The New City

by Stephen Amidon

  “Susan’s folks caught her and Joel doing the dirty deed.”

  Swope stared at his son evenly.

  “You’re joking.”

  “I kid you not.”

  “Where?”

  “In Susan’s room?”

  “Irma and John walked in the door?”

  “Yesireebob.”

  “And just so we’re clear—the dirty deed means?”

  Teddy made a fist and punched it slowly forward.

  “Joel told you this?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “Much histrionics from the German contingent. Then Sergeant Truax launches a frontal assault.”

  “Wait a minute. Are you telling me that John Truax physically attacked Joel Wooten last night?”

  Teddy nodded.

  “But I just saw Joel and he looked fine,” Swope said. “I mean, John Truax seems like the type of guy, he hits you, you stay hit.”

  Teddy’s voice went Cosell-nasal.

  “It was a glancing blow.”

  “Ah. And then what happened?”

  “Joel retrieved the majority of his threads and hot-footed it over here for some sanctuary.”

  “Not wanting to be around his own parents when the feces hit the fan.”

  “Bingo.”

  Swope tried to picture the sight of a drunken Irma Truax discovering Joel humping her peaches-and-cream daughter just minutes after her very public fall from grace. That would certainly have been one for the books. He reached forward, grasping three of the cradle’s balls. He pulled them to the right, then released them. Three balls, including one from the original group, swung out to the left. The procedure was repeated in the opposite direction. And again. And again.

  “Dad?”

  Swope snapped out of it.

  “Thanks, Teddy. I appreciate your telling me this.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Me? Nothing. I’m sure the parents will work it out.”

  “Yeah, right. Then they’ll get Nixon and Sam Ervin together for lunch.”

  Swope made an open gesture with his hands. Teddy got up.

  “Oh, and Teddy—keep me informed about things on your end.”

  “Affirmative, Will Robinson.”

  “I just don’t want this to get out of hand.”

  Teddy bobbed his head a few times, then sauntered out of the room, leaving his empty Yoo-Hoo behind.

  Swope hadn’t thought much more of the episode since then. But now that the prospect that Wooten was after his job had returned with a vengeance, he found that he couldn’t stop thinking about the scene. John Truax had caught Joel Wooten fucking his daughter. And attacked him. The same man who’d been chasing Swope so desperately for a job.

  By the time he pulled into his darkened parking place he knew what he was going to do. Even though the plan was still in its infancy, he knew that it was his only way to be sure if his job was in trouble. It was full of risks, but so was everything else worth having on this wretched planet. He piled out of the Town Car and headed toward the lobby. He could see through the glass that the night watchman wasn’t at his desk. Probably on his rounds. No matter—Swope had keys.

  Twenty feet from the door he heard the scuffle of feet behind him. There was a voice, not quite making words. He turned, thinking it was the guard. But it wasn’t the guard. It was kids. Four of them. Black. Sixteen. Maybe younger. Their hair had been teased into nimbuslike Afros. One of them, dressed in an Orioles T-shirt, stepped forward. A comb with a handle shaped like a fist rose from his head.

  “Got a quarter?” the boy asked.

  Swope stared incredulously at him for a moment, trying to register the menace level. The tasseled toothpick dangling from the boy’s mouth didn’t help clarify matters. He glanced into the lobby—the guard was still AWOL.

  “Listen, fellas, you don’t know who—”

  “Chump, just give us a fucking quarter.”

  Somewhere in the back of Swope’s mind it occurred to him that he was about to be mugged. All those years working in the District and not once had he been shaken down. And yet now it was happening, in this clean, planned city.

  “Sure,” he said. “No sweat.”

  He fished a coin from his pocket and flipped it toward the boy in the Orioles shirt, who snatched it from the air with a nifty backhanded grab.

  Swope turned and walked away.

  “Chump,” a voice called after him.

  Not yet I’m not, Swope thought.

