Joe Haldeman

by The Coming

  “That was in the article. Also maybe they’re like invisible. Made of energy.”

  I’ve had students like that, Norman thought. “I don’t think there’s anything mysterious about it.

  They know a lot about us, evidently, and don’t want us to know too much about them. That’s what a military operation would do.”

  “So we can kiss our ass adios.”

  “Not necessarily. We don’t know anything about their psychology. They might be following some kind of a ritual. Or keeping us in suspense as a kind of joke. Who knows?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” He wiped the bar slowly. “You do any gettin’ ready for it?”

  “You mean emergency preparations?” He shrugged. “Just what we have on hand for hurricanes.

  Plenty of water and food. I’m more worried about people panicking than aliens.”

  “Me, too. You ought to go down to the pawnshop and get a gun.”

  Norman jumped. “¿ Como?”

  “What I did. Somethin’ a guy at the bar said. “Ammunition will get you through times of no food, but food won’t get you through times of no ammo.’ The guys with him thought that was muy chistoso. Then one of them whispered something and they looked at me and laughed again. Them’s the kind I went out and got the gun for.”

  ” Claro. You must have some rough customers here.” Norman nodded toward the bathroom.

  “Looks like you had a big fight back there last night.”

  “Oh, mierda. They bust it up?”

  “No, just blood.”

  He nodded philosophically and picked up a bucket. ” ‘Scuse me.”

  Norman finished his beer and pondered leaving a tip. No; the guy didn’t need any more surprises this morning.

  Back in the sunlight, he clipped his bag to the handlebars and looked down, out of the glare: a storm drain. There was nobody in sight, so in a quick motion he pulled out the box of ammo and tossed it into the drain.

  It was as if a weight had been lifted from him. Odd. He supposed the act confirmed that the gun’s function was purely defensive.

  He checked his watch. Twenty minutes, and the restaurant was ten minutes away at a slow pace.

  Do you show up early for a blackmail lunch, or late, or on time? He decided on time would be best, and took a detour down by the student ghetto, a part of it that still had trees and shade.

  This was where Qabil had lived when they met. He’d gone to his apartment a couple of times, though the house was less risky. Unless your wife came home early.

  Alice’s Tea Room probably had its share of clandestine meetings. The only expensive restaurant in a block of student eateries, it had what they used to call a “shotgun” shape, a long rectangle with one row of tables.

  They were at the farthest table, and the two nearest them were empty, with “Reserved” signs.

  Otherwise the restaurant was full.

  The maitre d’ approached and Norman pointed. “Joining that party.”

  The walls were decorated with mediocre-to-okay paintings by local artists. It occurred to Norman that this was an odd choice for a supposedly clandestine meeting. If the bartender at that pool hall had recognized him on sight, what were the chances no one here would?

  Pretty good, actually. The bartender was a fluke; besides his students and the Hermanos crowd, there weren’t too many people in town who would know him.

  The lawyer, if that’s what he was, and Willy Joe and another man, a small skinny weasel with a sallow complexion, watched him as he walked down the aisle. He sat down wordlessly.

  The sallow man thrust out a hand. “The bag.” Norman slid it over. “I smell gun oil.”

  Norman tried to keep a neutral expression while the bodyguard, if that’s what he was, zipped open the bike bag and sorted through its contents. “It’s valve oil you smell, genius. I’m a musician. I was cleaning a trumpet.” They might know something about his sex life, but he doubted they knew which instruments he played. Definitely not trumpet.

  “It’s okay, Solo,” Willy Joe said. “Professor wouldn’t bring a gun in here.” The man zipped up the bag slowly, staring.

  He slid it across slowly. “What outfit you with?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve killed people, maybe lots.” He was almost whispering.

  “It’s in the way you walk, the way you’re not afraid. So you were a soldier?”

  This man was dangerous, “Hundred and first. Second of the Twenty-third. But that was a long time ago.”

  “You killed men, Professor?” Willy Joe said conversationally. “As well as fucking them?”

  Interesting that he didn’t know that elementary fact. “As I said, a long time ago, both.”

