Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure Read Online Free Page A
Author: Tom Abrahams
Tags: Politics, UT, Texas, president, Assassination, Houston, Election, Health Care, Environment, David Baldacci, austin, alternative energy, Nanotechnology, texas aggies, income taxes, second amendment, brad thor, oil, texas chl, tom abrahams, gubernatorial, petrochemicals, post hill press, big oil, rice university, bill of rights, aggies, living presidents, texas politics, healthcare, george h w bush, texas am, taxes, transcanada, obamacare, wendy davis, gun control, rice owls, campaign, george bush, texas governor, ted cruz, rick perry, 2nd amendment, right to bear arms, vince flynn, keystone pipeline, chl, keystone xl, longhorns, phones, clean fuel, ipods, university of texas
northeast toward Trafalgar.
I had to remind myself to look right before crossing the street. A small car whirred past me as I balanced myself on a curb.
Navigating the streets wasn’t difficult. They were well-labeled: Spring Gardens, Kennard, and then Cockspur.
I laughed at the gold painted lettering above the large glass doors.
“THE TEXAS EMBASSY”
The large limestone building was once the home office of the White Star shipping line, owners of the Titanic. Now it was London’s finest Tex-Mex cantina. I’d thought the Governor was joking when he told me the meeting place.
“You know,” the Governor had said days earlier in between bites of a sausage and cheese kolache, “Texas did have an embassy in London for a while.”
We were walking from the Governor’s mansion to the Capitol when he’d asked me to take the first trip. It was warm outside and he was wearing a polo shirt with khakis. Four Texas DPS troopers were following a half dozen steps behind providing security.
“From 1836 to 1845 The Republic of Texas had its own delegation in London, Paris, and Washington. We were our own country. The British even offered to guarantee our borders with the United States and with Mexico. Of course, we folded into the U.S., became a state, and the embassies shut down.” The Governor was finished with the kolache and he’d slipped his hands into his pants pockets. His stride was effortless and he talked as if he’d lived through the events he now recalled with some nostalgic lamentation. This was an important trip he had told me.
Now I stood looking at the cantina for a moment before crossing the street and walking into its roughhewn interior. It was early for lunch and the tables were empty. Martina McBride’s Independence Day was playing over the speakers in the high ceilings:
In front of the open kitchen were two large stucco columns. One read, “Caliente Y Fresco”. Hot and Fresh. The other, “Tortillas”. From the décor and smell of grilled steak, I thought for a moment I was back in Austin at Z’Tejas or Trudy’s.
I sat at a table near the tortilla column next to a potted tree decorated with little white Christmas lights. I rubbed my hands on the lacquered pine table. My palms were sweaty.
On the table, there was a small tin holding packets of sugar and artificial sweetener and a drink menu. I decided to skip the drink. I needed my wits about me.
My bags were in the chair next to me. I wanted them close to me.
The waitress brought me a menu. My stomach warned me I wasn’t particularly hungry. I settled for a chimichanga and a bottle of mineral water.
Since I’d sat down, two couples had entered the restaurant and found seats. Both of them looked like American tourists; the men in their golf shirts and shorts, the women in their cotton blouses and Capri pants. I took a sip of the water, its carbonation bubbled in my mouth. Then I saw him.
A well-dressed man with short gray hair and reflective aviator sunglasses walked in from the street and stood in the entry. He pulled the glasses from his eyes and stuck them in the breast pocket of his suit jacket, squinting as he scanned the room. His eyes settled on me, he nodded the half-nod of recognition men often share, and made his way to my table.
I could tell he was British before he spoke. His jacket and pants were tailored slim. His shirt was a tight checkerboard of blue and white, his tie a solid green. He smiled and his stained, crowded teeth gave it away.
“Mr. Quick?” he asked, sliding into the seat across from me. He kept on his jacket. I assumed the meeting would be short.
“Yes.” I rubbed the dampness from my palm and extended a handshake. His grip was firm but non-threatening. He looked me in the eyes. I always measure a man by how he shakes hands. If he looks me in the eyes, he’s off to a good start. “And you are?” I ask.
“Mr. Davis.” I assumed it was not his real name. “First time in
I had to remind myself to look right before crossing the street. A small car whirred past me as I balanced myself on a curb.
Navigating the streets wasn’t difficult. They were well-labeled: Spring Gardens, Kennard, and then Cockspur.
I laughed at the gold painted lettering above the large glass doors.
“THE TEXAS EMBASSY”
The large limestone building was once the home office of the White Star shipping line, owners of the Titanic. Now it was London’s finest Tex-Mex cantina. I’d thought the Governor was joking when he told me the meeting place.
“You know,” the Governor had said days earlier in between bites of a sausage and cheese kolache, “Texas did have an embassy in London for a while.”
We were walking from the Governor’s mansion to the Capitol when he’d asked me to take the first trip. It was warm outside and he was wearing a polo shirt with khakis. Four Texas DPS troopers were following a half dozen steps behind providing security.
“From 1836 to 1845 The Republic of Texas had its own delegation in London, Paris, and Washington. We were our own country. The British even offered to guarantee our borders with the United States and with Mexico. Of course, we folded into the U.S., became a state, and the embassies shut down.” The Governor was finished with the kolache and he’d slipped his hands into his pants pockets. His stride was effortless and he talked as if he’d lived through the events he now recalled with some nostalgic lamentation. This was an important trip he had told me.
Now I stood looking at the cantina for a moment before crossing the street and walking into its roughhewn interior. It was early for lunch and the tables were empty. Martina McBride’s Independence Day was playing over the speakers in the high ceilings:
In front of the open kitchen were two large stucco columns. One read, “Caliente Y Fresco”. Hot and Fresh. The other, “Tortillas”. From the décor and smell of grilled steak, I thought for a moment I was back in Austin at Z’Tejas or Trudy’s.
I sat at a table near the tortilla column next to a potted tree decorated with little white Christmas lights. I rubbed my hands on the lacquered pine table. My palms were sweaty.
On the table, there was a small tin holding packets of sugar and artificial sweetener and a drink menu. I decided to skip the drink. I needed my wits about me.
My bags were in the chair next to me. I wanted them close to me.
The waitress brought me a menu. My stomach warned me I wasn’t particularly hungry. I settled for a chimichanga and a bottle of mineral water.
Since I’d sat down, two couples had entered the restaurant and found seats. Both of them looked like American tourists; the men in their golf shirts and shorts, the women in their cotton blouses and Capri pants. I took a sip of the water, its carbonation bubbled in my mouth. Then I saw him.
A well-dressed man with short gray hair and reflective aviator sunglasses walked in from the street and stood in the entry. He pulled the glasses from his eyes and stuck them in the breast pocket of his suit jacket, squinting as he scanned the room. His eyes settled on me, he nodded the half-nod of recognition men often share, and made his way to my table.
I could tell he was British before he spoke. His jacket and pants were tailored slim. His shirt was a tight checkerboard of blue and white, his tie a solid green. He smiled and his stained, crowded teeth gave it away.
“Mr. Quick?” he asked, sliding into the seat across from me. He kept on his jacket. I assumed the meeting would be short.
“Yes.” I rubbed the dampness from my palm and extended a handshake. His grip was firm but non-threatening. He looked me in the eyes. I always measure a man by how he shakes hands. If he looks me in the eyes, he’s off to a good start. “And you are?” I ask.
“Mr. Davis.” I assumed it was not his real name. “First time in
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