by R. A. McGee
“Come on, Sarge, you’re living like this?” Porter said.
“Don’t knock it. This little place came with the club when I bought it. I haven’t had time to fix everything up yet, but I don’t have to pay rent anywhere. And I have the shortest commute ever. What’s not to love?”
Porter shook his head. “Does the plumbing work? If the plumbing doesn’t work, I’m out.”
“Of course the plumbing works.” Badway went into the kitchen and twisted the faucet. There was a groan, then water came sputtering out. “Come on, let’s get your stuff.”
Porter sighed, resigned to his fate.
Badway led Porter out the way they had come in, down the metal stairs and into the alley that ran behind the club. The alley spit the pair out on a side street.
“Where did you park?”
“That empty lot across the street.”
The two men walked in the dark, moving along the side of the club to the main street, then crossing over to Porter’s car. As they went, each man subtly scanned the road up and down and peered into the darkness.
A blue Yukon sat alone under a dim yellow streetlight. Porter chirped the anti-theft detection.
“You still have that thing? Are you kidding?”
“Don’t shit on my car, Badway.”
“You had this last time I saw you. It’s been a few years, man; upgrade a little.”
“It’s paid off. Why should I get something different? And with your apartment looking like it does, you don’t have very much room to talk,” Porter said.
“That’s an investment. Once I’m done with it, it’ll be awesome. Besides, I’ve slept in worse.”
“Yeah, but this isn’t Afghanistan,” Porter said, pulling a bag from the trunk.
“What you got in there?” Badway pointed to the long lockbox bolted to the open area in the Yukon’s trunk.
“That stuff’s for grown-ups. It’s nothing you’d be interested in—I don’t want to give you nightmares.”
“Please.” Badway lifted his shirt to reveal the butt of a Smith & Wesson J-Frame.
“Five shots. That’s so cute. Matches the mustache,” Porter said.
“Five is all I need. You should try aiming when you shoot, it’s amazing.”
“Well, I have twenty rounds in my Glock. I’ll take care of things when you run out.” Porter hit the door lock and the pair walked back across the street, with the same low-key scanning and threat awareness.
Back in the apartment, Badway slammed the door to push it into place. Then he slid a two-by-four in as a makeshift security measure.
“Thirsty?”
“I could drink,” Porter said, settling on the leather couch in the open living room. Porter noticed that the bricks from the club downstairs carried up the wall all the way into Badway’s apartment. The ceiling was enormous. Once he got it fixed up, it would be nice, Porter figured.
If he ever got it done.
Badway emerged from the skeleton of the kitchen with two cold beers.
“At least the fridge works,” Porter said.
“Actually, I have a cooler with ice in it. Keeps bottles super cold. Still working on the fridge.”
Porter shook his head.
“So how’s life?” Badway said.
“I’m getting by.”
“I feel that.”
“You happy you got out?” Porter said.
“Of the Army?”
“No, out of Aunt Mary,” Porter said. “Of course the Army.”
“Funny guy. I don’t know. I guess I’m happy.”
“What do you mean, you ‘guess’? Either you are or you aren’t.”
“I don’t know. Things made sense in the Army. Sometimes they don’t out here,” Badway said. “What about you? Glad you aren’t a Fed anymore?”
“Very.”
“Seriously? You loved that job. Then you just quit one day. What’s that all about?” Badway said.
“It’s a super long story,” Porter said. “I don’t want to bore you.”
“We got nothing but time,” Badway said. “You never told me what happened. I’m interested.”
Porter took a pull from his beer. “What I want to know is, who were the guys we lumped up? Lebanese?”
“Change the subject on me?”
Porter didn’t say anything.
Badway pulled the handle on his chair and a footrest sprang out from underneath it. “Armenian.”
“Why were they in your club causing problems?”
“It’s a super long story,” Badway said. “I don’t want to bore you.”
“Touché,” Porter said. “That’s fine, you’ll tell me eventually. What time are we getting up in the morning?”
“We have to go see the lawyer at eleven thirty.”
“Your boy gonna be there?” Porter said.
“He’ll be there. He’s excited to meet you,” Badway said.
“He shouldn’t be. I haven't done anything.”
“I know, but Kevon doesn’t have a lot of hope. Mom talked to Aunt Sarah and she said you’ve found a bunch of missing kids. She said it’s kind of your new thing,” Badway said.
“I’ll help anyone as long as the check clears,” Porter said. “Your boy is good for it, right?”
“Of course,” Badway said. He padded across the room and pulled a pillow and blanket from a table.
“Thanks,” Porter said, reaching for the pillow as Badway walked by.
“This is my pillow.”
“Then grab me one,” Porter said.
“I only have one.” Badway sat on the large chair and pulled his blanket up to his chest.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to sleep.”
“Why are you going to sleep on the chair? Go get in your bed,” Porter said.
“This is my bed,” Badway said. “I haven't bought a real one yet.”
“Fine.” Porter kicked his shoes off and stretched out on the couch, cradling his head on the armrest. “Do you still snore like a freight train?”
“I don’t think so. You should be good to go.”
