“You’re kidding me.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Can you even do that? On what grounds…” Albert laughs, but he’s not happy. “National what? Are you serious? I’ve never heard of… Jesus, Norm, at least give us a chance. The least you could do is wait to hear what we come back with.”
“Five minutes?” He turns to the Bravos. “You guys know of a General Ruthven?” But before the soldiers can answer, he’s back to the phone.
“Norm, I really don’t think you have to do this. If you’d just…”
“Of course I know it’s not just about the money. Tell me about it, tell my guys. They put their lives on the line every…”
“All right. I guess so. I guess we’ll see.”
Albert clicks off and slips the cell into his blazer side pocket. He turns to the Bravos, and the way he looks down at them, it’s as if they’re in their coffins and he’s having a last look before the lid comes down.
“Whut,” Dime says.
Albert squints; he seems surprised to hear Dime speak. “It’s pretty incredible,” he says. “They’ve gotten your chain of command involved. Apparently Norm’s good buddies with the deputy-deputy secretary of defense or some such crap, he had that guy call your superiors at Fort Hood. He says he talked to a General Ruthven? And the general’s supposed to call here in a couple of minutes, to talk to you.” Albert shakes his head; his voice wavers. “I think they’re going to make you do the deal.” He looks at them. “Can they even do that?”
The Bravos know full well the Army does whatever it wants, and any rights they claim will be shunted into the catch-all category known as “collateral,” i.e., things to be administered after it’s too late. Mr. Jones comes to lead them back to the bunker, where the Bravos are greeted civilly, almost warmly. They’re offered refreshments. They’re shown to the same two seats. “The wheels came off,” Todd says, indicating the scoreboard, which shows 17–7 in favor of the Bears. “Interception and fumble, ten points in two minutes.”
F-bomb executive snorts. “We’re gonna send out a search party after the game, help Vinny find his ass.”
This raises a bitter laugh.
“Why the hell does George keep sticking Brandt in the slot? Like he thinks he’s gonna block?”
“I haven’t seen him throw a block since spring training.”
“Of ’01.”
More yuks. Norm sets his headset to the side and swings around to the Bravos. “Not our day,” he says with a weary smile.
“No sir,” Dime says stiffly.
“I hate to lose, hate it about as much as anything. My wife says I’m addicted to winning, and I guess it’s true, thirty-eight years she’s been trying to calm me down. But I can’t, I need that rush. I’d rather cut off my little finger than lose.”
“We figured back in June it was going to be a tough season,” Jim says. “With Emmit gone, Moose, Jay, they left some mighty big shoes to fill. When you lose your core like that…” He trails off when he realizes no one is listening.
“I expect you fellas are kind of cross with me right now,” Norm says, and by way of response Dime and Billy say nothing. Norm regards them a long moment; nods. He seems impressed by their wall of silence.
“I don’t blame you,” he goes on. “I know I’m being kind of heavy-handed here, but my instinct tells me to get it done. This is a movie that needs to be made, now, for all the reasons we talked about. And if it works out the way I think it’s going to, you fellas are set to do very well. Someday before too long I think you’ll be thanking me—”
Somewhere in the room a phone rings. Mr. Jones answers, speaks briefly, and brings the phone over to Norm. It is the general. Dime stares straight ahead, into the far distance, it seems. Billy can hear him pulling in deep, measured breaths that he holds for several moments, then releases in finely calibrated jets through his nose. Meanwhile Norm is doing big-guy banter with the general, thanking him for his time, wishing him happy Thanksgiving, inviting him to some future unspecified game. You bet, ha ha, we’ll do our best to arrange a win for you. Dime rises, as if the general has actually entered the room. Norm looks up, registering the weirdness of the move, and indeed Billy fears that his sergeant is contemplating something extreme, but Dime just stands there exuding waves of soldierly discipline until Norm extends the phone his way.
“Sergeant Dime.” Norm’s smile is jacked a couple of clicks beyond mere courtesy. It is triumphant, one might say. Imperial. Magnanimous. “General Ruthven will speak to you now.”
Dime takes the phone and makes his way to the shadowy back of the room. Josh sidles away to give Dime some space. After a moment Billy leaves his seat and also moves to the back of the room, simply to be near his sergeant and for no other reason. He takes up position near Josh, who shoots him looks of feverish sympathy. The entire room can’t help but listen.
“Yes sir,” Dime says crisply.
“Yes sir.”
“No sir.”
“I understand, sir.”
For a full minute Dime says nothing, during which time the Bears score again. Skip and Todd toss their pens, but in deference to the general no one says a word.
“Yes sir,” Dime says presently. “I didn’t know that, sir.”
“Yes sir.”
“I think I do sir, yes sir.”
“Thank you sir. I will, sir. Out.”
Dime pivots and lofts the phone in a high, soft arc toward Mr. Jones. “Come on Billy,” he says, and without another word he’s exited the room and goes booming down the corridor at a brisk pace. Billy has to jog to catch up.
“Sergeant, where we going?”
“Back to our seats.”
“What happened? I mean, shouldn’t we…”
“It’s okay, Billy. It’s cool.”
“It is?”
Dime nods.
“He said we didn’t… ?”
“Not in so many words.” For several paces Dime is silent. “Billy, did you know General Ruthven is from Youngstown, Ohio?”
“Uh, no, actually.”
“I didn’t either, till just now.” For a moment Dime seems lost in thought. “It’s just over the state line from Pennsylvania.”
Billy begins to think maybe his sergeant has lost it. “Near Pittsburgh,” Dime continues. “He’s a big Steelers fan. The Steelers, Billy, yo? Which just by definition means he hates the Cowboys’ guts.”
“Hey guys!” someone calls, and they turn. It’s Josh, trotting after them. “Where’re you going?”
“Back to our seats,” Billy answers.
Josh slows for a moment, glances over his shoulder, then gathers speed. “Wait up, I’ll come with you.” He has a sheaf of manila packets under one arm, and with the other he’s reaching into his coat pocket. Something white flashes in his palm.
“Billy,” he calls, holding out a small plastic bottle. “I got your Advil.”
THE PROUD GOOD-BYE
WHY MAKE A MOVIE anyway? It seems pointless to go to all that trouble when the original is floating out there for all to see, easily available online by searching “Al-Ansakar Canal,” “Bravo snuff movie,” “America’s throbbing cock of justice,” or any one of a couple of dozen similar phrases that summon forth the Fox News footage, three minutes and forty-three seconds of high-intensity warfare as seen through a stumbling you-are-there point of view, the battle sounds backgrounded by a slur of heavy breathing and the bleeped expletives of the daring camera crew. It’s so real it looks fake — too showy, too hyped up and cinematic, a B-movie’s defiant or defensive flirtation with the referential limits of kitsch. Would a more polished product serve better, one wonders — throw in some story arc, a good dose of character development, artful lighting, and multiple camera angles, plus a soundtrack to tee up the emotive cues. Nothing looks so real as a fake, apparently, though ever since seeing the footage for himself Billy has puzzled over the fact that it doesn’t look like any battle he was ever in. Therefore you have the real that looks fake twice over, the real that looks so real it looks fake and the real that looks nothing like the real and thus fake, so maybe you do need all of Hollywood’s craft and guile to bring it back to the real.