  The bird hit the window with a hollow, leathery thud that sounded like a football being punted. Swope was lost in thought when it happened, hammering out his plan’s details. He swiveled in his chair to look. It had struck directly behind his head, almost as if it were coming straight for him. Some sort of gull, white-headed with chrome-colored wings. Heading for the late-night light of his office. Though it died on impact, a strong biological glue—some adhesive blend of histamines and corpuscles—caused it to stick to the glass. Swope rose from his desk to examine the creature. Every few seconds it would slip down a fraction of an inch, laying a vertical highway of muck on the window. But it showed no sign of falling. He wondered if it would continue like this all the way to the ground, passing level after level before settling gently into the shrubbery. Swope leaned forward, his nose almost touching the Thermopane. The bird’s head had been twisted by the impact, allowing a clear view of its dead eye. Jelly pasted it to the window. As the bird moved downward the ball was slowly rolling up into the socket, exposing black veins. A few more earthward pulses and it would pop right out of the head.

  Suddenly repulsed by the vision, Swope turned his attention to the Plaza. It was empty. The muggers were gone. A couple of human figures were perched on the edge of the ruined pier, their silhouettes framed by the lucent water. In the darkness it was impossible to see who they were or what they were doing. Swope would have to do something about that damned thing. All he needed was a lawsuit after somebody slid off. Dead fish flashed in the water beyond. Not many—only a couple dozen had surfaced since the cleaning crew had knocked off that afternoon, leaving a big pile by the edge of the boardwalk. Rotting and stinking to high heaven, no doubt.

  He checked his watch. It had been a half hour since his call. He strolled across the office to the model city, squatting so he could place his eyes just inches from a little plastic woman playing tennis. She was tiny, no bigger than a pencil’s eraser. But well made. The sweep of her arm as she prepared to meet the ball, her shiny helmet of hair, the twist of her legs. He reached out, pinching her between his thumb and forefinger. Testing how firmly she was grounded.

  “Mr. Swope?”

  The voice startled him, causing him to yank the figure from its setting. There was a muted Styrofoam shriek. He closed his fist around it as he casually turned. John Truax stood in the doorway. Jesus, Swope thought. How the hell did he get in here so quietly? His eyes were just coming off the sight of the dead bird. As far as Swope could tell the man had no reaction at all to the gruesome tableau.

  “John, come in.”

  Truax wore his company blazer, kelly green, the tree-and-apple emblem stitched onto its breast pocket. Sears action slacks and some sort of regimental tie.

  “The guard let me in.”

  “Glad you could make it,” Swope said as he strode across the room.

  He held out his hand. Just as at the party, Truax was forced to grasp it with his left hand, palm cupped downward, like he was steadying himself on a rail. The difference being that this time Swope knew that was what the man would have to do.

  “Please. Sit.”

  Swope gestured to one of the seats facing the desk, then dropped into his swivel chair. As he sat he noticed that the bird was still clinging on behind him.

  “Some party the other night.”

  “Mr. Swope, I’d like to apologize for Irma. …”

  Swope waved away the man’s apology.

  �
�Forget it, John. Really. It’s a party. People are supposed to let their hair down. And if one or two cakes get smashed in the process, so be it.”

  Truax nodded once. He was confused now, clearly wondering what Swope was driving at.

  “Well, I guess you’re wondering why I called you here at this ungodly hour.”

  Truax nodded. Swope brought his hands down on the blotter.

  “John—I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go.”

  Truax drew back his head and started to blink. Swope kept on talking.

  “I’ve put a lot of thought into your situation and I just don’t think there’s room for you anymore at EarthWorks. I know it’s tough, but it’s only fair to let you know as soon as possible so you can start looking at other options.”

  Truax nodded for a moment, then began to stand.

  “Whoa,” Swope said, his voice friendly. “Sit down. We’re not quite finished.”

  If he storms out now, Swope thought, this won’t work. But Truax obeyed. Good soldier that he was, he sat back down.

  “So, John,” Swope asked. “Have you given much thought to your future?”

  “My future?”

  “That’s right. Two kids, a wife—you must have some concerns in that department.”

  “Well, yes.”

