“There might be loyalty problems within my organization. We have our own internal politics.”
“And you have a golden opportunity to deal with that, Director. Don’t tell me you have not thought through the upside of riots and spies – more authority for you to address those problems. More autonomy in selecting your subordinates. I am well aware that you and the PBI are as hobbled and handicapped by quotas and regulations governing who can be appointed to what job as everyone else. If you perform, you may earn the leeway to put competent and, most importantly, loyal people in positions of responsibility. No more having to promote someone into a position you need to be able to count on just because he chose to snip his prick off and sand down his Adam’s apple. And that way, when the time comes, you will lead and you can be confident that they will follow.”
“So, you are proposing a long term alliance?”
“I am. Because of all the people jockeying for position in this great game of ours, you seem to be the most ideologically flexible. I don’t think you believe this bullshit. Nor do I think you disbelieve it. I think you don’t care about it, not even a little. I think all you care about is yourself, and that is the kind of man I can find useful.”
Rios-Parkinson took another drink of his water, not looking away. He returned it to its coaster.
“And my role?”
“My second. I need what they used to call an executive officer, someone to do the things I can’t. When I leave – I have 20 years or so on you – then it’s all yours. Hopefully functioning so that we aren’t always on edge waiting for starving people to start rioting.”
“That is the long term. Short term, what do you want?”
“I want you to get your shit together. I want you to crush the riots. I want you to get your list back. And I want you to get those spies.”
“I intend to. And I intend to do it soon.”
“Good,” said Harrington. “Oh, and there is another thing. There is a lot of talk about that red state whore you are shacked up with. It makes you look weak, and far too cis besides. You need to get rid of her.”
Rios-Harrington smiled. He was well aware that what had been a status symbol was becoming a liability in his circles.
“Oh yes,” he replied, “I intend to do that too.”
It was near 9:30 p.m. when they left the downtown complex. Before the Split, the roads in West LA would have still been clogged even at that hour, but with Arthur driving and Sam in the front seat, the black SUV made excellent time. They ignored even the working traffic signals, and the PSF cruisers ignored them. You never interfered with a black SUV.
They headed across the city into the Western Sector through the same gate Turnbull and Junior had used that morning. A long line of blue shirts, still in street clothes, waited patiently at the employee entrance for admittance for the night shift. It was taking longer than usual because the guards were wanding each of them for weapons. The guards waved the SUV right through; Rios-Parkinson noted that there were clearly extra guards scrutinizing both those coming in and going out.
The traffic was much heavier inside; Beverly Hills and its environs were brightly lit and festive. People walked along the sidewalks and dined in sidewalk cafes. Musicians set up at intervals to serenade those out and about. Amanda was constantly pestering him to take her out on a Friday night; he had no interest in that. Her constant assertion of her needs and wants was something he would not miss in the slightest after he had Arthur and Sam take her away and shoot her.
She was replaceable, a fungible commodity. The man who had been ignored before all this now understood that there were plenty of women to choose from if you had the power of life and death.
They continued north on the residential streets twisting and climbing up the hills to the north. Unlike out there, beyond the sector’s walls, these houses were mostly occupied. Many of these people had a reason to leave; most of those who did were quickly replaced by bureaucrats who managed to obtain residence by default in the homes seized either from the worms who left for the red or from those who failed to make their reparations payments.
They turned onto his street, just below the crest of the hill, Arthur radioed ahead that they were coming and received a confirmation from the house. They drove along the winding, narrow street until they approached his gate. It opened before them and they drove in and parked. Amanda’s red Nissan was in its place. The city spread out before him, the Western Sector bright, the rest of the city – other than downtown to the east and the Airport and the South Bay Sector to the southwest – were generally dark, with only a few intermittent flickers of light piercing the black.
The house itself was spectacular, a gift from one of the worms who fled after the Split. The backyard extended down the hill to a flat plateau the size of a basketball court where the pool and gardens were.
Followed by Arthur and Sam, he came up the walkway to the front door and found it ajar – typical. Amanda had likely gotten drunk and forgotten to close it again. He truly would not miss her.
Pushing the heavy door open and stepping inside, he turned his head to tell Arthur to retrieve his computer from the SUV and heard one thwoot, then another. He saw Arthur slump against a red-splattered wall and Sam staggering.
It made no sense, but then it all became very clear as a powerful hand locked onto his shoulder, pulled him around, and forced him back against the doorjamb.
A large black handgun pressed painfully hard into the depression at the top of his nose, squarely between his eyes. Behind the gun was an unsmiling face.
“Welcome home, asshole,” said Kelly Turnbull.
15.
They were stuck in the parking structure for several hours thanks to the security operation outside, which was fine with them. No one would be looking for them, if they were in fact being looked for, inside of a riot perimeter. Junior took the first watch and Turnbull slept in the back seat for a couple hours. He dozed right through the occasional bursts of gunfire.
It was pretty clear that the PRNA was not going to tolerate this kind of thing, not inside a security sector.
Eventually, the blues left the streets and it started slowly getting back to normal. They waited until the people and the drivers were venturing out en masse again before they pulled out of the space and drove down the ramp to the street. No one ever came for the Tesla with the broken out rear window. Junior wondered if the owner wasn’t lying on a slab somewhere with a carving fork through his sternum.
“We need food,” Junior said from the passenger’s seat as they pulled out into the late Friday afternoon traffic. Up and down the street, things were normalizing again. You would never have known that this had been the scene of a bloodbath over lunch time.
“Maybe we might do better at a drive-thru,” Turnbull said. “Do they even have drive-thrus here anymore? They used to. This place has devolved. They have managed to take the long arc of human progress and bend it to run right down the shitter.”
“I wish they had Whataburger,” Junior said. “I need a burger.”
“The name ‘Whataburger’ is probably offensive to someone. Maybe it’s racist or some shit. Remember In-N-Out Burgers? They were amazing.”
“I don’t know what that is. In-N-Out Burgers?”
“It was a California burger chain. Unbelievable burgers. The blues seized them along with everything else that hadn’t left for the red and that wasn’t shitty. This was perhaps the blues’ greatest crime. Of all the crimes, of all the shit they’ve pulled, I think I’m most pissed off that they destroyed In-N-Out Burger.”