Blackbird

by Michael Fiegel

  “There are a lot of kids your age who would kill to have a life like yours,” he said when the waitress left.

  “Is that what it takes?” I asked. “Killing?”

  • • •

  What will it take? And who will give it to her, if not me? Who does she have to look up to? She is friends with a few waitresses, but they are hardly role models. School and teachers are not an option. The lady upstairs was born before time. There are no kids her age around, and her fake online friends are probably half pedophiles, half drug addicts: it seems every time I hop in a chat room to listen in, I see them discussing either sex, music, or drugs. Same as always, I suppose. The more things change, the more they drift towards the mediocre.

  I know she deserves better, but right now I have nothing else to offer. Not personally.

  We finish up dinner, and the waitress comes back. She is disturbingly attentive.

  “Dessert?” she asks.

  Xtian cuts my “no” off at the pass and snatches up the dessert card from behind the napkins.

  “What’s balaclava?” she asks.

  “A ski mask. Crack a book sometime,” I say.

  “Amygdala? That sounds good.”

  “Let me see that menu.” I reach for it, but she pulls away.

  “That’s it anyway. Oh, and chocolate cake. Bleh.”

  “We also have ipovrichio,” says the waitress. “It’s … vanilla syrup on a spoon. Want one?”

  “Yes!” Xtian looks like she just won the lottery. As she bounces happily, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Like most of the phones I have owned, it will only be used a single time. It has never been called before and never will be again. In theory, at least—these days, every phone gets telemarketers calling, so I take a peek at the number just to be sure. It is who I thought, so I do not answer. This is not just a phone call—it is an alarm. I have been “sleeping” since we got to Buffalo, and I have just been woken up. This is good timing. I am ready for it. I am not as sure about Xtian, but I guess now is as good a time as any to find out.

  I flip the phone open.

  “Speaking of vanilla,” I say to Xtian as I dial a number I memorized years earlier but have never called before, “what happened to all the extract in the cupboard?”

  “I put it on my cereal.”

  “That is disturbing. Stop doing that.”

  “Stop buying shit-tier cereal.”

  “And stay out of the alm—” I break off and hold up a hand to shush her as the line picks up.

  “Hey,” I say into the phone.

  “Hey,” they reply. The caller’s voice has been modulated to obscure their identity, but I can tell from just that one syllable who it is: my fixer, Marc. No one else can pack so much into one three-letter word. Marc is tired: of work, of life. Of me, sometimes.

  “You calling about dinner?” I ask. I have to be careful to use code when others can overhear. I have no idea what I am signing up for yet, but I am sure it will not involve dinner.

  “You still in town?”

  “Yeah,” I say. We both mean Buffalo. Marc knew I left DC after the subway job.

  “Come over for the Fourth. Surf and turf.”

  “Sure, I’m up for it,” I say. I give Xtian a glance, then quickly add, “But I’m plus one.”

  There is a brief but noticeable pause before a one-word reply: “Who?”

  “My …” What? I look over at Xtian. What is she? “… someone.”

  “Someone?” repeats Xtian. I stand and wander outside before she can say something I will regret.

  “It’ll be fine,” I say into the phone. “I’ll vouch for … them.”

  “Them?” asks Marc. “Or her?”

  I do not reply. Even though the traffic outside the restaurant is somewhat loud, I imagine I can hear pacing on the other end of the phone. Scowling, perhaps.

  “Fine,” says Marc. “But it’s your ass.”

  I am given another string of numbers—the next phone number I will be expected to use, to arrange the actual “dinner engagement”—and then the line goes dead; we are not the sort for long goodbyes. I return to the table simultaneous with Xtian’s dessert, which arrives in a glass of ice water. I paid money for this? She seems happy, though, licking the spoon like a lollipop, dancing it around to test loose molars. She gives me a sly grin.

  “What?” I ask at last.

  “I’m your someone?” she asks.

  “Save some of that ice for your burning ears,” I reply. Although inflamed earlobes may be the least of her worries, depending on how things go a week or so from now.

  The least. And possibly the last.

