Blood is Pretty

by Steven Paul Leiva

  A boot was placed on the small of my back. A certain amount of weight was pushed there. “He was only friend in America,” came the slow, sad voice of Batsarov. “Now I kill you. ” I heard the cocking of weapons.

  “Not now Zhelyu,” Rand said as if to an annoying child. “And certainly not here. Pick the bastard up and bring him inside. ”

  I was forcibly turned around and picked up by Batsarov. I hung there in his arms. I could see Miguel and the Basque standing on either side of Rand discreetly holding semiautomatics—if that’s possible. It was unclear if they were trained on me, or Batsarov. I really wasn’t terribly concerned, as all I really wanted to do was lose consciousness—which I managed to do.

  Consciousness returned with a chill and two thick, brutish latex-covered fingers up my rectum. I was being strip-searched. I made a groan that persons of limited sophistication might interpret as one of pleasure.

  “Feel good, you fuck?” Batsarov rudely asked as he extracted his fingers. “Nothing,” he said, not addressing me.

  “Well, what did you expect to find up there?” Rand asked.

  “Microphone. ”

  “Microphone? You’re kidding?”

  “Or homing device. ”

  “But all you found was shit. ”

  “Never know. ”

  “Are you finished?”

  “Yeah. Finished?”

  “Then turn him over. ”

  Batsarov grabbed me by a shoulder and flipped me around. I was half on, half off a couch in the living room. He grabbed my legs, swung them up on the couch. “Well, least he not fucking Jew!” He sniggered at his joke that referred to my “uncircumcised” state.

  I looked up at him. “A lehben ahf dein kop,” I said. It was a little Yiddish Roee had taught me. It means, “A blessing on your head. ” But Batsarov, of course, did not know that, took it for a curse, and gave me the swift, hard back of his hand across my face. “Gey kakn afn yam!” I spat out, and he slapped me even harder. Of course, it was deserved this time. I essentially told him to go shit in the ocean.

  “Let’s dispense with this, shall we?” Rand, who was sitting in a club chair opposite me, revealed his impatience. “Get dressed,” he ordered. I was happy to comply, putting on my clothes with slow movements to diminish the possibility of further pain, noticing the Basque in a corner, his semiautomatic trained on me.

  “Where’s Anne?” I asked.

  “Anne is upstairs in her bedroom being guarded by Miguel. Who, by the way, may very well be in love with her. I know I was. ” It was bitter, his statement. “Now tell me what all this has been about. Who are you? Who are you working for?”

  “Tom Einstein, Ph. D. Associate professor of neural quantum physics at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. ”

  “What is that? The equivalent of Name, Rank and Serial Number?”

  “It’s the truth. ”

  “Do you know who Paul Hinckley is?”

  “He’s not very good film director. ”

  “Do you know him?”

  “No. It’s never been one of my ambitions. ”

  “He cop!” Batsarov said.

  Rand looked up at Batsarov and slowly, to make himself clear, said, “Zhelyu, do not say another word or do another action until I ask you to. Okay? Thank you. ” He turned back to me. “I find it hard to believe that you are just Tom Einstein. ”

  “Why?”

  “Why would a scientist from MIT go to all the trouble to get involved in my affairs?”

  “Well,” I chuckled a knowing chuckle, “maybe you have one of the general misconceptions about scientists. That we are all just lab bound geeks, not interested in the material world, except to study it for pure knowledge. That’s not always the case, Mr. Rand. ”

  “You’re after material gain?”

  “Oh, yeah! A lot!”

  “Earlier today I offered you half a million dollars a year. ”

  “That’s not a lot. ”

  “It is for most people. ”

  “Is it for you?” Rand did not answer. “I thought not. You want to understand my motivations? You better judge me by your own standards. ”

  “All right. What was your plan?”

  “To get in your confidence, turn York against you, and steal Veritas. ”

  “You were going to come in here and steal Veritas from me!?”

  “Would have done it to, if that pseudo cowboy son-of-a-bitch hadn’t overheard me. ”

  Batsarov went to hit me but was stopped by Rand with a quick, sharp shout of, “Zhelyu!”

