FEARLESS

I’ve never been one for eating at fancy or expensive restaurants, even when someone else is paying. But sometimes exceptions can and must be made. Especially when the person inviting me out to lunch is so persuasive. Not to mention very easy on the eyes, and other parts.

I hadn’t seen Nadya Simon in a while, and when she called me yesterday afternoon, a smile came to my face as soon as I heard her deep, sexy voice. She’d been a bit cryptic on the phone, which really wasn’t like Nadya, who was usually quite direct. More so than I sometimes liked. But I got the impression that whatever she wanted to talk to me about was important and when she asked me out to lunch on the following day, I told her that I was available. Always available for her. That comment evoked the expected flirty response, and after another five minutes of banter, she told me where we would meet.

So here I was now on a cloudy but warm Wednesday afternoon in mid-March being escorted to a table in the back of Shula’s Steakhouse in the Riverchase Galleria in Hoover by a petite redheaded waitress named Janine. When we reached the table, I found Nadya Simon seated with another woman. Nadya looked up at me and smiled widely, standing and coming around the table to embrace me.

It had been a while since I had experienced one of Nadya’s hugs, too. Kind of nice.

When she released me, she stood back and stared up into my eyes, an expression of wicked pleasure in her dark orbs.

“Hello there, handsome,” she said, then leaned over and kissed me on the lips. “As beautiful as ever.”

If I were one to blush, which I am not, Nadya Simon would most certainly be the person capable of making me do it. She was always a force to be reckoned with, and despite the fact that our relationship had never gone beyond the flirtation stage, Mrs. Simon definitely got my juices flowing.

“Good to see you, too, Nadya,” I managed through a slightly constricted throat. “It’s been a while.”

She continued to stare up at me, smiling.

“Yes, it has. Too long. I missed you.”

We stared at one another for another few seconds, neither of us uncomfortable with the silence—Nadya probably more relaxed than I.

The waitress (Janine) stood off to the side with her hands folded in front of her, watching. Nadya suddenly turned to the young woman and smiled.

“Would you please bring Mr. Olin a glass of water?” she said, then took my arm and led me to a chair.

Once we were both seated, Nadya introduced me to the other brunette at the table.

“Derrick, I’d like you to meet Michelle Mullins, a very dear friend of mine.”

“Hello, Ms. Mullins,” I said, extending my hand to the other woman.

She smiled and took my hand.

“Please, call me Michelle,” she said.

I stared into her deep brown eyes for a moment and nodded. Quite an attractive woman. I’d put her age close to mine, probably a year or two older, which meant early/mid forties. Her body, what I could see of it, seemed trim and in shape. She took care of herself and was very aware of her appearance. Her clothes were fashionable but I didn’t think they were overly expensive. Probably lived a good life, but not a privileged one. Unlike our dining companion. Nadya Simon’s life was very good and very privileged.

“Michelle, this is Derrick Olin, of course,” Nadya went on. “The person I’ve been telling you so much about. An extremely capable man who will no doubt be able to help with this matter.”

I glanced at Nadya, my greatest cheerleader. She smiled in return and touched my hand on the table, squeezing it briefly.

“Derrick, Michelle is the city manager for Center Point. And right now she’s got a bit of a problem that I’ve told her you might be able to help her with, considering your skills and all.”

I nodded slowly, glancing over at Michelle Mullins. “What sort of problem?”

Michelle looked across the table at Nadya, hesitation in her eyes. Nadya nodded encouragingly.

“Michelle, you can trust Derrick with this. Believe me. He is very good, and discreet. I assure you.”

Michelle nodded and took a deep breath, then turned and looked into my eyes.

“If Nadya vouches for you, then that says a lot. How familiar are you with Center Point, Mr. Olin?”

“Derrick, please,” I told her. “And I know where it is on a map. Been there a lot over the years. I suppose I know something. Why?”

“Have you been following the news lately regarding my city?”

“I don’t really follow the news these days,” I told her. “And lately, I’ve been busy with something else. What’s been in the news?”

She took another deep breath.

“Are you aware of the situation regarding the influx of immigrants into this country from Mexico and other Latin American countries, Derrick?”

“Somewhat?” I told her.

“Well you may not be aware that here in the Birmingham metro area we’ve been experiencing quite a big influx ourselves. Thousands every year, and growing exponentially.”

“I’m not aware of the statistics,” I told her. “But I imagine the numbers are growing. Particularly since all the trouble started in Mexico with the drug gangs and their battles with the police and army. But tell me what your problem is. How does this affect Center Point?”

“Quite a lot actually, Derrick. In Center Point, our Latino population has been growing steadily every year for the past five years. So much so that it’s now estimated that within the next half decade our total population will probably be fifteen to twenty percent Latino. Maybe more.”

“All right,” I said. “And is this your problem? Because if it is, I really don’t see how I can help. Nadya has no doubt told you that I’m in the security business, but border and immigration security is not my thing.”

“No, no, Mr. Olin. Derrick. I’m not interested in hiring you to do something about our immigration situation. Although there are a number of people in city and county governments who would love to do just that. No, I want to hire you for another reason. Perhaps I should explain in detail.”