  Swope waited. Truax said nothing. The man clearly didn’t have a clue what was going on.

  “I was thinking in terms of what sort of job you’d be looking for now that your sales days are over.”

  Truax continued to flounder, his mouth opening and then snapping shut without making a sound.

  “Don’t worry about titles,” Swope said, his voice softening. “Feel free to speak in general terms.”

  Words finally completed the tortuous journey to the tip of Truax’s tongue.

  “It’s confusing.”

  “There are no wrong answers here, John. Only honest ones.”

  “I work harder than any of those … others. But I can’t seem to get ahead.” He was shaking his head doggedly. “I feel like a fullback who’s been sent into the game without having read the playbook. No matter how much I outhit or outhustle the other guy I can’t seem to …”

  “Avoid penalties,” Swope finished for him.

  Truax nodded.

  “I think I know what you need.”

  Truax looked up.

  “You want somebody to tell you what to do.”

  “Yes,” Truax said, without hesitation.

  Swope uncoupled his hands, making a rounded gesture, as if he were showing Truax the circumference of a prize melon.

  “You want someone to tell you what to do and when to do it. You’re thinking, If only I could be given a task every morning—not some vague job description but a nuts-and-bolts mission—then I could outwork any man in this city. Is that right?”

  Truax nodded. Beyond words now.

  “That was the problem down at the model village,” Swope continued. “You had to invent the wheel every time someone walked in the door.”

  Truax wasn’t even bothering to nod anymore. Swope let a few seconds of silence pass.

  “John, here’s the thing—I want you to come work for me. Me as in me. Not EarthWorks.”

  Truax stared. If he asks me what I want him to do, Swope thought, then the deal will be off. But he did not ask.

  “Yes,” he said.

  So there it was. The last hurdle cleared.

  “Excellent. Here’s the deal—I will pay you five hundred dollars a week. Cash. Which comes to, what, twenty-six grand a year. What you do about taxes is your business. In exchange for that fee you will make yourself available to me as a confidential security consultant on a twenty-four-hour basis. Seven days a week. To do whatever I deem necessary to safeguard the integrity of this office. Without question or delay. And you will tell no one about our arrangement. Does this sound acceptable to you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Swope leaned back in his chair he noticed that the bird had come loose sometime during their talk, leaving behind a two-foot streak of erratic gore that looked like a child’s finger painting. It occurred to him that Truax had not once looked at the grisly sight during their conversation, even though it had been directly in his line of vision. Even as it fell, his unblinking attention remained on Swope.

  “Any questions?”

  “When do you want me to start?” came the immediate reply.

  Swope smiled. This was most certainly his man. If, as he hoped, his suspicions of Wooten turned out to be a simple misunderstanding, then Truax could be counted on to keep his mouth shut, especially when Swope used his city manager power to find him a new posting somewhere in the city. The whole sorry episode could be buried without a trace. Nothing unpleasant would have to be done. Everyone would wind up exactly where they belonged.

  He looked back at the sergeant, patiently awaiting instruction. A public service announcement began to play through his mind. You couldn’t watch five minutes of TV nowadays without hearing it.

  Don’t forget—hire the vet.

  “How about right now?”

  14

  The waterfront plaza was empty. Some car had arrived in the parking lot a few minutes ago, though it was impossible for them to see down to the pier because of that stupid Gravity Tree. And there was no way the security guard was going to come all the way down here for a look. Not when he had doughnuts and a portable Zenith. Teddy and Joel could be conducting human sacrifices and nobody would bother them. They were safe.

