The CleanSweep Conspiracy

by Chuck Waldron

  Matt considered quickly finishing the fritter but gave up, licking frosting from his lips. That tasted pretty good after all, he thought again.

  He got up when Stinky walked over toward the trash receptacle. Before he knew it, Stinky was halfway out the door and Matt raced to catch up with him on the sidewalk. He followed the man south. Matt shuddered at sirens in the distance.

  “I told ya to stay close,” Stinky said. He sounded annoyed. He was walking fast, almost running, when he abruptly turned into a side street. This time Matt stayed within hearing distance.

  Ever since the riots, street lighting had been spotty; many of the city’s streets were dark by this time of night.

  With the storm as a backdrop, it looks evil, like a film noir scene by Orson Welles, Matt thought.

  Bright street lighting was certainly just a memory in this part of the city. Some of the streetlights were back on in the main streets, but most side streets were still shrouded in smoky darkness. Streets like the one they were walking down had become nightscapes of dark shadows and discomfiting noises. The storm, almost cleared, still yielded occasional bursts of lightning, adding to the eerie impression. Matt tried to shuffle his fear to the side and hurried to keep pace with his tour guide.

  Stinky stopped abruptly and held up his hand. In spite of the gloominess, Matt could see the look on his face—his guide had been alerted to something.

  “Quick, behind that Dumpster!” Stinky said, pointing.

  “What?”

  “Shut up, dammit. What did I tell you? No questions, man! Just do what I say.”

  As he ducked down, Matt could see a CleanSweep van speeding past the intersection they had just left. The van’s roof lights were flashing, their red and blue colors flickering, piercing the shadows. But there was no distinctive siren.

  “That’s too freakin’ close,” Stinky said as he looked down at an antique pager attached to his belt.

  “Does that still work? I haven’t seen one of those in—”

  “Old-school technology trumps high tech when it comes to avoiding CleanSweep. That’s the Law According to Stinky. These days, low-tech is better. When CleanSweep was designed, they were so fixated on the latest and greatest gadgets and high-tech stuff, we learned how to slip under their radar by using these things.”

  Matt thought he heard an almost-laugh.

  “That’s why we use them. Who thinks to scan for old pagers from thirty years back? Hell, they still work. When someone sends a signal, it vibrates a warning that a CleanSweep team is close. We have spotters all over town. To communicate anything more, we use numeric codes.”

  “What’s your real name?” It was the investigative blogger in Matt asking.

  “If you needed to know, I woulda told you.”

  “Does it bother you, you know, to be called Stinky?”

  “How close do you think people want to get to me? It even keeps CleanSweep agents away.” He snorted. “It turns out to be my secret weapon, like wearing garlic to ward off werewolves. I’ve been stopped twice, but they just back off. It won’t last, though. I know they will get me sooner or later.”

  Matt had to acknowledge the advantage. “How do you know Carling, the detective?”

  “I don’t know how he does it, but that policeman can see right through me. It’s scary, like he can tell what I’m going to say before I say it,” Stinky said, but he didn’t sound as if he meant the “scary” part. “Carling ignores my stink.” After turning his head to listen for a moment, he went on talking. “We can go on now, but we need to put our hurry on; they’re really on the prowl tonight. Probably looking for you.”

  He started laughing at how uncomfortable that statement obviously made Matt.

  Matt knew only too well what Stinky was referring to.

  “Pay close attention now! I’m gonna be taking us into the worst of the riot zones. It really gets dangerous. Ain’t gonna make any promises on how far we get.”

  All of Matt’s instincts were telling him to turn back; it wasn’t too late. With conscious effort, he forced himself to override them. He had to find out the truth.

  The two men skirted through the darkened streets, traveled so many blocks that Matt lost count. As well as he knew the city, the destruction and darkness made their path baffling; he had only a general idea of where they were. They walked mean side streets, and when they crossed a main street, Stinky would stop and peer both ways until he was sure it was clear. Then he would yell, “Run!” They sprinted across the wide streets at a trot and continued a quick walking pace down other, lightless side streets. Matt was soon out of breath and wondering how Stinky kept so fit. He ran with apparent ease.