  “How did you even know about Veritas?” Rand continued.

  “Skinner. Jim. He had read a paper of mine and knew I was dealing theoretically with ideas that he thought could help him solve some problems. He was stuck, so he contacted me. He tried to pump me for information by talking around the subject, but I finally pinned him down. He demonstrated Veritas for me. I was astonished. I knew immediately that I could help him find the solution. I offered to do that for a fifty per cent share in the patent. He wouldn’t do it. He went crazy. Called me a rapist. So I started to check around. You know, the science community is fairly small. I learned that York had been his associate, but that there had been a split, a not happy one. I decided to deal with York, see if we could work together and get ahead of Skinner, patent a version of Veritas before he could. I went to Portland. I was on his boat when it blew. He had just been telling me all about David Finch, you, and this guy. ” I indicated Batsarov. “He was very, very scared. Not at all a happy employee. ”

  “Zhelyu, go down and ask Craig to join us, will you?”

  Batsarov left.

  “Where did you find him?” I asked. “You know, he’s almost strangled me twice now. ”

  “Well,” Rand said nonchalantly, “third time’s the charm. Whereas you killed one of my men in Portland the first time, not something I would expect of a scientist. ”

  “Neither did he. That’s how I caught him off guard. ”

  “After which you had a version of Veritas. Why didn’t you leave it at that?”

  “Because once I looked it over I knew it was just a prototype, not as good as the one Skinner had shown me. And I still needed York. There were details I couldn’t figure out by just looking at the mechanics. And then when you made that attack on Caltech, killed Skinner. I knew you had the real Veritas, as well as York. ”

  “Here he is. ” Batsarov pushed York into the room.

  Everything now depended on this young man, this young man with very little sense of self. And what he did have, had been beaten to a near pulp. But it was my only chance. Had Rand suspected anything near the truth I would have been dead by now. My body would have been tied with weights and dragged out his little cave to be deposited on the bottom of the lake. The lie must hold, or I would soon be dead. So often in my life I have depended on the lie.

  “Craig,” Rand said in as friendly a way as he could muster, “have you ever met this man before today?”

  York stood there, avoiding all eye contact.

  “Craig!” Rand shouted to get his attention.

  “What?”

  “Come around here and take a good look him. Have you met him before?”

  York moved around and stood before me. He raised his eyes. Got him! I got his eyes!

  Suddenly York recognized me. “Yes. But—but he wasn’t blond then. ”

  “He was on your boat?”

  “Ye—yes. ”

  “And what was he doing there?”

  York started to think. You could see it. He started to wonder, to catalog options. “I—I was upset about David. I—I talked too much. I’m sorry. ”

  Good, ice and neutral, open to interpretation.

  “How many times was he on your boat?”

  “Wha—what do you mean?”

  “How many times! Numbers! You’re a fucking scientist, you know about numbers?” It was the first time Rand started to heat.

  York looked at me, plea
ding. I moved my neck slightly, affording York a better view of my scar, red again from Batsarov’s abuse. Then I closed my eyes very slowly. Once.

  “Only—once. ”

  “When we blew up your boat?”

  “Yeah. ” York started to cry. “Please, can I go now? I want to sleep. ”

  “Okay, Craig. Go take a nap,” Rand said.

  “Can—can I have one of the pills?”

  “Yes, certainly, Craig. ” Rand was cool again. And compassionate. “Zhelyu, take him down. Give him a pill. ”

  Batsarov grabbed York hard and pushed him out of the room. The Basque shifted his weight. I had almost forgotten that he was there he was so quiet.

  “So you went to Craig,” Rand said, “thinking you were just engaging in some scientific chicanery and wound up involved in something much larger, much more dangerous. What ever made you think you could compete with me?”

  “Well, you were just a movie guy. ” I knew it would hurt.

  “‘Just a movie guy’?” Rand repeated, as if he had heard it before.

  “And I thought, ‘Great, my sister’s in film. Maybe I can get to Rand through her. ’ It worked,” I said with some adolescent pride.