  The lawyer leaned forward, and he did whisper: “There’s no statute of limitations on being a faggot.”

  Norman felt heat and a prickling sensation on his palms, the back of his neck, his scalp. Adrenaline, epinephrine. He knew his face was flushed.

  If they hadn’t been in a crowded restaurant, at this moment he might find out how many of them he could kill before he died. Certainly one.

  “There ain’t no need to be insulting, Greg,” Willy Joe said. “Let’s not use that word.”

  “I apologize,” he said. “This is a financial proposition, not a moral judgment.”

  Norman sat completely still. “Go on.”

  “We know that your wife knows,” the lawyer said. “She paid off the police.” He looked up as a waiter approached.

  “My name is Bradley,” he said. “For today’s specials, we—”

  “I want the special,” Willy Joe interrupted. “We all want the special.”

  “But we have four—”

  “We want the first.”

  “The grouper?”

  “Yeah. What kinda wine goes with that?”

  “I would suggest the Bin 24, the—”

  “Bring us two bottles of it. Pronto?”

  “Yes, sir.” He hurried away.

  “You was sayin’, Greg.”

  The lawyer paused, staring at Norman. “To be blunt, it’s your wife’s money we’re after. Her inheritance.”

  “We have a joint account.”

  “We know that, of course. But your wife seems to have enough on her mind right now. So we thought we’d approach you instead.”

  “She’d lose her job,” Willy Joe said. “Even if she didn’t go to jail, for buying off the cops. And you and your boyfriend would get Raiford for sodomy. Separate cells, I think.”

  “You might live through it,” the lawyer said, “but he wouldn’t. A fag … a homosexual cop in Raiford.”

  “They’d use him up real quick,” Willy Joe said.

  One chance for the offensive. “I don’t think you’ve thought that through, Willy Joe. Qabil has a lot of friends on the force.” He saw the man’s eyebrows go up and thought, My God, they didn’t know his identity. But he pressed on. “And he’s a family man, cute kids; everybody likes him. You send him off to certain death in prison— yourself not a man well loved by the police—and what do you think his friends are going to do to you?”

  “I got friends in the police, too.”

  “It just takes one who’s not your friend, but is a friend of Qabil’s. You may have noticed that the police kill criminals all the time, in the course of their duties. If one of them killed you, he wouldn’t go to jail. He’d get a promotion.”

  “This isn’t about Qabil,” the lawyer said. “It’s about you and your wife. Your wife’s job and money.”

  “Oh, really. You can expose me as a homosexual without naming my partner?”

  “This Kabool ain’t the only one you done,” Willy Joe said.

  “Oh? Name another.” Norman stared into the little man’s face. “Give me one name and I’ll write you a check.” There were no others, not in this state, this country.

  “You’re a piece of work,” the lawyer said. “You take a false premise and build a considerable edifice of conjecture.”

/>   “Oh, I’m sorry,” Norman said. “That’s your job.”

  “You can’t fuckin’ turn this around,” Willy Joe said.

  Norman stood up. “Why don’t you discuss the ramifications of this,” he said quietly. “Your life expectancy after you condemn a cop to death.” He picked up his bag.

  “Sit down,” Willy Joe said.

  “See you here tomorrow, same time.”

  “I can have you killed,” he said in a harsh whisper, theatrical.

  Norman looked at the sallow man. “You, Solo?”

  “Nothin’ personal.” He smiled a genuine smile.

  “See you soon.” Norman turned to go and almost ran into the wine steward. He snatched one bottle out of the ice bucket. “This one’s mine, thanks.”

  He heard Solo laugh as he walked away. “Balls. You got to admit he got balls.”

  Southeby

  “Norman!” Odd to see his neighbor at a fancy place like this.

  “Mr. Mayor.” Norman saluted with his left hand and strode toward his bike.

  “He looks familiar,” his companion, Rose, said.

  “Aurora Bell’s husband. We’re neighbors.”

  “They let you bring your own bottle to a place like this?”