Three
Porter was not good to go. The noise coming from Badway’s throat sounded like someone had stuck a recorder underneath a spaceship at launch. Porter tried everything he could think of to sleep. He even put on a pair of noise-canceling headphones from his bag and played soothing music from the internet.
Nothing worked.
At some point in the night, Porter gave up, pulled the cushions off the couch, and dragged them outside to the landing at the top of the metal stairs. It was chilly out, he had no blanket, and it was pretty much the worst night’s sleep he’d ever had.
He woke to Badway shaking his shoulder.
“Come on, man, I got coffee,” Badway said, and disappeared back into the apartment.
Porter stood and stretched, trying to undo the kinks from the cold weather and the hard metal landing. The cushions hadn’t done very much to make him comfortable.
Badway was at his table, two enormous tumblers of coffee in front of him.
“How the hell were you Special Forces?”
“What do you mean?” Badway said.
“I thought you guys were supposed to be sneaky. Quiet. Nobody knows you’re even there type of shit,” Porter said.
“Sure, sometimes.”
“You snore like a train. Everyone would hear you for miles around. You would blow every mission. Get everybody killed. I’m surprised they didn’t fire you, make you a file clerk or something like that. Dammit, man.” Porter swung the cushion at Badway’s head, but he raised an arm and blocked it.
“Guess you had a bad night. I feel great.” He held a tumbler of coffee out for Porter, who ruefully accepted it.
“You know coffee gives me the shits,” Porter said.
“So? I’m sure you could use some regularity.”
Porter shrugged. “At least you got the coffee right.”
“It’s easy to remember.
Black guy gets black coffee.”
“Brown guy gets black coffee,” Porter said.
“Don’t tell me that, it’ll mess me up. Next time I’ll accidentally make you a coffee with stuff in it. All I’ll be thinking is ‘brown coffee, brown coffee, brown coffee.’”
“Remember it however you need to get the order right,” Porter said, taking a swig.
“Wanna shower before we go?” Badway said.
Porter noticed for the first time that Badway’s hair was damp. “Is it an honest-to-God shower, or a bucket of water?”
“I told you the plumbing works. Why would I lie?”
Badway had not lied. Porter went to the master which, despite having no bed, did have a functioning shower. He tried to drain as much hot water as he could. It was the least Badway could do to make up for the horrendous night’s sleep. He emerged, put on clean clothes, and felt like a new man.
Badway was dressed and ready when Porter emerged, and the two men left the apartment.
“You aren’t gonna lock up?” Porter said.
“I can’t. The last owner hung the door wrong and I need to fix it. That’s why I have the two-by-four at night. It doesn’t really matter; there isn’t anything for anyone to steal. I bolted my safe to the studs and the floor joists, and it’s not like vandals could make the place look any worse.”
“That’s saying something.”
The two men walked down the alley behind the club, away from the side street they’d taken the night before. It opened into an empty lot with a For Sale sign on it.
“See? This is why you need to upgrade,” Badway said, pointing ahead.
A brand new Ford pickup sat in the lot. Four full doors and a good-sized bed. Porter climbed into the passenger seat, pleased that he didn’t need to stuff his legs in to fit.
“Just like an Army guy,” Porter said. “You have a baller truck and a shitty house. Priorities, Sarge, priorities.”
“You’re just jealous. Don’t worry, I’ll help you out. I’ll set your Yukon on fire, then let you talk to my truck guy. I’m sure he can cut you a deal.”
“Nobody’s doing anything to my Yukon. Paid for, remember? Just drive your truck,” Porter said.
“If you change your mind, I’m here to help.” Badway slipped the truck into drive, pulled out of the empty lot, and circled the building. Porter got his first glimpse of the club in the daytime.
The façade was all brick, and there were panel windows running the length of the front. Porter recognized the door to the club as well as the sidewalk they’d piled the track-suited morons up on.
“Why call it ‘Bali Bump House’? That sounds like a strip club or a brothel or something,” Porter said.
“That was the name when I bought it. I figure I can rename it once I come up with something.”
“You need to work on that,” Porter said.
As Badway drove away from the bar, Porter saw that it wasn’t the only entertainment establishment around. On the same strip of road there were two bars, another club, and an old restaurant. Still, there were more empty lots than businesses.
“What's up with all the For Sale signs? Bad area for business?”
“I guess it’s going through a transition period. I only bought a few weeks ago, but I used to come down here a lot when I lived around here. There were a bunch more businesses back then, but what can you do?”
“Why did you even buy that dump?” Porter said. “You could have gotten something else.”
Badway took a swig of his coffee. “Not really. All those years in the Army, I was never much of a saver. When I got out, I had no idea what I wanted to do, just that I was tired of taking orders from people. This place was cheap and I figured, why not work for myself? It’s just me, so I don’t need much. The price was right, and it should be easy enough to fix up and make nice.”
Porter watched the scenery grow from industrial to a more open cityscape. Badway turned onto a highway, keeping the truck at a comfortable cruising speed.
“Tell me more about your buddy.”
“Kevon?”
“No, the little doll you used to play with when we were kids,” Porter said.