  Proof Through The Night

  07/04/2012

  Things happened rather quickly after Edison got his call, just like they had in DC. There’d been a long period of nothing, followed by a brief flurry of activity leading up to the job. There wasn’t much time for extra practice, or preparation, which was probably good: if I’d had time to really imagine what might be coming, I might have tried to back out.

  When I’d heard we were going out on a boat for the 4th of July I expected something rather placid, since I’d always seen lakes as something peaceful and serene, but as it turned out, the experience was anything but. Boats were crammed in nearly on top of each other, at least half of them piloted by very loud people well past sobriety. If I closed my eyes, took in just the sounds and the smells—the reek of fish and grease and smoke—I could almost imagine we were in line for sandwiches and fries somewhere. Only the constant crackle of illegal fireworks leading up to the official show at dusk kept the vision from being complete.

  There were two other people on the boat. Introductions had not been made, but I got the impression that whoever these two were, they were in the same line of work as Edison. I had always assumed there were other people who did what he did. Since there was an employer somewhere, there were probably other employees, right? But actually meeting them felt like looking at myself in a full-length mirror and for the first time seeing all of myself, all at once. Like I’d known all the individual bits were there, but the overall picture was just now coming together. And now I couldn’t ever be unaware of it again.

  Or something. Never mind.

  The sixteen-footer was pretty cramped with four aboard, plus work stuff: coolers and cases and canvas bags, filled not just with beer but bullets, and binoculars, and other tools of the trade. At first I’d thought it would’ve been better with just me and Edison but it was always awkward when he took me somewhere without other people to pretend for. It’s not that I was uncomfortable around him, but when we were alone I felt … exposed? With others around, there were more targets. That’s what other people were, basically: targets. For conversation, mostly. But I suppose the other kind, too. Even if Edison hadn’t taken me out to actually kill anyone. Not yet.

  • • •

  “Isn’t she a bit young?” Gabe (not his real name) says. Not quietly, either, but between the fireworks and the purring engines nearby, there is no way Xtian can hear him. I shrug and glance back. She just sits quietly, reading Fast Food Nation with a penlight, unabashedly whispering to herself. In dark-gray jeans and navy blue sweater, she is the sole splash of any sort of color amidst a sea of gray and black, bare ankles flashing as she shifts her weight and her cuffed jeans slide away from her saturated sneakers.

  “Do they know she’s here?” he asks. “Fuck, Tom.” This is the name Gabe knows me by, here in the greater Buffalo area. We have met before, years earlier. I try to forget. I never did like Gabe. Not many people do, but we needed a boat, and Gabe knows how to get things.

  “I’m sure they know.” This comes from Joe (also not his real name), who is lying in the bottom of the boat, mostly beneath a ratty blue tarp. Like Xtian, he is reading a book with a little penlight, but his contains no words, only columns for wind speed, elevation, and shots taken. Several other sheets have little drawings of men on them, sort of like I imagine a comic strip might look li
ke in the early stages, raw sketches with the barest indication of storyline, a few notes in the margins suggesting what might be. Or more accurately, what soon won’t be.

  Joe also has a rifle. This will be relevant, soon.

  “Tom’s not stupid enough to do this without them knowing,” Joe adds. “Is he?”

  “Yes,” I answer, and then, because I need to clarify which question I’m answering, I add, “They know.” True, for some definitions of “they” and “know.”

  “Fine with me then,” says Joe. And that is the end of it. As with Gabe, I have worked with Joe before, but the two of us have a professional respect for one another. The kind where we keep out of each other’s way, mostly. Joe has been with the Buffalo cell for a while now, while I have moved around the country, rather than settling down and finding steady work like so many do. As steady as it gets. You stick around in one place, you increase your risks, but you also build relationships, trust. I am no one’s best friend, just someone who will do almost anything on short notice. An extra pair of hands. Or two pairs, in this particular case.

  “How old is she?” Gabe bleats like a lamb, reminding me of the undercooked meal I recently recovered from; his white, shoulder-length hair completes the mental picture.

  “Eighteen,” I lie.

