The Standard Grand

by Jay Baron Nicorvo

  A ringing reached her, the tolling of a church bell.

  “That’s assembly call. We’ve been spotted.”

  Most of the windows of the barracks were boarded up and, at ground level, she saw a figure, lumbering and furry, what looked like livestock that was upright, strange, a little scary. When she asked Milt what was that, he answered, “That’ll soon be you.”

  * * *

  With the voice of Mamí still in her mind, Evangelína pulled up Ellis Baum in her phone’s address book. She didn’t touch his work number. The time was just after 6 p.m.; she doubted he’d be in his office. She climbed from the car, stood in the strengthening snowfall. She turned up her face, let the flakes land, frigid, on her cheeks. She trembled.

  She would go for a run over the Standard campus, sticking as best she could to the old logging roads mapped out in the Standard portfolio. They, like the rivers and streams, were passable without trespassing, public access as long as she didn’t wander off them. She’d be as conspicuous as possible, and if she were lucky enough to meet Mr. Wright again, she’d make an offer worthy of gas not golf. Then, she’d give Ellis Baum a call. He and Bizzy could sort out the details with the lawyers.

  * * *

  Smith couldn’t make sense of two outright oddities, so she did her damnedest to ignore them. She stood shivering around the cook fire, snow swirling, staring hard into the black hole of her cowboy coffee—burnt and hot as old engine oil at the end of a long desert haul. She wore her field pack pulled tight over her shoulders. Her pepperbox clipped at her hip.

  Nine men including Milt, a squad-sized group of former soldiers uneasy at ease, and a dog. Nearly in tears with the want to let that shepherd slobber her face, she waited for Milt to make introductions.

  The scruffy men shifted weight from boot to boot, warming their hands on their enameled tin cups showing the faded Standard logo and motto—Rest Makes Free—all of them shooting looks at her, the FNG.

  One vet stood with his back to her. The hide he wore was all one piece. The front legs of the skinned animal reached down the man’s arms and were tied at the elbow with what looked like translucent cord. The hindquarters draped down the backs of his legs and were likewise tied at the thigh. The two belly flaps of the animal were drawn around either side of his torso and tied. But the most extraordinary, and downright terrifying, part of the getup was that the former face of the creature, eyeholes and all, rested atop the man’s head and was tied under his chin. He looked half man, half eaten. The others wore theirs more casually, like shawls shrugged over their shoulders.

  If not for the caveman capes, the scene could’ve been on a firebase in the Hindu Kush. But then there was the other oddity: the backdrop of the Alpine village.

  Milt quieted his troops with that piercing whistle. “Listen up,” he rasped. “I want to introduce Specialist Antebellum Smith, who I’ve taken to calling Bang Bang.”

  She shook her head and waved a hand.

  “A motor transport operator. Fifty-Eighth Transportation Battalion out of Leonard Wood.”

  “I prefer Bellum.”

  “We’ll take it into consideration,” Milt said. “Most of you boys know better than me, transportation’s one of the deadliest jobs in these here wars. Show Bang Bang due respect.” He went around the tittering group, naming them. “Bang Bang’s our newest guest,” Milt said. “Make her feel at home. Vessey, you’re dismissed as Brevet General. You’ll give Specialist Smith the lowdown when we’re done here. Anything to report?”

  “Nada,” said the old vet, Vessey, with his dog, Egon. “No sign of Reverend.”

  Milt nodded. “We’ve been lax of late. We want to get back on full alert. We need to be more vigilant about trespassers. One in particular. Want you to keep an eye out for a woman, about yea tall, a Latina.”

  The vet wearing the full hide, Merced, said, “Better call la Migra.”

  “She’s not an illegal,” Milt said. “She’s on a business trip. She expressed some investment interest in the Standard. Caught her kayaking on the Mongaup. Got a hunch she’ll be back. If you spot her—”

  The vet with the Muslim name said, “Scuse me, Captain.”

  “What is it, Brother Alhazred?”

  Alhazred. Alhazred. “Anyone seen my drum sticks?” When all he got was shaken heads and shrugged shoulders, he said, “Thanks, fucks. What about Simon Says?”