The waitress arrived with my water, and after setting it down, she asked if we were ready to order. None of us had looked at our menus yet so we paused the conversation long enough to do so. Once the orders were placed, Janine departed and I looked back over to Michelle Mullins. Her brown eyes were now darker and more serious, and I could tell that she was wrestling with something deep inside her mind.

I waited, glancing over at Nadya, and she smiled at me. She might have been in her mid-fifties, but Nadya Simon was still one of the sexiest women I have ever known. And she knows that, too. Boy does she know it!

Michelle cleared her throat and I looked back to her.

“Derrick, my position is not very popular with the city council or the county commission, but I really don’t care. I work for the mayor and the people of the City of Center Point. I’ve got backing from the mayor, for now, and that’s all I need. Well, I’ve also got backing from our mutual friend here.”

Michelle paused and smiled briefly at Nadya. Nadya smiled in return.

“You’ve always got my support, Michelle,” she told her. “I’ve always got your back.”

“What’s up?” I asked.

“There is a small organization called the Center Point Cultural Center,” Michelle Mullins told me. “Some abbreviate it as CPCC, others simply call it the Cultural Center. It started up about six months ago and is run by a gentleman named Miguel Ebony. Mike. He has a Ph.D. in economics from Tennessee State, and about five years ago he moved down to Alabama and got a job at Birmingham Southern. Then about two years ago he gave that up and became an advocate for immigration rights. He’s very passionate about the subject, and very determined. I met him about eight months ago, and it was because of him, not to mention his fact-based persuasive arguments, that I agreed to help set up the Cultural Center in Center Point, over the objections of quite a few very powerful people, I might add. As you can imagine, not too many locals are keen on immigration of any kind right now, especially when it involves people from south of the border who don’t speak very much English. Nonetheless, we managed to get the Cultural Center open, thanks in large part to generous support from the Simon Charities.”

I glanced over at Nadya again and she grinned at me.

“You know I can never say no to a worthy cause,” she teased.

“So what’s going on now?” I asked Michelle. “If you’re sitting here talking to a bodyguard, then I have to imagine that there have been problems, likely security issues. Probably some significant ones.”

Michelle paused again and gathered her thoughts. I could see her color rising a bit, too, and suspected that this subject was extremely uncomfortable for her, perhaps even angering. Interesting, I thought. And perhaps telling, too.

I waited until she was ready to continue.

“From the beginning there were problems,” Michelle said in a subdued tone. “A lot of people complained to the city council and mayor’s office about the Cultural Center being opened, about what they felt it represented. Many of the complaints were pure racist garbage, fear mongering. There were all kinds of charges about undocumented immigrants being given refuge or sanctuary within city limits. Absolutely unsubstantiated nonsense because that’s one thing that Miguel and I discussed at length before we set up this endeavor. I knew it would be tough to get support, and if there was even the slightest hint of anything illegal going on at the Cultural Center, we’d be shut down in a heartbeat. So I made it clear—and Miguel agreed by the way—that we would do everything in our power to ensure that only people who were in this country legally would be allowed to come to the Cultural Center for assistance. No exceptions. The primary reason for the existence of the CPCC is to help immigrants settle in and find jobs within the community, to find them places to live, and to secure healthcare and education for them and their children. This cannot be accomplished legally unless the immigrants are themselves legal, or at least on a verifiable path to legality. And despite what many of those in opposition say, the Center Point Cultural Center is not a safe haven for illegal immigration. It is a place where those who have come to our country, often at great personal risk and sacrifice, can seek help getting their lives started again, hopefully on a better and safer path than they were on before. I promise you that it’s nothing more than that. But many people still don’t accept this. They’re threatened by the Cultural Center and what they think it represents.”

“And that’s where the problems come from?” I said.

Michelle nodded, and then Janine arrived with our food.

I had ordered a ribeye steak, medium rare, and it smelled wonderful. I knew that at Shula’s it would only be the best cut, and cooked to perfection. My mouth was salivating with anticipation.

“Why don’t we take a break and eat a little,” Nadya suggested, picking up her fork and digging into her side salad. “Then Michelle can finish telling you about her problem.”

“No,” Michelle shook her head firmly. “I need to get this out now. Please. It won’t take long.”

I nodded. It’s a good thing I’ve got such a strong will. A lesser man would have fallen on his food with the vigor of a barbarian by now.

“Please continue,” I said, and sounded pretty sincere.

So she did.

When Michelle completed her tale, I nodded slowly, thought about things for a few seconds—mouth still watering—then I glanced at Nadya, whose dark eyes were fixated on mine.

“I’m not exactly sure what I can do here,” I said. “But I suppose I can look into it for you, see what I can see.”

Michelle glanced over at Nadya, then back at me.

“Nadya said you’d probably say something like that.”

I smiled.

“She does know me so well,” I told her.

“All right,” Michelle said, glancing down at her plate for the first time. “This looks so good. Okay, Derrick, I’m not sure what you can do either. The police are involved, supposedly providing more patrols and such. But I know they aren’t too enthusiastic about the Cultural Center either. Whatever you can do, I would really appreciate it.”

“Not a problem,” I said.

“And you should send your bill to me,” Nadya put in.

“Another charitable contribution?” I quipped.

Nadya smiled, a wicked smile filled with all kinds of possibilities.

“Something like that,” she said, then went back to her salad.

Finally, I was able to enjoy my steak. Still warm and juicy, and pink on the inside.

Perfect!