  “What, in metric?” Gabe throws his hands up in exasperation. “Joe, you have no problem with a baby on board?”

  “She’s not a baby,” replies Joe. “She looks about as old as my daughter.”

  “And how old is your daughter?”

  “Somewhere between fuck off and mind your own fucking business,” answers Joe.

  Gabe turns back to me, still unconvinced.

  “Is she safe?” he asks, meaning not her safety, but his own. This boat would barely slow down if she fell overboard, got turned into chunky salsa by the two overpowered Bulldogs lurking back there (though to be fair, I would probably not slow down for Gabe, either).

  “Yes.” Safe enough.

  He shrugs and goes back to steering us through the crowd of boats, most stopped, some anchored, all of them waiting for the official show to begin. Gabe wanted to run without any lights at all, but not only would that have made maneuvering all but impossible, it would just have attracted more attention; there are police and Coast Guard out here.

  I scan the area again with my binoculars, review the dais on shore once more, counting suited figures. In the corner, a helpful range finder tells me we are a thousand yards away, about where we want to be. Balance is the key; every yard closer is another three feet to get back out.

  “Right here,” says Joe. Joe does not have a pair of binoculars; he simply knows. Unlike the rest of us on the boat, he received the proper training, after all. Even though he has been out of the military for years, he still likes to wear black BDUs and camouflage hoodies that—while appropriate for things like this—tend to catch second glances from concerned citizens wondering if they should report him for suspicious activity. But he is very good with a rifle, which is why he is the primary shooter here; if we were fishing, Joe would be using a rod-and-reel; I would be using a net. Or explosives, burning dolphins and all. Especially the babies.

  Gabe grunts and stops the motors, the relative silence suddenly deafening, leaving us with just the lap of waves and the muttering drunks and the shouts, firecrackers, and flares. Just, indeed; it makes me wonder why we are even trying to be quiet. We could be throwing grenades taped to kittens and there would be zero risk of getting caught. Kitty-kitty, bang-bang.

  “Yellow high,” says Gabe. “Wait for black.” I roll my eyes at him speaking in code. As if anyone else can hear us. And anyway, we all know it is not quite time yet.

  “No shit,” says Joe, verbalizing my inner thoughts. “Tom, you got secondaries?”

  Here we go.

  “No,” I say. “She does.”

  • • •

  I looked up, my book forgotten. I was the only she here, so Edison clearly meant me, but I had thought he’d only brought me here to watch.

  “Yes, you,” he said.

  “What the fuck,” said the white-haired dude.

  “Whatever,” said the other guy, peeking out from underneath his tarp. “Get down here, Mathilda.”

  “It’s Nichole,” I said. My middle name, my code name. Edison and I had agreed it would be easier for me to remember.

  “Whatever. Joe, Gabe, Nickie, Tom, now we’re all friends. Let’s do this.” Joe didn’t sound impressed, just pulled the tarp back to give me room. I still recall the feeling I got when I actually saw the guns unveiled, when I fully realized what was coming. What I was going to be asked to do. Joe didn’t stand up and wave the barrels around, but there was enough light for everyone to finally see what was under there.

  “Fuck, Joe,” said Gabe. “Is that a Light Fifty?”

  “It fell off the back of a truck.”

  Joe had an M107, which held ten rounds of .50 caliber ammunition (at five bucks a round) and could fire all of them in half as many seconds. It was quite effective out to a bit over a mile with a good scope (he had a holographic monster on top). It was also technically an anti-materiel weapon, not anti-personnel, but Joe evidently figured it was multi-purpose.

  I knew all this not because he told me, but funnily enough, because I had been playing online multiplayer shooter games lately, and one of them had this gun in it.

  By comparison, Edison’s 700 PSS was outmatched, but only because Joe’s gun was overkill. At the time, the 700 was the most widely used bolt-action rifle in the country—or so he said—and at under a thousand bucks was by comparison quite affordable. Whereas Joe had probably used his own weapon for years and doped all his shots, Edison had gotten his a few days earlier and had me practicing on it as much as possible. Fortunately, it was very accurate out of the box. Unfortunately, I’d not had any inkling that I was ever going to be using it for real.