  I thought I knew the city, Matt thought, but I’ve never tried navigating it in the complete darkness like this. Before long they walked through an area Matt recognized, but it looked completely different after the riots. It had once been a lively entertainment area. Now look at the buildings, he thought. They were missing most of their windows and had freshly nailed plywood boarding over the doorways. He lost track of how many buildings were standing sentinel as skeletal brick walls embracing still-glowing piles of burning embers.

  Stopping in front of a building with the walls still intact, Stinky pulled aside plywood sheeting nailed over a doorway, ripping it off and shoving it to the edge. Matt stared. He could only imagine who or what was hiding inside.

  Stinky walked in with a sense of purpose and waved for Matt to follow. They finally turned down a hallway.

  He showed Matt where to step over debris, then eventually stopped and pointed to another open doorway. “This is it,” he said.

  It was dark, and Matt couldn’t make out anything but an inky nothingness inside the yawning door.

  “Move it, asshole,” Stinky said as he pushed Matt through the doorway.

  Inside, Matt felt a new hand clasp his shoulder, stopping him. His knees felt weak, and he half expected a knife or lead pipe to head his way. Instead, a male voice whispered, “Wait for your eyes to adjust.” It was a different voice than Stinky’s, and it didn’t carry a threat. Matt’s eyes slowly adjusted to the low light, and he could finally make out the features of his new tour guide.

  Matt and Stinky followed, helping to replace a large sheet of plywood over the entrance, hiding the access. Matt was again standing in the dark when he saw the light from a small flashlight the man was holding suddenly glow, seeming as bright as sunlight in the inky darkness.

  From his left, he heard Stinky whisper in a low voice, “My name’s Earl.” He added nothing more.

  The new acquaintance nodded over his shoulder as he led Matt to another door. He paused and knocked—three quick raps.

  “Come,” a voice of authority said from behind the door.

  In the next room, two men stood waiting, on the alert. Both held police truncheons, and Matt felt his heart pumping. A small propane lamp on a nearby table hissed like a cobra.

  The man on the right was huge. Matt guessed he was well over six foot eight. A black T-shirt strained to cover his muscular, thick arms, and the man had shoulders a professional football lineman would envy. It wasn’t only the man’s size that unsettled Matt, though. It was the expression on his face—the look of a feral canine preparing to attack.

  The shorter of the two, the man standing to the left, held a truncheon in his right hand and tapped a rhythmic beat with it on the palm of his left hand, then used the baton to point to the giant. “He will take over now. He won’t say much, but if he does—”

  Matt didn’t need to hear the rest. “I know, ask no questions—just do as I’m told.” He could see a hint of a smile on the smaller man’s face when he said that.

  “He will be your conductor to the next station,” the man continued and went back to tap-tapping the truncheon on the palm of his left hand.

  Matt realized he had passed some k
ind of test. He wanted to say good-bye to Stinky, but when he turned, the man was nowhere to be seen. “How did he manage to leave without making a sound?” Matt wondered. “Thanks…Earl.”

  “Now,” the giant said as he started toward the door, moving smoothly and with surprising grace.

  “What’s your name?” Matt stammered as he raced to keep up. “Does everybody have to go so fast?” All Matt heard in response was a grunt. “Got it—no name,” he said.

  Matt decided to give the giant a name anyway, choosing Gigantis, from the Gigantes tribe in Greek mythology. Matt followed the broad-shouldered man, noting he had to turn sideways to get through the doorway.

  Once again, Matt was being steered through a labyrinth of dark streets with only occasionally lighted intersections. When Gigantis stopped, Matt stopped. When Gigantis moved, Matt kept pace. He was soon huffing, out of breath. Gigantis took long, loping strides with the ease of someone out for a casual stroll in the park.

  “Wait here!”

  Matt was stunned to hear his guide speak and hadn’t expected a voice that sounded…normal.