“It wasn’t a doll, it was an action figure.”
“Action figures aren’t stuffed, Sarge,” Porter said.
“Why do you always call me that?”
“That’s what you are, right?”
“You know good and damn well I was a major,” Badway said.
Porter ignored him. “Come on, Sarge. Brief me already. You told me just enough to get me to come up here. What’s the real story?”
“I told you the real story,” Badway said.
“No, you told me part of the real story. What's the bad news?”
“Kevon’s a good guy who was in the service. He came back from deployment and now he can’t find his son. He needs some help.”
“I know that part,” Porter said. “That was the tiny bit you let seep out to entice me up here. That and the promise of all the beer I could drink.”
“You saying you didn’t want to catch up with your favorite cousin? Have I mentioned I own a club?”
“Sarge. What’s the rest?” Porter said.
Badway ran his hand through his brown hair. “His wife took the boy.”
“His wife? Come on, man. That kid isn't missing, his momma just ran off with him. Have the courts work on that shit.”
“Kevon’s trying. That’s why we’re going to the lawyer's office. The legal system isn’t working very well.”
“Doesn’t he know where she is? People don’t go that many places when they’re running. Hire a private investigator and track her down. Should be easy enough.”
“See, that’s the thing. Her new boyfriend is running interference. He has money and keeps hiring lawyers to stall the case. Drag things out. They don’t abide by any of the court orders, so Kevon’s screwed.”
Porter felt a twitch in the back of his head. An old habit. The investigator in him was getting interested. Before he realized it, he’d said, “Tell me more about the boyfriend.”
“The boyfriend? You aren’t going to like that part.”
“I haven't liked any of it. How could the boyfriend be any worse?”
“He’s super rich. He owns a PMC that hires—”
“Wait. Private Military Corporation? The boyfriend’s a mercenary?” Porter said.
“Yeah. I used to see guys who worked for him overseas. They weren’t the best.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Porter said.
“There are tiers to the PMC thing. Some of them aren't too bad. Ethical—well, at least as ethical as they can be. Follow the rules of engagement, work well with the rest of us with no issues. But not Parabellum.”
“Parabellum? You’re shitting me?” Porter said.
“Why, you know them?”
“I had a run-in with a few of their guys a while back. Tough, not too smart.”
“Yeah, that’s them. They were always in trouble over in the sandbox. Doing things they weren't supposed to do—stealing things, inappropriate stuff with the locals. Sometimes hiding bodies. It’s the Wild West out there, and those guys acted like it. And the people they hire? Damn.”
“What’s up with their hiring practices?”
Badway turned off the highway. Bilingual signs and advertising dominated both sides of the road. “When I got out, I got recruited by several of the merc companies. They’re always headhunting talented guys to come work for them. The turnover rate is incredibly high. They pay so much money that guys will sign on, go work for a year or two straight, and make half a million. Then they go pay off their little house in North Carolina or San Diego or Oklahoma and stop doing the job. It’s dangerous shit.”
“You didn’t consider it? All that money—what do you have to lose? It’s not like you’re married. The snoring makes sure of that.”
“It wasn’t for me. I always thought it was important to have the flag on my arm when I
was working. If not for that, I want no part of the sandbox. But other guys do, and they love the PMC money. The problem is, there’s a pretty small pool of qualified applicants, at least for the high-speed stuff. In order to broaden their applicant pool, Parabellum will take anyone with the right background.”
“‘Anyone’ includes guys who got dishonorably discharged, right? The scumbags? The criminals?”
“You got it. If you get bounced from the army for something, Parabellum loves you. They pay you a little less since you won't get hired on anywhere else. But those guys don’t care. Half of them want to be in combat again so badly, they’d go back for free. The fact that Parabellum overlooks their criminal histories is just a bonus,” Badway said. “It makes the guys who stay working for them loyal.”
“Let me make sure I’m tracking. Your buddy’s wife left him while he was deployed. She took their son and is in the wind. Her new boyfriend runs a small army of highly trained criminals. Did I leave anything out?”
“Nope, that’s actually pretty good. I’m surprised you were even listening,” Badway said.
“I almost fell asleep, but so much hot air was coming out of your mouth, it was keeping me awake.”
Badway turned past a taquería and pulled into a strip mall. The large sign out front advertised a bodega, a place to buy prepaid phones and cell coverage, and an abogado. He turned the truck off and sat.
“I know this seems like a suck sandwich, and it is. But think about it from Kevon’s point of view. All he was doing was serving his country, and his reward for it was losing his son. It isn’t right.”
“I don’t disagree, but I’m not sure there’s much I can do to help him,” Porter said.
“But you’ll at least come inside and meet him? Hear what the lawyer thinks?”
Porter sighed. “Might as well. You already got me out of bed.’’ He swung the truck door open and followed Badway through a glass-paned door with stenciling that read Catherine Castonguay, Esq.
Four
Porter let the door slam behind him and it rattled the window pane. The waiting room he entered seemed well-used: a path had been trampled down in the carpet, leading from the front door to the receptionist and then to a small bank of seats with threadbare gray cushions.
