On Broken Wings

by Francis Porretto

  There was an undertone of foreknowledge in Helen's voice. Christine groped for reassuring words to string together for her friend, found none, and kissed her instead.

  ***

  The shadows were deep when Christine and Boomer returned to 633 Alexander Avenue. Nothing seemed amiss, but the house was no longer the secure, welcoming place it had always been for her. She unlocked the front door tentatively.

  I wonder how long it will take before it feels like it's mine.

  Boomer preceded her into the kitchen, bounded to his food bowl and looked up at her with expectation. She snorted, squatted, and scooped a generous helping of kibble into his bowl from the nearby sack. He set to his dinner with enthusiasm.

  Nice that life is so simple for some of us.

  She went to make coffee, discovered that there were no filters left, and poured herself a glass of water from the tap. Louis had always done the grocery shopping. Louis had handled so many of the details of their life together, silently and reliably. She'd be finding out about all of them, now. With luck, she wouldn't overlook anything critical.

  Grocery shopping can't be too hard. If I can buy clothes, I can buy food.

  She had a pang when she realized that she had yet to present herself to Malcolm Loughlin. Louis had expected her to do it first thing, and it hadn't entered her head since the previous morning, she'd been so focused on Helen.

  Whoever he is, he's waited this long, he can wait a week longer. Next Saturday or Sunday will be good enough.

  Are you sure about that, Christine?

  I'm sure, Nag. Go away.

  For a change, the inner advisor didn't pester her. She drained her glass, set it down in the sink, and began to wander around the main floor of the house. She was too tired to do anything of consequence, but she knew that sleep was still a distance away. It wasn't until her third circuit of the floor that she noticed the Message light blinking on their answering machine. It was another detail Louis had always attended to, but the calls would be for her from now on. She punched the Play button and groped for a pencil and paper.

  "Hello, this is Sergeant Roger Carroll at the First Hamilton Precinct. A teenager brought in a wallet she took from a corpse earlier today. The body's in our morgue now, and the address on the drivers' license cross-lists to this number. If Louis D. Redmond has any kin at this number, would you please call as soon as possible? It's area code 518, 867, 9970. Thanks."

  As the message petered out, the synthetic timestamp voice chimed in: "Sunday, four-thirty-three PM, end of messages."

  ====

  Chapter 34

  Rolf Svenson couldn't say how, but for the whole of the work week just past, Christine had been off-center. His new prize software engineer looked and sounded just as she had the previous week, excepting different outfits. She did seem to be mistreating her keyboard more than usual, and her usual was bad enough. He had to watch her for a while to be certain that he wasn't imagining things. She appeared not to notice.

  She's got something on her mind, something big and unpleasant.

  He'd managed not to ask what it was. Little good was likely to come of that. That didn't keep him from being concerned. He'd started being concerned when he first saw her Monday morning, and it had only grown since then.

  Before rising temptation could overpower his better judgment, he slipped away from her cubicle and headed back toward his own, to be met right outside it by Roger Morrison on his once-a-day circumnavigation of his little realm. As usual, Morrison was all bright smiles and forced good cheer.

  "Rolf!" The project manager slapped him on the shoulder. "How's my star feeling today?"

  I'd accept a ten percent salary cut if he'd stop that. "Not too bad, Roger. What's up?"

  "Oh, nothing of importance. Just the usual management by wandering around." The director shoved his hands into his pockets. He nodded down the gray corridor toward Christine's cubicle and dropped his voice. "How about our newest acquisition? Is she the hot property Dick promised?"

  Svenson essayed a small shrug. "I'd say with the right care and feeding, she could put the rest of the group on the bread lines by the end of the month."

  Morrison whistled. "No shit? Second Coming of Louis Redmond?"

  "Best comparison I can think of."

  The director pantomimed paranoia. "Don't tell any of the other project leaders. She might vanish on her way to the little girls' room."

  Svenson chuckled. "I've been escorting her to her car every evening out of exactly that fear. She's the genuine article, Roger. Nobody here can touch her, including me."