  “Somebody will meet you here; be on the lookout for a motor scooter. The driver won’t stop for long. Be ready. If you hesitate, they will drive on without you. In the meantime, stay in the shadows and don’t move around.”

  With a catlike leap, Gigantis faded into the mist, swallowed by darkness.

  This has to be someone’s idea of a snipe hunt, a trick to lure me into CleanSweep’s trap. It was a chilling thought as Matt stood alone in the dark.

  Watching the glow from city lights in the distant sky, he could tell part of the city was still intact. He heard the faint sound of traffic, occasionally pierced by the whoop-whoop-whoop of a distinctive CleanSweep siren.

  Was that gunfire? He couldn’t be sure and chose to chalk it up to his imagination, now running in overdrive.

  At least the rain had stopped, he realized. He tried pulling his jacket tighter, to dispel the slight chill of his rain-dampened clothes. He paced back and forth to warm up, taking care to stay close to his assigned spot. After a few minutes, he felt a need to urinate. The urge caused him to laugh out loud.

  “Who’s going to see me pissing out here, anyway?”

  After relieving himself, he couldn’t settle his mind on any particular thought and found himself jumping from panic to dread and back, imagining the worst. Then he heard something, and after a moment he recognized the sound—the distinctive putt-putt-putt of a scooter, like the vintage Vespa his friend Bryan used to own.

  Growing in intensity, the sound soon echoed from the wall of nearby abandoned structures. A headlight flickered and then increased in intensity as the scooter careened around a corner. Dark shadows flashed on the sides of buildings, and once again Matt felt as if he were in the middle of a film noir scene, this time from The Third Man. He imagined himself the character played by Orson Welles, running through the postwar streets of Vienna, evil personified.

  Sensing the presence of evil all around him, this similar imagery fed his discomfort.

  The scooter skidded to a stop.

  “Hurry,” said a woman’s voice, leaving no freedom of choice. It was either get on the bike or walk home.

  Long past being surprised at anything, Matt ran from his hiding place and jumped on. She can’t be much more than twenty, twenty-one, he thought as he sat behind the young woman who was driving. Reaching around her for support as the scooter accelerated, he felt his ears turning red as he blushed. He didn’t know where to place his hands, but he had to grab her to avoid falling back. With no time to reconcile his self-conscious behavior, he held tight as she sped up. He soon went from embarrassed to terrified as she raced along at a breakneck pace, hurtling through narrow, litter-strewn streets.

  He flinched when she turned her head to warn him. “We’re almost there,” she yelled.

  Watch the road! Matt screamed on the inside.

  “Up ahead,” she pointed with her right hand, “I’m going to turn left on Gerrard. When I give you the word, jump off and run. Across the street, you’ll see what is left of the Allan Gardens Conservatory. It will be getting light soon; you won’t have much time.”

  Her hand moved expertly between the accelerator and brake as they raced along deserted streets. They finally approached a street where the lights all worked.

  I know where I am, Matt thought. For the first time since the coffee shop meeting with Stinky, Matt recognized a landmark.

  “Gerrard!” she yelled, turning left as they came to the intersection, the scooter skidding, crablike, to a stop. Matt jumped off and started to say good-bye, but all he heard was the scooter’s engine growling. By the time he looked up, he could see her turning from the bright lights of Gerrard Street into another dim side street, the scooter’s sound quickly receding.

  Looking across the street, Matt saw the park and the ruins of the now-abandoned horticultural conservatory.

  He had become well versed in the need to look both ways as he raced across a street and into the softer light of the park. At the main entrance to the conservatory, he paused. He pushed through the east door, stepping over shards of glass and rotting vegetation. It took all of his concentration to climb through the debris.

  What in the hell am I doing here?

  He didn’t have time to answer that question, even if he could have thought of a reply. He was startled by a woman stepping out of a side room.

  She looked familiar.