  “Not today,” Milt said. “We got a late start and a lot to do. Now, this woman returns, give her the full Standard. Someone spots her, sound the big bell for emergency muster. Gather up for a quick brief, then go all out. Scare bejesus out of her. Run her off.”

  Merced said, “Affirmative.”

  “Don’t make sense.” The other Marine. Botes.

  Milt said, “Now anybody see signs of E. Prince?”

  “Found what looks like a crop circle in our cornfield,” Alhazred said. “All indications point to alien abduction. But, Comandante?”

  “What, Alhazred.”

  “Don’t we have time for just a short Simon?”

  “Luckson,” said Vessey, “howbout we play Red Rover instead.”

  Smith asked, “Who’s Luckson?”

  Stone said, “Red rover, red rover, send Bang Bang on over.”

  Smith rested her hand on the butt of her sidearm.

  “Chief,” said Botes, “I don’t get why the little Latina’s got to get a trespasser’s treatment. Sounds to me like she’s a purchasing agent maybe looking to make an offer. Why don’t we invite her over for coffee?”

  Milt let Botes’s gripe settle over the group. When the silence started making them uncomfortable, he said it was no secret he wasn’t well. He was gonna keep at it as long as he could, but he needed them to start thinking ahead. He said he was putting things in place to make sure the Standard didn’t fall into wrong hands. It was also no secret he was way in the red. “If you haven’t noticed,” he said, “I’m not getting rich off your disability. This woman who crashed our party says she’s representing concerns that are interested in buying the Standard. But she did not make an offer.”

  Stone said, “You’re sitting on a goldmine, General. Why don’t you just lease some of this place to frackers and take us on a vacation to the Bahamas?”

  “Cause I’m unwilling to poison people’s water’s why. This woman’s company,” Milt added, “wants to turn the Standard into a golf resort.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Vessey said. “If this woman comes poking around, you want us to scare shit out of her so she takes her big check and never comes back?”

  Milt said a business deal was a seduction. “We don’t play a little hard-to-get, she’ll lose interest. If we run her off, she wasn’t interested in the first place. If after trying to run her off, she comes back with an offer, we know she’s dead serious. We get a sense of how hard we can haggle. Maybe we can work in a provision that preserves Standard Company. Establishes it as an official halfway house for New York vets, maybe something that offers some sort of work release. Big projects are always looking for built-in tax breaks and community enrichment to get the local votes they need to proceed.”

  The youngest vet, Stotts-Dupree, failing to grow a beard—maybe all of twenty—said, “You trying to turn uth into caddieth?”

  “You know without your teeth,” Stone said, “you sound like a sexy Mike Tyson.”

  Merced said, “Milt, don’t know about these putas, but I’m going nowheres.”

  “You won’t have to, Merced.”

  Alhazred said, “How about just a quick Simon, Captain? Get the blood flowing.”

  “They thart fanthifying thith plathe,” Stotts-Dupree said, “we’ll get evicted.”

  “Not going back to Hoboken,” Merced said. “My wife and kids don’t want me, don’t want them. I’ll hold up in these here woods.”

  Vessey said, “Don’t start, Merced, and we got to find STD’s denture cause I can’t understand a fucking word he says.”

  Smith felt her hand
gripping her sidearm—she wanted to shoot herself in the face to put a stop to these proceedings.

  Milt said, “We’re gonna get you fitted for a new one, STD. Few of you are due for visits to the VA Center in Castle Point anyway.”

  Alhazred said, “You sell this place, maybe you gift STD some permanent teeth.”

  “Didn’t want to mention it,” Milt said. “But we try not to keep things classified. You boys—and girls—know, despite certain strictures, we run this outfit more as a cooperative than a military unit.” Milt’s look turned drill-sergeant stern. “Because I’m not going to be around forever, I need you guys to start considering contingencies. Understood?”

  Merced said, “I’ll take Tamal to the mountains. Waters rise, we’ll be dry and high.”

  “I can see you now,” Vessey said. “Riding your alpaca like in Last of the Mohicans.”

  Botes said, “Last of the Mexicans.”

  Smith raised her hand.

  Milt said, “What is it Specialist Smith?”

  “I’m freezing.”