  “I guess.” He held the door open for her. Nothing wrong with the mayor having lunch with his university liaison. He didn’t know that most of his office knew exactly what their relationship was, and thought he was a fatuous old fool. Some of them had an even lower opinion of her, for being able to stand him.

  Southeby stiffened when he saw Willy Joe Capra at a far table, along with that slimeball Gregory Moore and some other gangster type. Capra locked eyes with him and gave a small nod.

  “Right this way, Mayor,” the maitre d’ said, and led them back to a table distressingly close to Capra’s. Southeby took the chair that would put his back to them.

  A waiter came with menus and took their drink order. He asked for lemonade, though he could have used something stronger. She ordered E.T. Lager, a new local brew.

  “That any good?”

  “Probably not. I just want to see the label.” She lowered her voice. “You know those guys?” “Not to speak to, except the oldest one, Greg Moore. Used to be public defender. Now he works for the little wop, Capra, who’s got Mafia connections. The third one, I don’t want to know.” He hadn’t noticed that she flinched at the word “wop.” Blond and blue-eyed, three of her four grandparents had come from Tuscany.

  “He’s the one the petty cash goes to?”

  “Jesus, Rosie!” He took a leatherbound notebook out of his jacket pocket and riffled through it.

  “Really, I’m curious,” she said, just above a whisper.

  “Who told you this?”

  “You withdraw it for ‘office supplies.’ That’s a lot of staples, Cam.” “Okay. It’s a kind of insurance. For the building, not for me.” “What?” The waiter brought the lemonade and beer. The label was a movie poster from the twentieth century, a goofy-looking alien with a glowing fingertip. He poured the beer. It was pale green, and probably glowed in the dark.

  The waiter left. “You didn’t work here four or five years ago. We used to get trashed all the time—graffiti, broken windows. Gang stuff.” She nodded. “So they could get their jail time.”

  ” Verdad. A new gang member would confess and get his week in jail. Rite of passage. But it was costing the city a fortune, and the cops were powerless. You catch one in the act, hell, that’s what he wants.

  “So Capra moves in. The gangs stay away from any building that has his mark.” “Or else … what?”

  “That’s another thing I don’t want to know. A few days after Capra started marking buildings, the leaders of three gangs disappeared overnight. Never came back, good riddance.” “He killed them for vandalism?”

  “Had them killed, probably. And probably not ‘for’ anything, except to show what he could do if they didn’t cooperate.” She stared at him in silence for a moment. There was a heated argument going on sotto voce at the gangsters’ table. She shook her head. “God. This town.” “This town is peaches and cream, honey, compared to—”

  The waiter had returned. “May I … are you ready to order? Ma’am?” His voice was a little loud and nervous as he glanced at the other table.

  “Jimmy!” Willy Joe shouted. “Cancel them specials. We gotta leave.” “As you wish, sir,” the waiter said. The three of them shuffled out from behind the table, and left in a little procession: Willy Joe striding in the lead, the pale hoodlum following, and then the lawyer.

  Gregory Moore

  He stopped to shake the mayor’s hand. “Cam. Long time no see.” “We seem to travel in different circles now,” he said.

  “It’s all circles, isn’t it? ‘What goes around comes around,’ my dad used to say.” “Your father was a good lawyer.”

  “So are you, Cam. Señorita?” She nodded at him with a curious smile, and he followed Solo out the door.

  “You’re pals with the mayor?” Solo said, opening the car door.

  “Not exactly ‘pals.’ Remind me to wash this hand.”

  “He’s a asshole,” Willy Joe said, getting in, “but he’s our asshole.” The doors slid shut and the air conditioner’s roar abated. Solo, behind the wheel, pushed a button.

  “Address for Norman Bell.”

  “This is lunacy,” Moore said. “Isn’t one murder a day enough?

  “He can’t fuck with me that way!”

  The car told Solo the address. “Go there.” It pulled away from the curb, hesitated, and slipped into the traffic.

  “Plenty of people saw us together. Saw him leave.”

  “Shut up, okay? Just gonna check the fuckin’ thing out.”