  “So, Anne really is your sister?”

  “Of course. What did you think?”

  “But why would she go along with this?”

  “I convinced her I could get her some major ‘Fuck you’ money. I know how important that is to you guys. ”

  “So you made up all this—playacting, in order to get close to me to steal Veritas?”

  “Hey, it was worth the effort. We’re talking about a lot of money. ”

  Rand exploded. He leaped from the club chair, his face amazingly red by the time he was fully standing. “No, we’re talking about something that could aid and benefit mankind! And you’re trying to fuck it up!”

  “Oh, don’t give me that self-righteous shit! You think I believe any of that charity con game from you? If you’re trying to aid and benefit mankind, how come you’re hanging around with guys like this?” Batsarov was back in the room. “No, don’t ever try to fool a man who deals in cold, hard facts. Veritas is nothing but a commodity to be sold at the highest possible price. You know it. I know it. If we stay honest, at least in this, then maybe we can deal. ”

  “Deal?”

  “Sure. You need me, Rand. Veritas is still imperfect. ”

  Rand sat back down. “All right. I’ll up the offer to a million a year. ”

  “Well, it was easy getting you back to the bargaining table. A million a year, uh?”

  I made the pretense of considering it quite clear. “No. I want what I’ve always wanted. Fifty per cent. ”

  Rand brought years of making deals in Hollywood to bear and kept his face emotionless. “The thing about greed, Einstein, is that it is a sin. And you must be willing to pay the price. Try this offer. One and a half million a year to prepare Veritas for market, and for continuing service to improve and add to it during the life of it’s patent. Or I let Miguel express his love for your sister just before I let Batsarov vent his rage on her. ”

  “Yeah, I do that good,” Batsarov said and he moved to stand behind me. He bent down and whispered into my ear. “I’ll make it quick, only hour or two. ”

  I smiled. “Oh that’s smart. Kill her and then what have you got to hang over my head?”

  There was a crack of frustration in Rand’s eyes. “You’re pretty bright. ”

  “Well I am a fucking Ph. D. , you know. ”

  Rand shook his head. Just like Ronald Reagan used to do when he wanted to both laugh at and express pity towards an opponent. He stood up and began to walk around the room. “Einstein, you’ve got me all wrong. Not about the money. I intend to become the richest man in the world with Veritas. But you’re wrong in thinking there is no charity in my soul. The world’s a mess. Governments don’t seem to be helping—. ”

  “So bring everybody together in ‘World citizenship,’ and ‘The People’ will solve the problems,” I mocked. “Do you really think anybody swallows that crap?”

  “Oh, yes. Many do. I did once—but not now. After five years of trying to talk sense to the world I finally learned that sense cannot be talked—it only be enforced. Still, EarthPeople has been very helpful for me. It allowed me great access to people and places. ” He looked over to Batsarov. “And talent. Power, Einstein, power well executed, pure and simple, the power to hand people their fondest fantasies and in return receive their souls. The power to get into people’s heads, where you can best—advise them as to what to think, feel, want. That’s what we’re really talking about here. The minute I experienced Veritas I knew what it would bring me. More power than any one man has ever had in the history of civilization. That is a hell of a burden to have placed on your shoulders. But for one reason or another, it was placed on mine. It is a responsibility I do not take lightly. And it is one I could not share, even if I wanted to. Now I’ve made you several generous offers. But I’ll make one more: Two million a year. Don’t answer right away. I want you to take a while this time to think it over. ”

  Rand made a slight, almost imperceptible nod of his head.

  A dull, ringing shock hit the back of mine.

  Chapter 19

  Red Dust

  I woke up to the smell of straw and excrement. Not human this time. Horse. Most definitely horse. It was a smell my brain vibrated in recognition of, although it had been a long time since the assigned neurons had had to deal with it. I opened my eyes. Three shafts of very bright sunlight were streaming through a dusty environment to land on my body in three well-heated slices. It was the one laying across my face that had woken me. I moved slightly to avoid it and discovered that I was lying on my side, on pounded earth, and that my hands were tied tightly behind my back.