  “Almost done,” Milt said. “Now, weather forecast says this snow’s just the start. We’re getting dumped on in the next few days, so we got cords of wood to split and stacking to do. You know the drill—”

  “Really quick, Sarge, Simon Says.”

  “Quit it, Alhazred. Now Bang Bang here’s gonna be on the big bell from here on out. Bang Bang, big bell gets sounded for musters. Vessey’ll give you details.”

  Merced said, “That thing’s haunted.”

  Alhazred said, “I thought I was on the big bell.”

  “Luckson, you’re relieved of big-bell duty. Alright, boys and girls, fall out.”

  * * *

  Inside the B&B, the proprietor, Bruce, sat at the breakfast nook. He didn’t look up as Evangelína came through the front door. He was morbidly obese, a varicose diabetic who wore compression sleeves on his legs and, cold as it was, nothing but shorts and tremendous white T-shirts.

  Here he was, shooting up, his insulin works on the table. “Excuse me,” he said. “Let me wash up and I’ll make dinner.” He stood, with a lightness that was alarming in a man so fat, and went to the kitchen island, over which hung, suspended from the pot rack, a leather cord with a small noose for bleeding guinea hens.

  “I’m going to skip dinner.”

  “You’re paying for it.”

  “I can’t eat right before I run.”

  He told her there were some wonderful trails. “Be great for cross-country skiing if this snow keeps up. We’re supposed to get over a foot in the next two days.”

  Maybe she’d go for a ski over the Standard campus instead of a run. She’d need to revisit Morgan Outdoors. Return the kayak and exchange it for cross-country gear.

  “Be careful of the black bear. Whole family traipsed through here last month. Ate every last one of my guineas. Know what to do if you encounter one?”

  “I do not.”

  “Bear sees you, start speaking in a low, calm voice—doesn’t matter what you say—and retreat slowly. Stand tall, even if he charges. Do not play dead. Show no fear or weakness. If he charges, stay where you are. First charge is usually a bluff. If you stand ground, he may turn away. If he makes contact, you have to fight. Only chance. Other type of bears, it’s best to play dead. But a black bear will just eat you. Odds are against you, but a bear that attacks is often young, or starving, maybe wounded. He might be scared away if you pop him in the nose. Aim high.”

  * * *

  Feeling nullified by the briefing, Smith watched Milt walk over the hill and disappear in falling snow.

  Merced circled toward her carrying a small enamel pitcher. The hollow alpaca face hovering over his face bore a resemblance. “Cream?”

  She held out her cup.

  “Say when.”

  The milk was off-white and thick as snot. She nodded, and he stopped pouring. She swirled her cup, looked in, sipped, and grimaced. The other vets laughed.

  “Alpaca milk’s sweeter than cow milk.” Merced gestured the pitcher toward her chest. “Like breast milk. When my wife gave birth to our first, got me a little fixated.”

  Smith sipped; it wasn’t bad once you expected the sweetness.

  “Don’t you want to know why I’m not with them?”

  Smith shrugged.

  “Cause they’re dead, or good as dead. We all are.”

  Smith nodded.

  “You know,” he continued, “we’re practically standing on a crater. Just like the Yucatán. Catskills was struck too. Shooting star half-a-klick wide. Came crashing down not far from here. Impact was like a hundred thousand A-bombs. Look on a map. Circle of Panther Mountain just north, Esopus and Woodland creeks, they’re the edge of the crater. And we’re due for another one.” He nodded. “Cause me,” he said, “I’m like a meteor magnet. We’re next, mira.”

  A couple of the other vets laughed, and Vessey said, “Merced, we haven’t saddled you with a nickname yet. Howbout Nostradamus?”

  Botes said, “Howbout Nostravamanos.”

  “He’s never been married neither,” Vessey said to Smith. “Never had kids.”

  “Yeah,” Merced said, “it’d be nice though, having em. Petting em. Feeding em. Tying their tails in knots.”

  “FNG,” Botes said, “if you haven’t noticed, Merced’s shooting with a bent barrel.”

  “I’ve tinnitus is all, puta. And Lyme.”

  “Got headbutted by the head of a suicide bomber,” Vessey said. “Hasn’t recovered.”

  “Wasn’t headbutted. But I did boot that puta’s burqa’d cabeza like Cuauhtémoc Blanco in the World Cup against Belgium. ¡Gol de Blanco!”