  Looking at him with piercing eyes, she wore a long dress that appeared quaint to Matt. He noted she was wearing what looked like several cardigans over her dress, one layered over another. He looked down at the tall woolen socks and hiking boots on her feet. Her long, gray hair was tied back in a ponytail, errant strands poking out like antennas.

  She moved her head with a slight tic; it jerked to her left every few seconds, and Matt wondered for a moment if she was directing him somewhere using head gestures. He quickly realized it was a permanent affliction.

  “You Matt? Carling say you be an OK guy—”

  Matt was absorbing her peculiar speech pattern when a sound interrupted her, a shrill CleanSweep siren in the distance. A cloud of fear scudded across her eyes. “I’s been there,” she nodded toward the sound. “I’s rode in one of their trucks. I knowed now what they was wantin’ to do with me.”

  This had to be the one Carling said to meet. When she didn’t say anything more, Matt asked, “Are you Mattie Reynolds?”

  “Mattie, yes, yes, yes, Mattie,” she said, her head moving from side to side with each yes. “They saids I was ta meetcha.”

  “Matt, Mattie—our names are almost the same,” he said.

  Then he realized why the woman looked familiar. The knowledge hit him with a sledgehammer wallop. Standing right in front of him, he realized, was the Dancing Lady, the ballet dancer he used to watch from the streetcar.

  Now she had a name—Mattie Reynolds—and Matt wanted to hear her story.

  CHAPTER 28

  The Dancing Lady

  Stunned, Matt couldn’t believe he was looking at the same Dancing Lady, the one from his streetcar rides, but her words jarred him back to reality.

  “We need to get to the backa this place,” she said.

  He reached up to touch her arm, and she drew back as if his hand were electrified. “Nooooo,” she hissed. “I don’t like nobody I don’t know touching me.”

  He dropped his arm, then held up his hands to show respect. He began to follow her. The floor was littered with wreckage, and they stepped over rotting palm fronds and other vegetation. Matt looked around at the once-magnificent, stately building that smelled like it was bathed in a musky perfume that wasn’t pleasant. Now that the storm was clearing, that Matt could see the symmetrical system of steel supports, framing, and trusses overhead. Some of the frames held intact panes of glas
s, while others had acknowledged defeat and dropped their sheets of glass to the floor below. The walkways were decorated with slivers of broken glass in fragments large and small. Shards crunched underfoot, and Matt felt as if he were trampling on history. Sunlight used to stream through those panes, he recalled, giving the place full of plants and musty smells of soil and humidity a special charm.

  Now it’s reduced to this.

  Mattie stopped abruptly, and Matt was drawn out of his thoughts. He listened to her unique manner of speaking. Her syntax and odd words, jarring at first, still told a story. As much as he might have wanted to correct her speech, he knew it would be the wrong thing to do. He listened to her. “This conservatory was builded in 1879. They had to do it again after a fire—1902, I think.” Matt couldn’t miss the melancholy in her voice. “I wonder if it ever be rebuilded after this…”

  He had nothing to add, so he nodded and listened.

  “Important peoples talked here. They say Oscar Wilde did once.” Matt was surprised at the reference. “Maybe he was looking for new words growing here, or finding commas hiding among the tropicals.”

  Matt thought he was beyond being surprised any more that night, but her literary observations flummoxed him. Detective Carling had warned him not to judge her by appearance, or to assume she was ignorant. “If you do, you risk underestimating her,” Carling had said. “A lot of people do that when they see a homeless person—you know, misjudge them.”

  He thought about that as he looked at Mattie Reynolds. “Where did you learn stuff like that?”

  “Homeless peoples spends a lot of time at the library. We used to, anyways.”

  He was still trying to put her in some kind of context when he looked around.

  “Where are we now, Mattie?” They were passing an entrance that Matt guessed was on the north side. They came to a door.

  “Used to be the cactus room,” Mattie said. “It was my favorite. I liked the prickles.” She looked around. “It’s getting lighter; we need to hide.” She opened a door that revealed letters on a dangling sign. It spelled out “Cactus House” and under that it said “Cacti and Succulents.”