  Morrison's grin turned naughty. "That must take a little of the thrill out, eh, champ?"

  Svenson looked hard at his nominal superior's leer. It took a few seconds to fade.

  You never did like keeping your pants zipped, did you, Roger? Well, at least you don't have a wife to betray, anymore.

  Morrison shrugged. "Time to get back to Paperwork Mountain, where the fun never starts. Keep 'em loose and swinging, Rolf. Fate of the free world and all that." He strolled past Svenson with his usual carefree stride and was quickly lost to sight in the gray fabric maze.

  Svenson slipped into his desk chair and sat in thought, chin propped on steepled fingers.

  It isn't enough that I lost my family. It isn't enough that I can't get out of this Goddamned business no matter where I'm willing to go. I have to work for that asshole too. I hope I find out before I die what I did that made me deserve all this, because every time he looks my way I feel the threads fray just a wee bit more.

  I have to keep him away from her.

  He knew it would be hard. Morrison was ruthless in his exploitation of his assets and advantages. Nothing within Rolf's powers could have disguised Christine's competence for long, to say nothing of her other attractions.

  So it'll be hard. She's my responsibility now.

  Rolf Svenson took his responsibilities seriously.

  ***

  Tiny looked up as the door to the interrogation room opened. A tall, slender man in a close-fitting pinstriped suit strolled in. The badge that dangled from the breast pocket of his suitjacket bore the insignia of a captain.

  "Well, hello there, Mr. -- Tiny?"

  Tiny glared up at the policeman. "Hello to you too, Captain. Do please excuse me for not getting up and shaking hands."

  The policeman chuckled and waved it off. "Don't apologize, my good man. I've been in your circumstances and I understand the difficulties."

  "Oh, you do? Well, unless you plan to murder me outright and dispose of my body, do you understand the kind of shitstorm that's going to hit this place when the D.A. hears that you've kept me down here for six hours, without benefit of counsel, in handcuffs and leg irons, for running a red light?"

  The police captain smiled. "Ah, but will he still feel the same after he's heard about your failure to yield the right of way?"

  Tiny glowered but said nothing. The policeman pulled out the chair opposite his, turned it around and dropped into it in pulp-fiction detective style, leaning forward against its backrest. He seemed pleased with himself. "Local legend puts your bunch's headquarters at the old World War Two muster barracks in Woodlawn."

  "That's not much of a secret. We're there a lot. No one else wants the place."

  "I'm sure you've helped that along in little ways. But it's not your domestic arrangements I've come to talk about. My name's Magruder, by the way."

  Tiny waited.

  "I've been putting together a little program for the troubled youth of our precinct, you see, and it seemed to me that you and yours might want to apply for places in it."

  Tiny guffawed. "Have you been down in the controlled-substances evidence room alone, Captain?"

  "Oh, I admit we have to stretch the common understanding of 'youth' a trifle to make room for some of the participants. But this program makes such contortions worth everyone's while. It's a real departure from previous practice." Magruder's smile brightened. "You
see, it springs from a new understanding we've come to here in Onteora, about the crucial difference between being a criminal and being in trouble with the police, and how the one need not necessarily lead to the other."

  Tiny was immediately alert.

  It's Smalley's racket. They're going to start Smalley's racket right here!

  The policeman rose from his chair, squatted down next to Tiny, and set about unlocking the shackles around Tiny's wrists and ankles. The Butcher chieftain watched him warily, but made no movement. When he'd finished, Magruder returned to his seat and dropped the irons on the table before him. They made quite a pile of steel.

  "Manacles have more than one function. In some situations, they protect a policeman from a miscreant he's just apprehended. In others, they emphasize the power of the police to do whatever they want to those who've come under their scrutiny. Which of the two functions do you suppose was intended here, Tiny?"

  Tiny said nothing.

