To hell with it. It was Nick’s only remaining tie.
Born in the next-to-last decade of the previous century, Nick Bottom was old enough to remember a tune from a child’s educational program that had been on TV then, and now the irritating singsong lyrics returned from childhood to rattle through his aching, flashback-hungry head—One of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn’t belong…
To hell with it, thought Nick again and for a panicked second he was afraid he’d spoken aloud. It was becoming harder and harder for him to focus on anything in this miserable, increasingly unreal non-flashback world.
And then, because Mr. Nakamura seemed very comfortable with the stretching silence and Sato actively amused by it while Nick Bottom wasn’t at all comfortable with it, he added, “Of course, it’s been quite a few years since the Cherry Creek Mall was a mall or there were any stores there. BIAHTF.”
Nick pronounced the old acronym “buy-ought-if” the way everyone did and always had, but Nakamura’s expression remained blank or passively challenging or politely curious or perhaps a combination of all three. One thing was certain to Nick: the Nipponese executive wasn’t going to make any part of this interview easy.
Sato, who would have spent time on the street here in the States, didn’t bother to translate it to his boss.
“Before It All Hit The Fan,” Nick explained. He didn’t add that the more commonly used “die-ought-if” stood for “Day It All Hit The Fan.” He was certain that Nakamura knew both expressions. The man had been in Colorado as a federally appointed four-state Advisor for five months now. And he had undoubtedly heard all the American colloquialisms, even if only from his murdered son, years before.
“Ah,” said Mr. Nakamura and again looked down at the sheet of e-vellum in his hand. Images, videos, and columns of text flicked onto the single, paper-flexible page and scrolled or disappeared at the slightest shift of Nakamura’s manicured fingertips. Nick noticed that the older man’s fingers were blunt and strong, a workingman’s hands—although he doubted if Mr. Nakamura had ever used them for any physical labor that wasn’t part of some recreation he’d chosen. Yachting perhaps. Or polo. Or mountain climbing. All three of which had been mentioned in Hiroshi Nakamura’s gowiki-bio.
“And how long were you a member of the Denver Police Department, Mr. Bottom?” continued Mr. Nakamura. It seemed to Nick that the damned interview was running in reverse.
“I was a detective for nine years,” said Nick. “I was on the force for a total of seventeen years.” He was tempted to list some of his citations, but resisted. Nakamura had it all on his vellum database.
“A detective in both the Major Crimes Unit and then the Robbery-Homicide division?” read Nakamura, adding the question mark only out of politeness.
“Yes,” said Nick while thinking Let’s get to it, God damn it.
“And you were dismissed from the detectives’ bureau five years ago for reasons of…?” Nakamura had quit reading as if the reasons weren’t right there on the page and already well known to the billionaire. The question mark this time came only from Nakamura’s politely raised left eyebrow.
Asshole, thought Nick, secretly relieved that they’d finally reached the hard part of the interview. “My wife was killed in an automobile accident five years ago,” said Nick with no emotion, knowing that Nakamura and his security chief knew more about his life than he did. “I had some trouble… coping.”
Nakamura waited but it was Nick’s turn not to make this part of the interview easy. You know why you’re going to hire me for this job, jerkwad. Let’s get to it. Yes or no.
Finally Mr. Nakamura said softly, “So your dismissal from the Denver Police Department, after a nine-month probationary period, was for flashback abuse.”
“Yes.” Nick realized that he was smiling at the two men for the first time.
“And this addiction, Mr. Bottom, was also the reason for the failure of your personal private-detective agency two years after you were… ah… after you left the police force?”
“No,” lied Nick. “Not really. It’s just a hard time for any small business. The country’s in its twenty-third year of our Jobless Recovery, you know.”
The old joke didn’t seem to register on either of the Japanese men. Sato’s easy, leaning stance somehow reminded Nick of Jack Palance as the gunfighter in Shane, despite the total difference in the two men’s body form. Eyes never blinking. Waiting. Watching. Hoping that Nick will make his move so Sato–Palance can gun him down. As if Nick might still be armed after the multiple levels of security around this compound, after having his car CMRI’d and left half a mile down the hill, after having the 9mm Glock that he’d brought along—it would have seemed absurd, even to Sato, for him to have been traveling through the city without some weapon—confiscated.
Sato watched with the deadly, totally focused anticipation of a professional bodyguard. Or Jack Palance–in-Shane killer.
Instead of pursuing the flashback question, Mr. Nakamura suddenly said, “Bottom. This is an unusual last name in America, yes?”
“Yes, sir,” said Nick, getting used to the almost random jump of questions. “The funny part is that the original family name was English, Badham, but some guy behind a desk at Ellis Island misheard it. Just like the scene where mute little Michael Corleone gets renamed in Godfather Two.”
Mr. Nakamura, more and more obviously not an old-movie fan, just gave Nick that perfectly blank and inscrutable Japanese stare again.
Nick sighed audibly. He was getting tired of trying to make conversation. He said flatly, “Bottom’s an unusual name, but it’s been our name the hundred and fifty years or so my family’s been in the States.” Even if my son won’t use it, he thought.
As if reading Nick’s mind, Nakamura said, “Your wife is deceased but I understand you have a sixteen-year-old son, named…” The billionaire hesitated, lowering his gaze to the vellum again so that Nick could see the perfection of the razor-cut salt-and-pepper hair. “Val. Is Val short for something, Mr. Bottom?”
“No,” said Nick. “It’s just Val. There was an old actor whom my wife and I liked and… anyway, it’s just Val. I sent him away to L.A. a few years ago to live with his grandfather—my father-in-law—a retired UCLA professor. Better educational opportunities out there. But Val’s fifteen years old, Mr. Nakamura, not…”
Nick stopped. Val’s birthday had been on September 2, eight days ago. He’d forgotten it. Nakamura was right; his son was sixteen now. God damn it. He cleared his suddenly constricted throat and continued, “Anyway, yes, correct, I have one child. A son named Val. He lives with his maternal grandfather in Los Angeles.”
“And you are still a flashback addict, Mr. Bottom,” said Hiroshi Nakamura. This time there was no question mark, either in the billionaire’s flat voice or expression.
Here it is.
“No, Mr. Nakamura, I am not,” Nick said firmly. “I was. The department had every right to fire me. In the year after Dara was killed, I was a total mess. And, yes, I was still using too much of the drug when my investigations agency went under a year or so after I left the… after I was fired from the force.”
Sato lounged. Mr. Nakamura’s posture was still rigid and his face remained expressionless as he waited for more.