And rash or no rash, Perry was at work and doing his job. But being at work and being effective were two different things. He just couldn’t concentrate. He continuously pursued the same avenues, the same possible solutions over and over again in his mind. His brain felt fuzzy, as if it couldn’t grip the task at hand.
“Perry, can I speak to you for a moment?”
He turned to see Sandy standing just inside his cube. She didn’t look happy.
“Sure,” he said.
“I just got a call from Samir at Pullman. Their network has been dropping out for three days now.”
“I’m working on it. I thought I had it fixed yesterday. I’m sorry it’s taking so long.”
“I know you’re working on it, but I’m not sure you’re paying attention. According to Samir, you had him reboot the network routers yesterday. Twice. And even though it didn’t work either time, you had him do it again this morning.”
Perry’s brain searched for an answer, but found none.
“They’re losing money, Perry.” Sandy sounded more than a little angry. “I don’t mind if my people can’t solve a problem, but I don’t want you bullshitting your way through something if you don’t know how to solve it.”
Perry felt his own anger rise. He was working as hard as he could, dammit! He was the best one in the department. Maybe there were problems that just couldn’t be solved.
“So can you tell me what’s wrong with their system?” Sandy asked. Perry noticed for the first time that her eyes grew very wide and her nostrils flared when she was angry. The look seemed childish, petulant, like some spoiled little girl who thinks people should jump at her orders.
“I don’t know,” Perry said.
Her eyes widened further and her hands went to her hips. Perry felt another stab of anger at her haughty posture.
“How the hell can you not know?” Sandy said. “You’ve been on this for three days. You haven’t known for three days and you haven’t asked for help?”
“I said I’m working on it!” Even to himself his voice sounded strange-full of anger and impatience. Sandy’s eyes flashed with trepidation as she looked down. Her gaze returned to his face, the petulant look gone, replaced by a questioning, slightly fearful expression. Perry looked down himself to see what she’d stared at. His hands were balled into fists, squeezed so tight the knuckles glowed white against his reddish skin. He realized his whole body was coiled with aggressive tension, the same posture he used to have before the snap of the ball-or before a fight. The office suddenly seemed very quiet. He pictured how frightening the scene must be to her; his big angry body hovering predatorily over her smallish, weak frame. He must have looked like a rabid bear about to pounce on a wounded fawn.
He willed his hands to open. His face flushed with embarrassment and shame. He’d made Sandy afraid of him, made her afraid that he’d lash out and hit her (just like the last job, his conscience teased, just like the last boss).
“I’m sorry,” Perry said quietly. The fear left Sandy’s eyes, replaced by concern, but despite the change, she backed another step out of the cube.
“You seem to be under some stress lately,” Sandy said quietly. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off and relax.”
Perry blanched at the thought of leaving work early. “I’m okay. Really, I can fix the problem in Pullman.”
“I don’t care about that,” Sandy said. “I’ll get someone else to fix it. Go home. Now.” She turned and walked away.
Perry stared at the ground, feeling like a failure, feeling he’d betrayed her loyalty. He’d been moments away from hitting the one person who’d given him a chance, who’d let him straighten out his life. She’d done everything for him by giving him that chance. This was how he thanked her. In unison, the seven itches flared all over his body, adding to his frustration. Like a huge child, he packed his duct-tape-patched briefcase and sluffed into his coat.
His IM alert dinged:
StickyFingazWhitey: Hey man, you okay? Can I help?
Perry stared at the message for a second. He didn’t deserve help, he didn’t deserve sympathy. Without sitting down, he typed in a reply:
Bleedmaize_n_blue: Don’t worry about me. I’m tip-top. StickyFingazWhitey: Like hell you are. Just be cool, go home, I’ll patch this up for you. Bleedmaize_n_blue: No, stay out of it. StickyFingazWhitey: Fine, I promise I won’t say a word to Sandy. Of course, I lie a lot. I also promise” I won’t fix Pullman for you. StickyFingazWhitey: Go watch your Pope Porn™, I’ve got this. No bout-a-doubt-it.
Bill had his back. Somehow that made Perry feel even worse. Even if he insisted Bill leave it alone, his friend would just do the work anyway.
He walked out of the office, feeling the eyes of everyone on his back. Red-faced and frustrated, Perry walked to his car and headed home.
20.
It was hard to believe it had only been seven days since Murray had sent for him. Seven days ago, when he’d never heard of triangles, Margaret Montoya or Martin Brewbaker. Seven days ago, when his partner wasn’t in a hospital bed, a bed that for all intents and purposes, Dew had put him in.
Seven days ago Murray had called for Dew. They’d fought side by side back in the day, but after ’Nam they didn’t exactly keep in touch. When Murray called, it meant only one thing-he wanted something done. Something…unappealing. Something that required getting a little dirt under the fingernails, something that Murray-with his tailored suits and his manicures-wasn’t willing to do. But they’d been through hell together, and even though Murray had advanced in the CIA ranks and done his damnedest to rise above the shit-stomping lieutenant he’d been in ’Nam, when Murray called, Dew always answered.
It was only seven days ago that Dew had stood in Murray’s waiting room, eyeing the twenty-something, red-haired secretary, wondering if Murray was fucking her.
She looked up with her sparkling green eyes and a genuine smile. “Can I help you, sir?”
Irish accent, Dew thought. If he’s not banging her, or at least trying, he must be impotent.
“I’m Agent Dew Phillips. Murray is expecting me.”
“Of course, Agent Phillips, go right in.” The redhead added in a confidential tone, “You’re a few minutes late, and Mister Longworth hates tardiness.”
“Does he? Ain’t that a bite in the ass. I’ll have to get on some kind of schedule.”
Dew walked into Murray’s sprawling, spartan office. A bullet-ridden American flag decorated one wall. On the opposite wall hung a row of pictures showing Murray with each of the last five presidents. The pictures were like a stop-action movie of Murray’s aging process, from hard-bodied young man to more-than-slightly-overweight, cold-eyed piece of gristle.
Dew noticed the absence of any pictures showing Murray in his army uniform, either dress or fatigues. Murray wanted to forget that time, forget who he’d been back then, forget the things he’d done. Dew couldn’t forget-and he didn’t want to anymore. It was a part of his life, and he’d moved on. Mostly, anyway.
He certainly remembered the flag on Murray’s wall, remembered the firebase where he and Murray and six other men had been the only survivors of an entire company, remembered fighting for his life with all the savagery of a rabid animal. It had been like something from World War I at the end, just before the choppers arrived, fighting hand to hand in wet, sandbagged trenches, the 2:00 A.M. stars hidden by clouds that poured rain and turned the firebase into a slick sea of mud.
Murray Longworth sat behind a large oak desk devoid of decoration, unless you counted the computer. The desk’s empty top gleamed with layers of polish.