  "In just a few weeks, Onteora's, ah, boisterous class will have been divided into two elements. The first of those will have police guidance, and police assistance through many of life's more troubling moments. The second will be the object of a campaign of elimination, in which the first will be expected to take an active part. The price of being in the first category rather than the second is quite modest, considering the worlds that it will open up to you. So where would you rather be?"

  "Captain Magruder," Tiny said conversationally, "have you spoken to Commander Eric Smalley of Buffalo District G lately? I mean, personally?"

  The policeman's eyes went wide.

  "You might want to drop him a call. Be sure to mention my name. And afterward, we can skip all the snake-oil patter and get down to rates and areas of immunity. Because I know your little scheme better than you do. I helped Smalley perfect it."

  Magruder sat a moment in silence, then rose and went from the room without another word. As the door closed behind the police captain, Tiny called out, "Send him my regards, would you please?"

  ***

  "Do you think he'll be a problem, Boss?" Magruder's voice issued tinnily from the speakerphone on Ray Lawrence's desk.

  "I can't see how. He got along with Smalley. Why shouldn't he get along with us?"

  "Are we going to be running things the same way, Boss? And with dirt on two departments running the same caper, won't this bastard have more rounds in his clip than we do?"

  "Look, Wendy, I don't think we've got much to worry about, but if he bothers you that much, why not just off him and forget it?"

  "Ray!"

  Lawrence sat back in his chair. "Hadn't you thought about that aspect of it, Wendy? What will we be doing with the clowns who know enough to burn us but can't be made to see sense?"

  There was a long silence.

  "Sorry. You're right, of course. Makes me wonder how Smalley's made it work. He's a lot more in the public eye than we are here."

  Lawrence chuckled. "Son, a police commander who can't make someone disappear when he needs to should turn in his shield. But I do believe I'll take our Mr. Tiny's advice and make a call to Buffalo. If Smalley gives him a thumbs-down, I'd be inclined to just flush him down the drain tonight and save ourselves some trouble later on."

  Magruder sighed. "It's your call, Boss. Just shoot me a beep when you've made up your mind."

  "Will do, Wendy." Lawrence depressed the hook switch, released it and punched the speed dial button for Eric Smalley's direct line.

  "Smalley."

  "How do, Super Honk?"

  "Hey, Captain Badass! How's life in Onteora County?"

  "It's about to get better, I think, but I need some advice from you."

  "Sure, a new shipment arrived just today. What's up?"

  "Seems we have a mutual acquaintance that calls himself Tiny."

  Smalley whistled. "You've reeled him in?"

  "Just today. Said he'd done a deal with you. No lie?"

  "Right as rain, Ray. And what a deal. His boys are tough, and he's got more imagination than any hundred thugs you've ever met."

  "Eric, can I trust him?"

  The speakerphone was silent for several seconds. "You can arrange to be able to trust him. I've got part of what you need right here." Smalley gave Ray Lawrence Tiny's birth name.

  "That's a big help, Super Honk. What else?"

  "I'd suggest getting the goods on him and burying them way deep. Rope him into something he'd never be able to talk his way out of. Something his pack would turn on him for."

  "Any suggestions?"

  "Well, most bikers don't think much of faggots."

  "Yeah, you're right. Strange, ain't it?"

  "Can you use it, Ray?"

  Lawrence chuckled as the solution to his problem unfolded in his mind's eye. "I think so, Eric. If you think of anything better, shoot me a call. And thanks."

  "De nada, Captain Badass. Get out there and make the forces of evil quiver at the sound of your name. You can take me out to dinner the next time I see you."

  "And I surely will."

  ***

  "Chris?"

  Christine sat back from her keyboard and turned toward the entrance to her cubicle. Rolf Svenson leaned against the partition, looking troubled.

  "Got a few minutes to talk to me?"

  "Of course, Rolf. Come on in. I was about to pack up, so just give me a moment to power down." She removed her purse from her guest chair, and Svenson settled onto its edge. He sat in silence while she put her computer through its power-down sequence.

  "New problem?"

