were living in his daughter's house now. His entire family treated him differently since his recent deterioration. They seemed to keep him isolated in the garage away from the main family affairs in the main house.

His family treated him differently, more aware of his deterioration, and they seemed to keep him isolated in the garage away from the main family affairs in the main house.

I saw Ned's old Chevy Suburban parked on the street. I wondered whether he was still able to drive it with the illness. The garage door was raised half-way and I could hear the TV with the volume cranked up. It was another news report on domestic terrorism. I ducked inside and saw him snoring in a giant reclining chair, the flat screen TV raised behind him on converted desk.

"It's me, Ned," I said after I'd located the garage remote and closed the door behind me. I wore the Barstow man's jacket with his Colt tucked in the right-hand pocket and Luke's revolver on the other. Ned raised his eyelids like a drowsy dog. The moment he recognized me his face contorted like a cartoon character.

"Temo, holy hell! What the? This stuff on the news they're saying about you? It can't be true."

"It isn't true. I need your help, Ned. I won't stay long."

"Stay here?" His fat head quivered with fright, causing the folds of his neck to jiggle. "In the man cave?"

"Who would know? You told me your wife and daughter never come out here, right?"

"Nah, this place is my own personal leper colony."

I looked at the stack of pill packets resting on a stand next to his reclining chair.

"Is that for Parkinson's?"

"That and a dozen other things. Lower back pain. Depression. Anxiety. It's hard to keep track of it all. This is how it is when you get old, Temo. I used to be the man of the house. Now it's like nobody needs me."

"I need you."

"It's a risk, Temo."

"It was a risk when I helped you, Ned. And I kept my mouth shut about the insurance thing."

A year ago, I discovered the Ned has committedinsurance fraud to come up with money for his retirement. His jaw dropped at the mention of insurance and his neck jiggled again. "You did help me didn't you? You can't imagine how useless I feel, Temo. You know what it's like to think you'll never get another chance to do something important?"

"I am giving you that chance, Ned."

"Still, Temo. You're a terror suspect. I have a family to think of. They still take care of me, which isn't the easiest job nowadays."

"You can say you were asleep when I entered. No one can hear over that TV. Say meds made you woozy."

"Wouldn't be the first time I couldn't wake up. Wouldn't be the first time I blamed the meds either."

"There's no risk. I'll be out of here soon I swear."

"OK. What do you need?"

I pointed to a laptop computer situated on a bookstand next to the television.

"I need access to the Internet."

"Go ahead. The only thing I use it for it Fantasy Football." He yawned. "You look thin as a rail," he offering me a bowl of diabetic cookies that I quickly scarfed down. "I could go into the main house and make you a sandwich," he offered.

"Thanks but no thanks. You're passed out from the meds, remember?" Let's stick with our plan."

"Oh. Right."

I turned back to his lap top and typed in one of the email accounts I had memorized. I checked the draft section and found a note from Teresa.

Draft (no subject)

I am in LA now with friend who can help us. Contact us if you can reach the city.

I typed in my reply.

Draft (no subject)

I am in San Bernardino. I'll reach LA in the next day. Tell me where to find you.

"Ned I need your cell phone and your car," I said, eyeing his handset and a set of keys on a hook in the garage. "I saw the Suburban parked out on the street?"

"You serious?"

"C'mon Ned, I am desperate. You don't use them do you?"

"Of course I don't use 'em."

"You can say someone snuck in here and stole from you."

"Now I gotta lie to the insurance company."

"Well, it's not the first time you've done that is it? Ned, if you don't help me I am a dead man. They say I am a terrorist, they won't back down. Worst case they'll shoot me on site. Best case, they'll lock me away forever. No lawyer. No trial. And you know me, Ned. You know I didn't do what they are saying on the news. You and I both know how good people get screwed over. We've seen it with our own eyes so many times."

"Ok. Ok," he whispered. "Take the keys, take the phone and get outta here. I am gonna sink back on this La-Z-Boy and pretend I never woke up."

"Thanks. You're saving my life. Don't let anyone make you feel useless."

"Good luck, Temo."

I snatched a baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses from his work bench. As I was preparing to head out, a story appeared on the news.

"A Las Vegas newspaper has received this video of Temo McCarthy proclaiming his innocence. It was recorded on cell phone and emailed to a staff reporter," the anchorman said before playing the audio:

I was framed by a gang of criminals who call themselves Shiro.

Their business is fixing elections around the world forever can pay the going rate.

People might say I am lying.

They might say that Shiro doesn't really exist. But I am going to prove them wrong.

"Good God. You give 'em hell, Temo," Ned muttered as I ducked under the garage door to the street.