Coming face to face with Them.
Blanchard. Trying to smile while huffing.
Others. Ten of them. Younger. Clean-cut.
I knew them without knowing them. Had seen them at a school. Attending a shooting. Enjoying a concert.
Bright-eyed, then. Dead-eyed tonight. Faces set in the mire of obedience. As if the internal light in each of them had been switched off. Conservation of personality.
The other times, they’d dressed for success. They were dressed for something else tonight: black turtlenecks over black jeans and sneakers. The proper attire for an all-night wait in a storage shed. Or a backyard killing.
I said, “Hello, boys and girls. Take me to your leader.”
It shook a couple of them out of their zombie reverie. They held on to me but retracted their heads, as if I’d just given off a bad smell.
It talks.
Blanchard stepped forward and backhanded me hard across the face. My head twanged from the blow. I focused away from the pain- from the fear. Looked past all of them. Narrow passageway created by ten-foot-high stacks of PRINTED MATERIAL cartons. Directly in front of me was a black wooden door. Something painted on it. A red circle containing a spearhead.
Someone stepped out from behind one of the cartons. Someone wiggle-walked toward me.
Beth Bramble in a long-sleeved black dress. Her hair was drawn back tight. Chromium thunderbolt earrings dangled from her earlobes.
I struggled to clear my throat and said, “Mourning period over for the beloved leader?” It hurt to talk.
Blanchard hit me again. Bramble said, “Aw,” the laughter back in her voice.
She came closer, making kissy-poo movements with her lips. She’d eaten something with a lot of garlic in it. It folded into her perfume- floral pizza.
She chucked me under the chin. Pinched me by the cheek Blanchard had slapped. Pinched it again, harder, twisted, and smiled.
Through the agony I said, “Secret agent time, Beth? Nothing like getting an inside track on the opposition.”
She smiled, said, “Fuck you, darling,” pinched me again, let her fingers drop down my shirtfront, then my fly. She lingered there, gave me a playful honk. Someone snickered. Bramble winked at the young ones, turned, and disappeared behind the cartons.
Blanchard knocked on the black door.
A muffled reply came from the other side.
Blanchard opened it, put his head in, and said, “He’s here, D.F. Everything smooth as silk.”
Another muffled answer.
I was shoved in, and the door slammed behind me.
The room wasn’t much, maybe fifteen feet square, poorly lit. Maroon linoleum floor worn through to the concrete slab in several spots, block walls painted institutional white, warped acoustical ceiling browned by moisture, sheet-metal ceiling vent that dumped out stale, frigid air.
In the center was a seven-foot olive-drab desk that had to be army surplus. Two green metal chairs sat in front of it. Extra chairs stood folded in one corner. On top of the desk was a black multiline phone and a short stack of papers weighted down by a tarnished artillery shell. Running against the left wall was a brown couch that looked thirdhand.
Bunker-nouveau? All that field-command drabness provided a nice sense of contrast with what covered the wall behind the desk. A flag big enough for City Hall. Black muslin bordered in red satin. In the center a red spear-in-a-circle motif.
Gordon Latch sat on the couch, wearing double-pleated ankle-pegged black slacks with narrow cuffs, black snakeskin boots with riding heels, and an oversized black silk shirt buttoned at the collar in the pseudo-nerd style favored by actors and dope dealers. The shirt had twin breast pockets with flaps, pearl buttons, and ostentatious epaulets. Chrome spears glistened from the lapel tips. His legs were crossed, his posture relaxed- the casual but calculated slump of an old favorite guest on a late-night talk show.
He tossed me a victory smile. The smile flickered. His triumph marred by something…
I looked over at the green desk and understood.
Behind it sat Darryl “Bud” Ahlward in a high-backed green leather swivel chair. His uniform was identical to Latch’s but for rainbow splashes of battle ribbons over each breast pocket and a black leather shoulder holster from which a black gun butt protruded.
Gold spears on his lapels. Despite the generous tailoring of the shirt, his shoulders stretched the arm seams.
He sat very straight and very still, eyes static and changeless.
I turned back to Latch and said, “Nifty little role reversal. Still second cadre, huh, Gordon?”
Latch sat up straighter and started to speak. Ahlward shoved the words back down his throat with a quick look. Latch turned away from both of us, recrossing his legs and making a show of boredom.
I said, “So this is what the well-dressed storm trooper’s wearing this season. What’s the official greeting? Sieg Heil Ciao?”
Ahlward reached across his chest and took the gun out of his holster- a big black affair with a long barrel and a high-tech profile. He caressed it, then pointed it at me.
“Sit down.”
I said, “Or is it Haberdashery über Alles?”
Latch said, “Asshole.”
I feigned puzzlement. “Let’s see now, which one are you, Gordie? Goebbels or Goering? Must be Goering, ’cause it looks like you’ve got a little paunch sprouting under those baggies. And what about the charming Ms. Crisp? Is she doing Eva Braun in tonight’s pageant, or is that Beth Bramble’s role?”
Ahlward sighted down the barrel of the big black pistol. His left eye closed. I fought to keep my eyes open, staring straight ahead. Behind him.
Concentrating on the spear logo, glowing scarlet and ugly. Thinking of photos at an exhibit. A wintry day in Bavaria. Bodies collapsing into a ditch.
“You’re a puzzling piece of turd,” said Ahlward. “I’ve researched you. Always getting into things that aren’t your business.”
“For the last time,” said Latch.
Ahlward said, “Show and Tell time, turd.” Gestured with the gun.
I said, “Why should I bother?”
Ahlward smiled. “Because,” he said. “Every second’s precious. Everyone thinks they’re immortal. Amazing the things creatures will do- how low they’ll sink- to buy seconds.”
I said, “Is that a fact?”
“Scientific fact. Toss a kike-creature in freezing water and watch him prolong his agony just to buy seconds.”
“Toss a penny in the pool and he’ll dive in voluntarily,” Latch added.
Ahlward smiled and said, “They gasped like fish and screamed in Yiddish for mercy, even though they knew it was no use. Just kept going until they turned into Popsicles. Scientists are using it today. Hotshot research on hypothermia. Who knows? Maybe you’ll end up benefiting mankind too.”
“An entire new area of inquiry,” said Latch. “Pain tolerance.”
“So,” said Ahlward. “You’ll cooperate. What’s the alternative?”
“The alternative is, I say fuck you.”
Ahlward put his gun away and pushed a button on the phone. His reward was a single short ring. He picked up the receiver and said, “Now.”
He sat back and folded his arms across his chest. Same stance I’d seen a few days ago. In a classroom.
A single knock sounded on the door.
Ahlward said, “In.”
Two clean-cuts came in, grasping something big and white and limp under the arms. Both of them were husky, very young. One was blond and had bad acne. The other, dark-haired, with a wispy mustache.
Twenty years old, tops. They should have been beer-bashing. Trolling for cheap thrills.
They stood at attention, grim, pithed of soul.
The white thing between them was Milo, head lolling, heels dragging.
Dead weight. My heart did a high jump and landed in my gullet, choking off air. I moved forward. Ahlward snatched up the gun and said, “Stay.”
Buy seconds.
I remained in place and looked at my friend.
He was barefoot and had been stripped down to his undershirt and trousers. The shirt was ripped and splotched with blood. His eyes were swollen shut, his lip split in a couple of places and blood-engorged. Worms of dried blood crawled all over his face, trailed down his chin and onto the shirt. One of his shoulders was exposed through a rent in the undershirt. Scraped raw and still weeping. Blue-maroon cabbage-shaped bruises blossomed along his arms. Despite his bulk, he looked small.