Third World

by Louis Shalako

  He turned and looked at the barman.

  “Whiskey.” He plunked down a fat coin, change from their admission fee, as the eyes of the troopers bored into the side of his neck as they stood there looking stupid. “I’d like a receipt.”

  “Just one, sir?”

  “Yes.” Lieutenant Newton Shapiro smiled in a kind of bliss as the gentleman poured one out and slid it across the scuffed dark planks, damp with constant traffic in beer mostly, judging by the smell coming up off of it.

  Command—and responsibility—had their perks, his attitude implied.

  He raised the glass and tipped it back, sending hot fire into his belly.

  “Ah.”

  He put the glass down and turned to watch the action for a while before taking them home.

  It was just one more set of observations for his report.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A Kind of Magic in the Air

  There was a kind of magic in the air, and it was like she felt it too. It was like they could dance the whole night away, and probably would. Hank hadn’t felt anything like this in years.

  They were both having fun, Hank being the gallant escort and perfect gentleman, especially after that kiss. He wasn’t taking anything for granted. His mind raced but it wasn’t getting too far.

  With Polly, and her lithe figure, spinning and twisting along with him, her shuffling feet a blur sometimes and her eyes flashing unspoken messages at Hank, it was a dream, a wonderful dream of the sort that you wished you didn’t have to wake up from.

  The crowd had pretty much reached its peak, and in another hour or so a few folks would begin to drift off home, perhaps the older ones, or the hardened core of the more religious would be thinking of worship already and how they had someone babysitting at home.

  He led her by the hand off the floor.

  “I’m having a wonderful time. But I need a cold drink, how about you?”

  “Sounds good.”

  They were confronted by a solid wall of spectators and folks just catching their breath or waiting for another good tune.

  “Excuse me, excuse me…” His deep voice and commanding height did the rest.

  Finally they found an oasis of several square feet of open space, although the noise didn’t abate much. The drummer had maybe had one too many by now and was not so much getting out of tune as louder and louder as the night wore on. It seemed as if the rest of the band had caught on and were trying to keep up.

  It struck Hank that they had to keep the music loud enough for people to hear it, and the place was getting busier by the minute, fueled by alcohol and hope or something.

  “Ah!” She pulled her hair, damp around the temples, back a bit from her face and looked up tolerantly at him. “You really get going there, sometimes.”

  “Er, thank you.” Hank pulled out his new red bandanna and dabbed at his own forehead. “I thought I was just trying to keep up with you.”

  She chuckled and put her arm around him, drawing him in close and giving him a squeeze from the side.

  He saw an opening.

  “Let’s get that drink.”

  Moseying along with his arm around her, her hip bumping up against his in a comfortable familiarity, Hank marveled at his good fortune and prayed it would continue.

  But one thing was for sure. They seemed to like each other just fine.

  ***

  Newton could easily imagine the troopers exchanging glances when he wasn’t looking and settling in for a long wait. When in doubt, lead.

  He was aware that they were drawing a few curious looks, but in general people accepted their presence.

  “It’s all right. We’re only staying for a few minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.” It was Oscar, Barnes still wasn’t speaking to him.

  Newton, idly considering another drink just to drive the point home, and feeling surprisingly good about things, watched a couple as they parted, the young lady departing in what he presumed was the direction of the powder room or its local cultural equivalent, and the man tall and older, very lean and yet intelligent-looking in spite of his rather gauche jacket and shiny black shoes.

  The man turned, made brief eye contact, confirming Newton’s initial impression of a good brain in there, and then he made his way to Newton’s left. His voice was rich and deep as he asked for a small pitcher of draft and a glass of wine.

  There was a table, recently vacated, it was one of only nine or ten in the whole place and most likely the fellow was hoping to nail it before someone else noticed. The party leaving, four or five of them, were still trying to make some impression on the solid phalanx of bodies intent on the floor, where music and action throbbed anew.

  “Sir!”

  It was Kane in the truck.

  “Yes. What is it?” His heart picked up a little at the tone.

  It sounded like some little thing must have gone wrong.

  “We’ve got a hit!”

  “What? You’ve got a what?” It took some time to sink in, in combat conditions it wouldn’t be good enough and he wished they were clearer sometimes on the radios.

  “Yes, sir, I see it too.” That was Jeff Roy.

  “A hit!” He glanced at Oscar and Oscar, about to speak evidently, clamped his mouth shut.

  “Talk to me.”

  “Facial recognition has found a pattern and artificial aging confirms it.”

  “Keep talking.” A hit!

  The last thing Newton or anyone had expected.

  “The subject just moved. He’s tall, about forty years old with dark hair, male pattern baldness, and he’s going to your left across the front…”

  Roy’s voice broke in just then and he couldn’t make it out.

  “One at a time, please.”

  With his mouth open just a little bit, Newton pulled his hand off his earpiece.