  The mean-looking vet, Stone, said to her, “FNG, we need a tool before we get started on this evening’s operations.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Could’ve stopped that girl,” Merced said. “Chest all wrapped in duck tape. Didn’t cause she was a kid. Zits and everything.”

  Vessey said, “Hearts and minds, Merced. Don’t mean nothing.”

  “Reverse-angle bluestone planer,” Stone said. “Find it in the Quartermaster’s Store under R. Can’t miss it.”

  “Milt tells me,” she said, “I’ll go. Don’t know yall, so yall can go blow.”

  “Yall,” Botes said. “I love it.”

  They watched Milt march up the hill carrying what looked like a bear cub. As he drew near, the bear became a hide, beautifully colored, creamy with honeyed highlights. When he reached Smith, he told her turn round.

  “Hope it aint hunting season,” she said. “Don’t want to wind up shot and strapped to the hood of someone’s pickup.”

  Stone said, “Makes me wish I was a pickup.”

  Milt said, “We’re the ones do the hunting round here.”

  “Why you don’t wear one?”

  Stone said, “All part of his PSYOP campaign to win our hearts and minds.”

  “It aint so bad,” Vessey said. “Sure given me more sympathy for poor Egon here in summertime.” The dog opened his eyes at the mention of his name. “Once you try it on, you won’t want to take it off. Specially not in this weather.”

  Milt draped the hide over her shoulders.

  “Heavy,” she said.

  He tied the hide high on her sternum, then around her waist.

  The feeling that settled over her when he finished came as a surprise. Short of superhuman but not by much, it seemed elfin. The hide warmed her, lent the hint of invincibility without the terrifying immobility of the Army’s Improved Outer Tactical Vest.

  “Feels good,” Vessey said, “don’t it?”

  Botes said, “Welcome to the wilds.”

  Stone said, “That’s a nice color for her. She looks good enough to eat. Now, oh Captain, my Captain, tell the FNG we need a reverse-angle bluestone planer from the Quartermaster’s Store before we get started on tonight’s operations.”

  Milt said, “You tell her.”

  “I did. She won’t li
sten.”

  “There’s a chain-of-command here, Specialist Smith, and you abide by it.”

  “Quartermaster’s is up over the hill,” Stone said. “Here, you’ll need this.”

  She caught the flashlight, clicked it on and headed in the indicated direction, relieved. She was more exhausted, and more demoralized, by the company of these crazy men than by her months of solitary homelessness. She worried she’d made a mistake.

  When she found the building, she wended down moldering halls, using the tags of bad graffiti as points of reference. Lots of swastikas. Wondering how the vandals had gotten past Standard Company, or if the vandalism was an inside job. The verbal hate crimes of shocking succinctness: Hang Obama. Smoke the 6,000,000. Gays rape gays.

  Through doorways were masses of insanely organized clutter. A room of wall-to-wall bathroom vanities, the basins resting on the floor, their porcelain pedestals standing like severed legs. A room stacked floor to ceiling with bathtubs, one on top of the other, staggered and interlocking, as if arranged by a giant toddler with OCD. Room of mirrors leaning against every wall, reflecting reflections bright and broken in the flashlit dark. Walking through the Quartermaster’s Store was like entering into the failing memory of the resort, and she could not remember what she’d been sent for.

  She came back to the Alpine village an hour later empty-handed, half-blind, blown away and hoard-headed. There were six vets around the cook fire. Stone saw her, started singing, and then they all broke into a raucous chorus:

  There are beavers, beavers, beavers

  Wielding rusty cleavers

  In the store, in the store

  There are quar-ter-masters

  Hanging from the rafters

  In the Quartermaster’s Store

  * * *

  Ray kneels before the fire hissing in the snowfall. For his trek down to the Standard in the dark, he readies his kit, three blades, simple and severe. He hacks up phlegm, spits on the whetstone, and sharpens each edge. Using his leather belt as a strop, one end looped around the toe of his boot, he hones the edges until they can shave long whiskers off his neck. With his curved trench knife, a corvo, he whittles the tip of his walking stick to a point. For every hike, he finds and shapes a new stick, and discards it once his leg is loose.