“That’s Amanda,” Junior said.
“Looks like she’s found herself a gig over here.”
“They’re making her do that. She’d never do it by choice.”
“Uh huh. When we find her, you just better be very, very persuasive when you tell her she’s going home.”
“She’ll come. I know her.”
“Did you know she was defecting?”
“No, I was doing my service.”
“Yeah, well people change and not always for the better. Just be ready, because you have no idea who she is anymore. Or what they have done to her.”
7.
It took another 30 minutes to cover the ten miles. A car had caught fire in the number one lane after the old 101 interchange – the 101 was now the Barbara Boxer Freeway – and blocked traffic after its owner abandoned it. There seemed to be a lot of fires today; Junior counted a half-dozen tendrils of black soot rising over the Valley as they drove through.
They got off at Sunset and headed west. The streets were full of people milling about, many evidently transient. Many of the storefronts were shuttered; about half the stores in the mini-malls that lined Sunset along that stretch were closed. Junior noticed immediately the lack of advertising and logos. There just were not very many. The signs were mostly generic – “Convenience Store,” “Shoe Store” and the like. He remembered learning in school that in the blue, they saw having many different brands as economically “inefficient.” And, of course, all the food stores were nationalized. Each one they passed had a long queue of sullen people waiting to be allowed inside, except for one where the line was dispersing; a banner reading “NO FOOD TODAY” hung across the door, and bored workers stood around inside.
The pick-up pulled into the parking lot of what had been the Denny’s. It was now called simply “Café,” but you could see underneath the surface and the peeling white and red paint job its origins as the popular chain restaurant. They still existed back home – a few weeks ago he had gotten himself a grand slam breakfast. This one had been notable for the rock stars who would convene there in the wee small hours of the morning after their gigs and their post-gig partying.
“Right on time,” Turnbull said without elaborating. He leapt out and pulled on his pack.
Along the perimeter of the parking lot, which was largely empty, there were crude tents and shelters. The denizens looked over the pick-up truck sullenly; the driver did not wait for good-byes before accelerating out and away. Wearing their packs, the pair walked around the lot and over to the front entrance. A dead palm tree dominated the dry landscaping of the street side facing; it smelled like it was a popular field expedient latrine.
There was no hostess. You just found a seat yourself and sat down. A crudely drawn sign made of cardboard warned “If you don’t have your rat card, don’t bother.” The place was hardly full, even at the dinner hour. A couple of waitresses, one with a Mohawk and the other a blonde who looked like she’d seen far too much use stopped gossiping long enough to check them out.
“You got cards?” snapped the one with worse hair.
“Yeah,” said Turnbull, walking past toward a booth in the back. They set down their packs and Junior picked up the dirty plates and glasses left behind by the last customers, depositing them on a nearby table. They sat. The noise from the TV was distracting; it was reporting on the prevalence of sexism at the Port of Los Angeles and concluded by reading a statement from the mayor promising to crush all forms of hate.
“Remember,” Turnbull said. “No menus. They’ll tell you what they have.”
“Facilitators,” said Junior.
The facilitators took their time, apparently not imagining that anyone would actually want to get the slop they served any sooner than absolutely necessary. Turnbull took the opportunity to examine the clientele. Some Hollywood weirdoes, some regular working folks, plus some musicians, judging by their instrument cases, which they tied to the table post in case someone decided to try and snag them. And an older man, maybe 50, in a brown suit coat that had been carefully patched in several places. He held a paperback book, open about half-way, and was nibbling a piece of bread as he read.
The TV went to a logo reading “SPECIAL REPORT” and a young Hispanic announcer began reading a prepared text. “Because of the success of our agricultural plans while still fighting the threat of climate change, the People’s Assembly has announced that the minimum wage has been increased to $55 per hour effective today. Workers’ representatives and union leaders have been unanimous in their praise for this major step toward fairness and equality. By contrast, in the Racist States the rich continue to prosper while the poor and the working class fall further behind.”
The old man betrayed no expression. He looked back down to his book. No one seemed to pay much attention at all.
“Guess a raise doesn’t mean much if there’s nothing to buy,” Turnbull said.
“They call us the Racist States?”
“Among other things. They never call us the USA. They couldn’t wait to change their own name, but they are steamed we kept it. I think they picked People’s Republic because they knew it would piss off all the normal people who were still here, and us too. It was kind of a way for them to show us who was boss by rubbing our noses in it.”
“Sure looks like it worked out great,” Junior said. “I’m hitting the head.”
“Take some toilet paper. Trust me.” Junior pulled a roll out of his pack and went to the restroom. No one seemed to find that odd.
The used up server eventually wandered over.
“You got coffee?”
“Responsible or real?”
“Irresponsible. Gimme two. Any food?”
“Meat. And potatoes.”
“What kind of meat?”
“Meat meat. You want it or not?”
“Yeah. Two meats, well done.”
“You got rat cards for meat?”
Turnbull produced a pair of Series As, which she took and pocketed.
“That’s well done,” he reminded her.
She turned and left. There was a commotion out in the street. A group of maybe a half-dozen men was at an intersection on Sunset trying to pull the driver out of a food delivery van. He hit the gas, sending several flying off and bouncing across the asphalt as he shot through on the red light. One man shrieked, holding his foot, which had likely been run over. He limped over to the sidewalk by himself, his associates paying no attention to his cries.
“It’s getting ugly.” The old man was sitting in Junior’s seat, the book on the table underneath his folded hands.
“It’s been ugly for a while.”
“Not like this, though. Can you feel it? People are hungry, hopeless.”
“You can get arrested talking like that, Mister.”
“Not if you talk to friends.”
“Friends are in short supply these days,” replied Turnbull.
“I’m a friend of Abraham.”
“Which one?”
“More than one, as it happens. But Abe Lincoln is certainly one of them.”
“Well, you look like your picture and you said the magic words. What now?”
“I suppose you can eat your dinner.”
“We’re having meat,” said Turnbull. “You want to join us?”
“No, the bread here was pushing it. The meat would be well over the line. But you can enjoy it and I’ll wait.”
“Somehow I don’t see us enjoying it. We’ll roll.”
Junior returned, puzzled, the toilet paper roll in his left hand.