  Turning slowly, as if to order another drink, he turned, rotating left, and found himself eye-to-eye with the very man he had just been watching as he carefully picked up a small jug of beer, a beer glass, a glass of wine and a couple of coasters from the bar.

  The voices in his ears practically screamed, and Newton flinched slightly, reaching up quickly to turn the volume down a little as the fellow self-consciously made his way over to the table and put the refreshments down.

  Before the man’s back was turned, Newton snapped his helmet visor down and had a quick look to confirm it.

  Sure enough, the display was telling him that there was a ninety-five percent probability that they were looking at Trooper Henry Stinson Maloney, who had failed to return from a forty-eight hour leave, twenty-two years ago while in Her Majesty’s charge and care.

  Something flipped over inside of his guts. Whether that was his dinner or not, he wasn’t quite sure.

  For a long moment, Newton was frozen as the young lady came back and sat down. The man, foaming glass of beer already poured, lifted it in toast as she responded in kind with her wine glass.

  The troopers were right there and all hot for action. His duty was clear, in fact he could see it all in his head.

  They wouldn’t be coming back empty-handed, although he was sure that was what everyone had expected.

  He had no choice. He had a responsibility. There was no going back now.

  Dammit.

  ***

  “Polly—” Hank was feeling better about things, if nothing else they were having a good time.

  That was certainly promising, but he was struggling to say something more, to give her some little hint about how he felt, and maybe try and feel her out about exactly how she felt about certain things, when her eyes unfocused from his and looked at a point just off of his right shoulder.

  When the big hand came down and clamped on, right beside his neck, squeezing tight in a good strong grip, it sent a jolt of internal electricity through Hank and he half-stood and half-spun before he even realized he was getting up. The big trooper shoved him back into the seat.

  Ther
e was some talk, too, but it barely registered what they were saying. Then he heard it.

  “Sir, you are under arrest, by authority of Queen’s Bench Warrant number…” The rest just spieled off into a series of meaningless letters and digits.

  The big hand forced him down into his seat as Polly’s face went all stark and white and her eyes were as big as saucers. The other two, a trooper and an officer by the look of him, stood right there, the little one with her assault weapon pointed right at Hank’s head and the officer with his hand on his sidearm holster.

  “Sir, we’d like to ask you a few questions. If you’d just come with us, perhaps we could avoid an unpleasant scene.” The mouth moved and words came out but Hank was in a state of funk, or shock, or simple inability to comprehend what these people wanted.

  “I’m sorry? I—I don’t understand.” He sat in the chair and looked up at the officer as he moved around to where Hank wouldn’t have to twist his neck so much and the camera pickup could get a better look at that face.

  Oscar kept his hand clamped right where it was. One look was enough for Hank. Trooper Barnes looked on.

  Her weapon was at the ready, as she stood well off to one side. Hank’s pulse shot up and his guts sank.

  Oscar had a scar across the bridge of his nose and came in at a hundred and ten kilos. He was so close to two metres tall it wasn’t even funny. He could be intimidating.

  “Sir, I’ll have to ask you, very politely and I hope you appreciate that, to sit still.” Oscar clearly wasn’t taking no for an answer.

  The man just stared at Lieutenant Shapiro with eyes sick with something, but thankfully with a lady present and a crowded room of innocent civilians, he made no attempt to bolt. He seemed to be totally flabbergasted by his arrest, and right in the middle of nailing what looked to Newton like a pretty good thing.

  The probabilities were still well over ninety-five percent. He would have liked a hundred percent, but twenty-two years was twenty-two years. Newton wondered if that might be something of a record for apprehending a deserter. Probably not, he decided.

  “What’s your name, sir?” Newton hadn’t exactly been trained in police work, military or otherwise, but the game was a familiar one, from video and books.

  “Hank Beveridge!” The man clamped his jaws shut and his face was all red.

  His face and eyes worked, and when he looked at the lady, there was such painful embarrassment.

  The music went silent. The room was very quiet and then the mutter and murmur of several hundred throats began to swell as the rest began to catch onto what was going on. The crowd rearranged itself into an unbroken semi-circle, crowding up uncomfortably close now, and it was definitely time to go judging by some of the faces and several comments easily understood although a bit muffled as they came from the back of the pack.

  “All right, sir. Let’s go.” The man stared at him. “Let’s take a little walk.”

  “Where? Where are we going?”

  Newton didn’t really have an answer for that yet. With a gesture at Barnes, who came over to take the suspect’s other elbow, they got him up and out of the chair and quickly put the restraints on him.

  “All right, Buster, let’s go.” Oscar was enjoying this perhaps a little too much, but Newton felt the sudden weight of responsibility crushing down on him.

  Newton took the man’s forearm, cuffed behind his back as it was, and led him along.

  Barnes stepped boldly towards the front rank of spectators with her weapon held across her chest, and they reluctantly parted, making rude comments and asking questions. Newton’s breath caught in his throat, but she was suddenly magnificent.

  “What’s he done?” Someone at Newton’s elbow shouted the question at the side of his head.