  They’d come here after leaving the mall. It closed at nine, Muzak choking off, security gates rattling shut. They’d talked about maybe going over to Joel’s but things were still too heavy there between him and his folks. Teddy’s place was equally uncool—for some reason his dad had taken a deep interest in Saturday night’s proceedings. The less said about that, the better. And of course the teen center was out. Which left the slanting pier. They hadn’t been here in a while because Susan thought it was creepy, the way you had to keep your balance at the end, where it sloped down toward the water. But now that she was history it looked set to become their primo summer retreat. All they had to do was hop the chain-link fence, a feat Joel accomplished in two abrupt moves, though it took Teddy the better part of a minute to summon the courage to make that final drop. Wishing as he balanced there that Joel would wait up. They sat at the downside, feet dangling over the murky water, as isolated as if they’d been out in the middle of the Atlantic. A few dead fish floated near the boat platform below, their silvery gills catching odd moonbeams. Word was that they’d continue to die for another week or so. Not that Teddy cared. Fishing was for idiots. You sat there for hours, only to end up with something you could buy at A & P. Wonderful.

  Joel’s sulky mood continued to dominate the evening. Although Teddy’s verbal quiver was bursting with barbed stories and jokes, he’d decided to let his friend wallow in his sour disposition. They sat in silence, studying the lake’s shoreline. Most of it was taken up by town-houses strung together by a waterside bike path. There was the Pavilion to the north and, directly across from them, the Cross Keys Inn. The candles and bug torches on the hotel’s dining deck shimmered across the water, accompanied by random sounds—a spoon on a glass, a cough, the unanswered ring of a phone. Though Teddy knew from the times he’d eaten there that diners couldn’t see the darkened pier. Traffic noise from Newton Pike washed down from the other direction. Moored paddleboats and Sunfishes scraped against the wood on the nearby piers with occasionally musical creaks, backed up by the arrhythmic pock of small waves trapped by the beams.

  Teddy scraped on his Cricket to refire his extinguished joint.

  “Fresh from our factory to you,” he said, passing it over.

  But Joel waved it away impatiently. Teddy shrugged, took one more toke and then ground the doobie out into the deck. He stowed it back in the resinous pocket of his jacket, wondering how long this bad mood thing was going to last. Joel’d been sulking ever
since Saturday night’s meltdown. His voice taking on a whiny timbre, his broad shoulders sagging. That stupid leather visor looking even more ridiculous, like some kind of modified dunce cap. Not that Teddy was necessarily worried by all this childish emotion. It was nothing a few sessions with the doctor couldn’t cure. But after forty-eight hours the patient still showed little sign of recovery. If anything, his condition was worsening. Teddy had tried to josh and cajole him out of his funk; he’d administered various pharmaceuticals. All, so far, to no avail. Worse still, there had even been some harsh words for Teddy himself, accusing him of being the cause of this whole fiasco. Words that continued to hang in the air, like a cloud of summer gnats that followed you no matter how fast you walked.

  “You know what we should do,” Teddy said finally.

  “What’s that,” Joel answered, his voice free of curiosity.

  “Hit the beach. Ocean City, man. Get the Swope to comp us one of those EarthWorks condos? Now that you’re eighteen we can imbibe copiously. Much beer can be had. En route I can pay a visit to my herbalist to refill nature’s prescription.”

  Joel shrugged.

  “Susan and I were thinking of going there,” he said in a voice that Teddy could only describe as wistful.

  Jesus Jones.

  “Well, you’d better cast such notions from your mind. Conditions are strictly Stalag Seventeen chez Truax.”

  Joel looked over at Teddy. In the wan light it was difficult to read his expression.

  “You shouldn’t sound so happy about it.”

  “I’m not happy about it Joel. It sucks.”

  Joel said nothing.

  “Look, man—alls I’m trying to do here is make it up to you. Get your mind off it.”

  “You’d be better off using that big brain of yours to figure out a way to get me and Susan back together.”

  Teddy sucked air between his teeth.

  “A quandary. I mean, I wouldn’t recommend any trellis climbing. The sarge just spent three years making sure he wasn’t infiltrated by Charley.”

  “Fuck,” Joel said.

  Teddy glanced at his friend. He really did look awful. Almost as if he was in mourning. For a moment, Teddy feared that he’d made a terrible mistake by letting them get caught. Maybe Joel wouldn’t snap out of it. Maybe he’d spend the rest of the summer walking around with this stricken look on his face, pissed off at the world in general and Teddy in particular.