ad link to larger image ad link to larger image ad margaret johnson email
main ad two


The African Gentleman

…and The Plot to Re-establish The New World Order

A Novel by Fred Beauford

Chapters 36-38


Gladys and Eric, with their highly imaginative minds, will love what came next. I am going to cherish the many expressions on their faces when I give them all the details. The actor in me just can’t wait.


I wondered what took them so long. But here we were, at long last.

I was seated in a rather large conference room around a highly polished dark brown oblong table with three men and two women. All five had a brown folder in front of them, which I immediately guessed was filled with the exciting story of a great actor in a provocative, well-written play, where I was the leading man.

And how right I was.

“Just remember, Mr. Omak,” one of them said to me, “under the Freedom of Information Act, you will be free to view the contents of these files in due time.”

This was the mid-town office of the FBI, and I had correctly guessed that they had before them perhaps everyone I had ever spoken to and slept with (they probably even looked up precious Angel and arty Liz Gant!).

My life was literally in their hands.

“I don’t quite understand what this meeting is all about,” I answered. I knew I looked genuinely perplexed. It’s times like this that I am more than happy to be a trained actor, and no longer feel the pangs of guilt that I had somehow tricked my unsuspecting, hardworking, immigrant parents into throwing their good money away by my foolishly attending the School of the Arts instead of the Bloomberg School of Business at the university I attended.

The lone African American quickly spoke up in an all business manner, but with a real touch of genuine assurance.  “We have gone over your background, and rest assured, there is nothing untoward here. You have led an exemplary life,” she said, pointing to her folder.

“Then what am I doing here?” This time my perplexed look was no cheap actor’s trick. I thought back on Eric’s remarks about the kind of person the would-be trillionaires cherished and saw a help wanted poster with my black face on it.

The middle-aged light brown woman with the strangely dyed blond dreads was obviously in charge, as she now started to do all the talking. ”To be frank, Mr. Omak” she answered, “we need your help.”

My brain made quick calculations and immediately came up with Assai, bombings, transglobaltech, The New World Order, the anti-New World Order and New World People.  It was clear that Eric wasn’t the only one who sought my “inside knowledge.”

“My help? How in the world could someone like me be of any help to the FBI?”

“How close were you to this fellow Assai? How did you come to know him and work for him in such a high position?” an older, graying, broad-faced white man asked.

“I met him on the subway.”

“On the subway?”

I watched as all of the agents leaned forward, almost in unison.

“Yes. He asked me for directions. We struck up a conversation and one thing led to another and the next thing I knew I was sitting behind a screen working away in his office across the river.”

I could see from the look on their faces that because this story sounded so utterly preposterous, that it became instantly believable. Who in their right mind would have the nerve to make up a story like that while being interviewed by the FBI?

The black woman spoke up again. “But during that time you two must have become very close.”

I could see the logic of her question and was also impressed by a real look of curiosity on her light brown face. 

“After all, from what we observed,” she added, “you were the only one from his company that visited him while he was in detention.”

“Really!“ I answered, totally surprised by that revelation.

“Yes, really.”

“Wow, I didn’t know that.”

“Well, be that as it may,” she answered with a bit of impatience in her voice, “we were able to monitor your conversations, as you might have guessed, and again, nothing untoward was said between the two of you. You two seemed to genuinely like each other, and I could tell from listening in that he admired you a great deal.”

“And I admired him. He was a good man.”

“Yes, yes. That also came through loud and clear. To your credit, sir, you showed great loyalty by standing by him, even as he warned you not to do so. That’s why we think that you have the credibility to help us out.”

“We have good reason to believe that there is more to your company than just selling tech support products,” the other female agent added, joining the conversation.

“Yes,” the black woman answered, “and this is how you can help us. We feel that you can let it be known to the new powers at the company that you share much sympathy with the goals of Mr. Assai.”

I interrupted. All of this was starting to piss me off. “What goals are you talking about? You folks never penned anything on him. What goals am I supposed to be in sympathy with? I don’t understand.”

“Sir,” the broad-faced white agent answered, “you were once an actor, right?”

“And a damn good one, I might add.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. Think of this as your greatest role. You’re disgruntled. You’re disgusted. Your good friend Assai, a man who gave you a job just when you were about to be kicked out of the apartment that you and the artist/professor/writer Liz Gant had so happily shared for over seven years.”


“Ok, six. Along comes this kind man who you meet on the subway, gives you a great, well-paying job and now look what this piss-assed country has done to him. You’re angry, right, angry!?”

Man, oh man. First, like Gladys once did, he drags Liz Gant into it. Everywhere I go these days, it seems that I keep hearing her name mentioned. I wish she would leave me alone.

Then he sends me back to the School of the Arts to Acting 101.

“Just let that attitude be well-known about the office and wait and see what happens,” theAfrican American woman added.


My new best friend, Eric, was beside himself.

“You mean to tell me that the FBI wants you to impersonate a would-be terrorist? Gladys, I want you to drop whatever it is that you are working on and follow this man around. Stick to his black ass like glue.”

Both Gladys and I howled loudly.

“It sounds far better than anything I can dream up, that’s for sure,” she said.

“What are you going to do?” Eric asked. I could tell by the look on his face that he was still trying to wrap his mind around what I had just told him.

Liz Gant had been proven right, once again, when she called me a “blabbermouth.” Here I was blabbing away, even after the FBI had told me not to tell anyone of our “little conversation.”

The three of us were seated at the bar in the club that I frequented. Just yesterday, Madison, the pretty young bartender was on duty, and she informed me that my friend, the white haired old man had had a stroke and was in the hospital.

“They found him lying on the floor in his bathroom. It seemed that he had been laying there for three days.”

“Three days, my goodness. And he was still alive?”

“Barely. His ex-wife got worried because she hadn’t heard from him, so she went to his place and found him. It’s a good thing she did, because one more day and he would have bitten it. I went to visit him. He really didn’t look good at all. He knew who I was, and seemed happy that I had visited him, but he couldn’t speak, and was barely able to move his head. It was so sad. I really love the old dude. He reminds me of my father. I hope he survives.”

So did I. I missed his rants, which as it has turned out, were more on the mark than perhaps he realized.


Madison wasn’t on this quiet night, and Frankie, the med student moonlighting as a bartender, had nothing to report when I asked him how the white haired man was doing. I had the feeling that no matter what the bartender told me, good or bad, that I would never see the older white gentleman ever again.


“I don’t know yet,” I replied to Eric’s question.

“You mean you are actually considering doing it?” Gladys asked, incredulous that such a thought would even enter my mind.

I looked at her, and then Count Eric. At this time, I wished I had a long black mustache to slowly twirl around. I took a long, dramatic sip of my wine, this time an expensive, full-bodied, ten-year old Napa Valley Cabernet.

This was clearly no time for a wimpy white wine for such a dashing imposter.

“We shall see,” I said, narrowing my flashing dark eyes at her, now mysterious black pools that revealed little.

Return to home page