  It was a valid question and it deserved a response.

  “No comment. We have a warrant.” Newton stopped and looked at the ring of faces, many of them angry, some of them confused, and some of them no doubt amused, for there were those in every crowd.

  The prisoner had a right to privacy, among other things…

  He spoke up in an authoritative tone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. This man is under arrest. We will brook no interference. Otherwise, we’re leaving. Now.”

  The buzz quieted, but only momentarily as the band and the bartenders stared in dismay, for they all sort of knew Hank Beveridge. Off-duty troopers forced their way to the front, and lined themselves up along each side of their small party. It was a strangely prideful moment, and he was glad they were there, no doubt about it.

  The local boys, strong working men and one or two bullies probably, were thinking things over, as a few short remarks went about in the group of milling people.

  He did his best to stare each and every damned one of them down.

  He shouldn’t have had that drink. He should have brought a finger-print reader, which suddenly seemed a lot more serious than a shot of whiskey. Newton didn’t care. These people were no match for them—and they all of a sudden knew it. He knew because one or two sort of turned away and the talk got louder and things just seemed looser all over.

  Newton Shapiro had won.

  “Right! Let’s go.”

  Also, the question of where in the hell they were going to keep the prisoner crossed his mind at about this time.

  Chapter Sixteen

  What Do We Do With Her?

  Polly followed them out the door and down the street, a fact Shapiro was unaware of until Oscar said something.

  “Sir, what do we do with her?”

  “Huh?”

  He looked back and saw that the crowd was spilling out into the street, but for the most part they were just standing there watching. He had the impression they had just avoided an ugly scene by the skin of their teeth and he wanted to get out of there.

  But the young lady was clearly going to be a problem, and his own people were looking punchy as they tried to control her without harming her, something not easily done with the hysterical.

  “Go home, Miss.” He stopped, but was careful not to touch her in any way or even raise his voice.

  He tried to inject some calmness into it.

  “There’s nothing you can do for him.” Barnes had nailed it, although it really wasn’t up to her to speak.

  She eluded Hernandez and Ensign Spaulding with a quick side-step and a lunge, and tried to force her way in between the prisoner and Oscar, who contemptuously shoved her out of the way with an elbow. Newton let go and drew his weapon. Oscar found that holding his weapon and the prisoner at the same time gave him few options other than to walk right over her. The other troops grabbed her and pulled her back, as the crowd muttered and one or two of the bolder ones headed this way, all males in his quick survey. She wriggled and yanked around in their grasp as they cussed and swore with the effort. He engaged the foremost civilian with a firm look.

  “Keep her out of harm’s way.”

  The man wrapped his arms around her as she sobbed.

  “I’m sorry, Miss.”

  She was crying and trying to stop them and she just wouldn’t listen.

  The prisoner spoke up.

  “Go home, Polly. Go home. They’ll just make trouble for you too.” Hank glared at Newton Shapiro.

  There was some unspoken promise there, and Newton heeded it out of simple respect for another human being.

  “Thank you.”

  The man’s face was filled with hate, his eyes chilling to behold, but what else could you expect? Newton didn’t like it much either, but what could he do about it?

  “All we’re looking for is a little cooperation.”

  The man glared at him.

  Newton had his orders, he had his job to do. It was nothing personal, and of course he could see the other man’s point of view: this was the worst sort of thing that could happen to a man. Newton could see that well enough.

  They left Polly standing in the street, barely under control, calling after them a
nd weeping in the most heart-wrenching manner.

  “What has he done? What’s the charge?” She wailed and threw herself into the dirt as the civilians tried to grab her again. “I want to know what’s going on!”

  “Yeah, Lieutenant. What’s going on?”

  Shapiro hoped the man wouldn’t become belligerent, aware the fellow had had a few drinks.

  “Please don’t make trouble, sir.” Oscar gave Hank a menacing look, and then shut up on receiving a similar sort of look from Shapiro.

  Hank clamped his jaws shut and drew himself up to his full height. He exuded wounded dignity.

  Newton’s skin crawled with his miserable duty as they marched their prisoner back to the hotel at double time, ignoring the looks and remarks of an occasional passer-by and some people on a porch.

  Please, God, please let it be over soon.

  ***

  It took a while to sink in.

  Hank never said a word. All of his thoughts had congealed into a sheet of ice. His whole life was over, and escape seemed unlikely. Now that they had him, for whatever reason, they weren’t about to let him go.

  The lieutenant was speaking.

  “We’ll keep him in the cab of truck two. I want two people with him at all times. He’s on suicide watch and that means he’s never left alone, not even in the latrine.”

  “Yes, sir.” Oscar and Barnes were happy enough to have a prisoner.

  Somehow, it made everything seem worthwhile.

  “He’s not so tough now, eh?” Barnes was right.

  Head hanging, their prisoner stood there, with tears washing down his face and visibly trying to control his emotions and not having much luck with it.