  He shrugged. "No, an old one. A classic. The classics are the ones that never really get solved, you know. You find an approach to them in your particular area, and it holds for a while, and then conditions change and the whole thing has to be readdressed."

  "Uh, yeah." What the hell is he talking about?

  He looked down at his hands resting on his knees. "I really don't have much talent for this. The company made me a team leader because I'm a good engineer, which is about the silliest damn reason anyone could ever have. But I try my best, and most of the time, my people don't hold my mistakes against me. You're one of mine, now, and I hope you won't hold them against me either."

  He grinned as if he were about to admit to something embarrassing. "A team leader is supposed to stay in touch with the concerns of his team members. If something's keeping one of them from being his best, the leader's supposed to try to do something about it. If he doesn't know what it is that's bothering his people, he's going to be ineffective. So when he senses something might be wrong for one of them, he's supposed to try to find out what it is and deal with it, but without being nosy or obnoxious. That's the theory, anyway."

  "Rolf, if there's something you want to know, just ask. Either I'll tell you or I won't, but I won't be offended that you asked, I promise."

  He straightened up and faced her. "You're more direct than I'm used to. All right. You've been unusually quiet and solemn this whole week. Has something been chewing on you? Something I could maybe help with?"

  "Nothing you could help with, Rolf. There were deaths in my family last weekend, and I'm just taking a while getting them through my system."

  "Oh!" Perversely, he brightened. "You're entitled to paid time off for that. Three days per relative, I think. If you'd called and told me Monday morning, I could have spared you coming in at all this week."

  She chuckled without humor. "Rolf, have you ever lost someone you loved?"

  He looked puzzled. "Why do you ask?"

  "When it happened, did you want to sit at home alone, thinking about how much he meant to you and how you'd never see him again? Or did you look for anything at all that would absorb your thoughts and give you a chance not to feel the pain for a little while?"

  He nodded. "I understand."

  "Right now, this job is all that stands between me and total insanity. If I could spend twenty-four hours a day here, I probably would. Boomer wouldn't like that, so I
go home at night. After some time has passed, and I've found somewhere to store all this pain where it won't get in my way, I'll be able to be a little more jovial. Think you can tolerate me in the meantime?"

  "Of course, Chris. Who's Boomer?"

  "My Newf."

  "Your...Newf?"

  "Newfoundland. It's a kind of dog. Very big, very black, very friendly. They drool a lot, too."

  "Oh." Svenson's brows rose as if he'd had an idea. "Is he well trained?"

  She shrugged. "He doesn't piss on the carpets."

  "I mean, does he do what you tell him? You know, sit and stay when he's told, and so on?"

  "Well, yes, within limits. If he sees a rabbit, anything I've got to say to him can wait till later."

  "Protective of you?"

  She smiled faintly. "I don't need protection, Rolf."

  "Hm. Well, if he's unhappy at being left alone all day, you could always bring him here. If you could get him to stay in your cubicle with you."

  She sat back in her chair. "You'd let me have Boomer here?"

  "Sure, why not? There was a guy who brought in his pet chicken every day for damn near a year. Caused a lot of talk, while it lasted. If you want to have your dog with you, I figure the national security can withstand it."

  "Well, okay, then. Thanks! I'd like that a lot. I think he will, too. Are we okay on the other stuff?"

  He nodded. "We were never not okay, Chris. I was just a little worried for you. Go have a good weekend, if you can. And tell Boomer that he's a lucky dog to have you coming home to him."

  "What?"

  "Never mind." He rose and left her sitting there confused. A few moments later, she departed for home, mulling over Svenson's solicitude and his surprising offer. Her interior landscape was brightening for the first time since Louis's departure.

  It'll be nice to have Boomer here. He doesn't like being left alone. And I'll have someone to hug when I need it.

  All the same, the Newfoundland had deposited a huge amount of drool on her desk and computer at home. He'd do it here, too.

  I'd better bring the big bottle of glass cleaner. I wonder what would work on the cubicle walls? Maybe it'll just soak in.