  Veritas, I thought. Was I once again a captive of invented truth?

  A horse whinnied. As I turned to look at the creature, everything hurt. It was a whole range of hurt, from the dull ache to the sharp pain. I reminisced for a second. Yes, I could account for every point of pain, and the accounting was all from reality. Unless Rand was being truly sadistic, then, this also was reality and not Veritas. I’m not sure that gave me any comfort.

  Despite the pain I looked around some more. I was in a horse barn. That was obvious. Not a clean, orderly modern one, but one from the Old West, or, at least from an old Western.

  Suddenly there was music. Six, sharp, quick notes leading into the wide open sound of multiple violins painting a picture of expansive vistas and America at its most mythic. I thought the Marlboro Man was going to ride in.

  No! Not the Marlboro Man. the Magnificent Seven! The music was originally the theme for The Magnificent Seven!

  Seven men did not ride in. Only two. And they were horseless. There was

  Batsarov in a fresh cowboy outfit—if that term can apply considering the sweat stains—and with a six-gun strapped to his right leg. If you discounted the incongruous large black boom box he carried which was blaring out “The Theme from The Magnificent Seven,” he gave the perfect image of the ugliest; meanest desperado West of the Pecos. Wherever the hell that is. With him, comfortably carrying an Armalite AR-18 semiautomatic, was a massive fellow about 6’5” with a beer barrel of a belly, a bull neck and a flushed face that seemed one size too small for his head which was just a few millimeters shy of the size of a beach ball. He wore a short sleeve checkered shirt and blue jeans that seemed to perilously hang from what hips had escaped from the fall of flesh. He had graying blond hair that had been Brylcreamed into rigor mortis. I figured he was either an Afrikaner emigrant still pissed over the election of Nelson Mandela, or an American white supremacist militiaman on a leave of absence. Not that it mattered much.

  Batsarov stared down at me. He smiled his not particularly pleasant smile, enhanced now by a straw of hay that he clenched between his two front gold teeth. He took the boom box and placed it down, next to my head, th
e music blaring into my face.

  “LIKE IT, YOU FUCK?” Batsarov shouted. “MAGNIFICENT SEVEN!

  GOOD MOVIE!” He started to hum loudly with the music, and bouncing in time with it as if he was bouncing on a galloping horse. “GOOD MUSIC! GOOD MUSIC TO DIE TO!” Then he bent down and turned the cassette section of the machine off. Now he whispered. “This not so good. ” He hit a switch on the CD section. A high frequency tone screamed out of the box and pierced my ears. I shouted in pain. It was the only thing I could do. With my hands tied I couldn’t cover my ears. I tried to move away but Beer Barrel moved quickly behind me and placed a heavy foot down on my side. Finally

  Batsarov turned off the machine. The sudden quiet was a jolt in its own way. I looked up at the two men. They were both removing earplugs. “Now you real awake and paying attention,” Batsarov said. “That good. I need attention. I need no games. I need no clever crap. Attention. Listen. Answer. Why? Why you do this—Fixxer?”

  How? “What’s fixer?”

  Batsarov signed. Nodded to Beer Barrel. They put the earplugs back in and Beer Barrel turned on the CD. How long they let it run I’m not sure—pain proves the relativity of time. Then it was over.

  “Fixxer. Strange name. But that what Hinckley call you. ”

  I now knew where I was: Paul Hinckley’s ranch in Paso Robles. Batsarov pushed the boom box aside with his boot. Then he used it to turn my face, wiping something moist off his boot in the process. Horse manure, I suspected. “You know, you not bad looking man. ”

  “Thanks. You are. ”

  “Yeah,” he laughed. “Uglier than shit! But you know? It never stopped me getting bitch. Not handsome, girls like, but power, and I always with power. Soon more. Much more. Power and real piece of meat between legs that make eyes go wide, that get you any bitch you want. But I only like nasty bitches. Nasty bitches with dripping—. ”

  “All right,” I said, “I will admit to not being Tom Einstein if it will get you to stop talking. ”