  But there was no backing out, not now, so I knelt down and crawled under the blue tarp with Joe. It smelled like aftershave and rust.

  “Hello, Nikita,” said Joe. “My name is Joe.”

  “My name is Nichole. Not N—”

  “Nickie,” he said, patting Edison’s 700 like it was a little baby. “Have you fired this gun before, or are we being fucked with?”

  I had to think about which question I was answering. Under the circumstances, I realized it was probably the same answer either way.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know what this is about?”

  “Um, no?”

  “Good, neither do I. I guess we’ll find out on Wikipedia in a few years.”

  He moved over a few inches and patted the deck beside the rifle.

  “Come on,” he said, handing me some squishy orange earplugs. I took them with a slightly shaky hand, which he must have noticed.

  “Just like shooting up a school,” he said. “You kids do that all the time, right? Mine do.”

  “You have kids?” I asked.

  “Yeah, but they’re not super-skilled ninja assassins like you, Mattie.”

  “Nichole,” I insisted.

  “Whatever,” he said.

  • • •

  I can hear them murmuring, barely, over Gabe’s griping. With the tarp between us, she has no choice but to listen and do as she is told. There is no looking to me for escape.

  “This is wrong,” says Gabe. “She’s a kid for god’s sake.”

  “Nothing about this affair is for god’s sake,” I remind him.

  Synchronized music, horrifyingly patriotic, begins to emerge from radios around us, and Joe pulls the tarp down. For a moment, it is quiet enough that I can hear the low buzz of the Steadicam tripods, keeping the weapons more or less pointed at their targets as the boat rolls with the waves, and then my earplugs are in and there is nothing but the motion of the water, water everywhere. Here and there. The targets are just a bunch of heads at the end of the day, and inside each is a big juicy brain, about two pounds of
which is water. The human body is mostly water, in fact, roughly two-thirds. We are literally trash bags full of liquid, waiting to pop. There are a hundred thousand miles of blood vessels, connected to a fist-sized muscle pushing five liters of blood around with enough force to squirt ten yards through the air should someone put a bullet through your neck.

  Ah, yes. People fascinate me. I could kill them for hours.

  The fireworks start with a flash of green and red, and a moment later there is an infinite little pause somewhere between three-hundred million meters per second and three-hundred meters per second where you could imagine you heard one noise closer than the rest. I watch through the binoculars as the primary topples, just a little over a half mile away, half his head vanishing, nobody noticing, just peacefully folding up like the chair he was sitting on. I barely notice the lady behind him falling as well, the round having traveled straight through him and into her. It sucks being collateral damage.

  “Confirmed,” I say, but no one can hear.

  There is a brief pause, then more fireworks, and somewhere amidst the noise a few more bullets are thrown at the shore, and three of the secondary targets crumple. And with that we officially have an international incident that someone, somewhere, is going to use to enact some sort of legislation or other. Go us.

  I kick the tarp, and somewhere underneath Joe begins to break down his Barrett into bite-sized chunks, packing it into a very large tackle box. Fireworks are still popping overhead, unstoppable, but the crowd on shore is reacting, pointing, panicking. As expected. As desired.

  We sit there for a few minutes and watch the show, and there is a mixture of applause and screams as the last cascade of white flares up and dies, and then we are left with the smell of beer and smoke. A hundred boats fire up their engines at once and head for home, oblivious, and we are just one of them, Gabe taking us casually along with the crowd back towards the marina.

  They should all go that easily.

  As soon as we are reasonably far away, and alone, Joe pops up from the shadows and crawls to the back of the boat, leaving Xtian alone under the tarp. Knowing it is disposable, without asking permission he tosses my broken-down rifle overboard into the fastest moving water in the world, water that winds its way past the Peace Bridge through whitewater rapids and over Niagara Falls. My gun is followed by his gloves, and this is followed by a stream of piss. Then Joe sighs and grabs a can of beer, tosses it to me before opening one for himself. I open it and sip; I hate beer, but they do not know this, and some day this lie might be useful.