  “Just promise me you won’t—”

  “I don’t promise you or nobody a fuckin’ thing,” he said quietly. “But Solo ain’t gonna kill him. Just rough him up a little. Put the fear o’ God into him.” “Jesus. Listen to yourself.”

  Solo turned around to face them. “Boss, I don’t think he’s the kind of guy you just push around … “ “That’s right, you don’t think! You don’t think! You just do what I tell you.” “What do you mean, Solo?”

  “I mean beggin’ your pardon, Boss, but God knows I met all kinds a tough guys and phony tough guys, inside and outside. He’s not phony, and he’s pissed. I think he’d just as soon kill any one of us as look at us.” “You’ve got a fuckin’ gun. How’s he gonna kill you?”

  “You buy that shit about the trumpet oil?” Solo put a finger beside his nose. “Hoppes No. 9, I’ve smelled it all my life. He’s got a gun, all right.”

  “So he’s got a gun. He’s a faggot professor twice as old as you.” “Push the info button for me, Solo,” Moore said. He did. “Public records, military. Norman Bell.” “I’ll need a service number,” the car said, “or current residence.” “Gainesville, Florida.”

  “Norman Bell volunteered for the draft during Desert Wind, in September 2031. For his service in the 101st Airborne Division, he was awarded the Silver Star with two clusters and the Purple Heart.” “Silver Star,” Solo said. “Two clusters. Some faggot.”

  “So? So you afraid of him?”

  Solo didn’t move. “I’ll do what you want.”

  “I want.”

  Moore kept an eye on the road. There was a bike lane. But Bell probably would take a less direct route, avoiding traffic.

  “He probably has a burglar alarm. House full of musical instruments.” “Solo can take care of a burglar alarm.”

  “Yeah, or run like hell.”

  Moore shook his head. “You ought to wait until he’s home, if you have to do this. Knock on his door and push your way in.” “Excuse me, Mr. Lawyer. We already gone over this in the restaurant.” “It’s an unnecessary—”

  “I don’t got a replay button. You clear on that?”

  This could get them all into trouble. Too many people in that restaurant saw the four of
them together. “It’s going to be an interesting trial. Calling the mayor as a witness.” “Shut the fuck up. The mayor’s fuckin’ ours. Besides, he came in after the professor left.” “This is going too fast.”

  “Sometimes you gotta live fast. We got a chance for perfect timing here. Get them both, get the money, get the fuck out.” After they dropped Solo off, he was going to go confront Aurora Bell. In theory, by the time she called home, her husband would be sufficiently intimidated. They would empty their bank accounts into Willy Joe’s coffers.

  Again in theory, the Bells couldn’t call the police. This Qabil Rabin was still on the force, Willy Joe had said. But what if the jealous wife was not exactly fond of her husband’s boyfriend. Or her husband, for that matter. This whole thing could blow up in their faces.

  The car turned right and went uphill for a couple of blocks, through a quiet residential neighborhood.

  Then left and right and they pulled up in front of the Bells’ house, a large rambler with conservative but well-maintained landscaping. There was nobody in sight.

  “No burglar-alarm signs,” Willy Joe said. “People who got ‘em advertise it.” “Yeah; like me,” Moore said. “Someone stole my sign.” “Move it,” Willy Joe said. Solo opened the door and got out.

  He stood for a moment with his hand on the door. “Call you tonight, Boss, or come by?” “Call.” He shut the door and the car glided away.

  Solo stood for a moment, feeling exposed and perhaps betrayed. What the hell was Willy Joe’s game this time? A test? A sacrifice play?

  You couldn’t just walk out on him, crazy and vindictive fucker. Solo fought the reasonable impulse to call a cab and go straight to the airport, sighed, and turned on his heel. Shit or get off the pot.

  He went up the walk briskly, checking his watch for the sake of unseen neighbors. The place was a perfect design for breaking in; a small atrium hid the front door from the street.

  The atrium was cool and smelled of jasmine. He went straight to the door and rang the bell, getting his story ready in case there was a servant or a robot.