Ambient

by Jack Womack

  The colonel reached out, grabbing my lapels, yanking me from the chair; for his size he was immensely strong, and I didn't interfere.

  "What do you think he'd do if one day we didn't hop when he said jump? What would he do?"

  "I really don't know-"

  "You don't," he said. "We hear stories. We hear that if we didn't, he'd interfere with national security. Now what does that mean? Nobody tells us. How would he do that? Do you know how?"

  "I don't know."

  "You don't know shit, do you?" he asked, letting me go. I slipped back into the chair. It was like being cornered by a drunk at a party. "I'm not surprised. No doubt I'm a bigger man in my op than you are in yours and nobody tells me shit. I'm not surprised. I just do what I'm told, too." There was a conspiratorial tone in his voice, for a moment, suggesting that in his eye he conjured a picture of two sharks complaining between themselves of the water's coldness.

  "Sir-"

  "It'll happen one of these days," he said, bending down, bringing his face closer to mine. "If I don't last long enough, somebody else'll say fuck it. Someday. You know how pointless all of this is? Every month new units go in. We could send in new units every hour and it wouldn't do any good. If we kill one of them three more spring up in their place. That's the way it's always been. Attrition doesn't seem to apply over there. It doesn't make sense. It's like they grow out of the ground. Fall out of the sky when it rains. It doesn't make fucking sense."

  "I think I should be going-"

  "Tell him when you see him," the colonel said. "We've had it. I've had it. Everybody's had it and he's going to get it. If he wants to make threats, he can fucking go ahead and threat away. We don't care. They might in Washington, but I don't give a fuck. Let him do what he wants."

  "Why don't you go ahead and do it, then, instead of talking about it?"

  From that second when I said that he no longer looked at me dead-on, but turned his face away as he spoke. "I just want to keep as many of my men alive as I can," he said, looking a foot to my right. "that's pretty damned impossible, thanks to your fucking boss. You tell him that. Someday he's gonna say yes, and somebody's gonna say no. You tell him."

  "I'll tell him why I'm late."

  The colonel was a man of quick reactions. Before I could raise my arms to protect myself, he swung, striking me full-fist in the side of my face; I felt my cheekbone crack, and my vision blurred red. Once my sight refocused, I saw him holding his hand, rubbing it, as if he'd broken the bones punching me. I grasped the chair arms, trying to stand. Had I not wanted so to get away, to find Avalon while there might yet be time, I should have pounced him there sans restraint and suffered such consequences as the rest might offer.

  "Get him out of here," the colonel said, speaking between his choppers. "Get him a uniform. Get him the fuck out of here."

  "Yes, sir," said a drawn young captain, advancing, grasping my arm. "This way."

  He pushed me along, out of the office, across the campgrounds to the supply depot. Pressing my hand against my face I could feel the bones grind together as if they were stones in a mill; felt unbearable pain when I pushed harder. It was like probing a boil. Still, by controlling the pain's flow in such manner, I quickly grew used to my jaw's steady throb.

  "The colonel's been high-pressured, sir," the captain reassured. "Please weigh factors before undertaking reports-"

  "Just get me off base and where I want to go," I said. "Please."

  The supply depot seemed so well stocked as any place in Manhattan providing material of any sort. Bare shelves lined half the walls. Many of the uniforms lying about appeared recycled, with patches, and scars poorly sewn. I was given a captain's field uniform-too long in the arms, too snug in the hips-the closest they had to my size. I didn't need to change my boots, for which I was glad. Pulling my long coat on over the uniform, attaching the spare captains bars given me onto the shoulders of my wrap, I readied myself. My face didn't hurt quite so much. The supply sergeant shoved a revolver at me, pushing it across the countertop. Picking it up, I marveled at its weight; though I'd been trained in firearm interaction, it had been years since I'd held one. They used to seem lighter, I thought, unlike everything else.

  "I don't need it," I said, putting it down.

  "Take it," he said. "Never know when it'll do handy."

  "I've got weaponry."

  "Unexpected situations demand the unexpected," he said. "Better to be adapt-ready."

  There was a point in that. All Army boys toted guns, and there was appearance's sake to weigh; moreover, I realized, none connected with Dryco would guess that I'd chosen to equip with amateur's specialty.

  I put it in my pocket. "Now where?" I asked the captain.

  "Over to the motor pool," he said, lifting his arm and pointing. "Ask for Panzerman."

  "How's he ranked?"

  "They know him. Just ask. He's been told. Don't aware him that you're civilianed."

  "Why not?" I asked; he didn't respond.

  "He'll up you."

  Taking leave of the captain, I staggered over to the pool's central building. Inside, a corporal sat behind the desk, awaiting directions. He thumbed a copy of the Times. PREZ LIES SEZ VICE, the headline read.

  "Are you Panzerman?" I asked.

  "Outside," the corporal grunted, not looking up. A horn ablow snared my attention and I turned. A small open fourwheeler pulled up out front. The fellow driving looked sixteen and wore goldrimmed glasses. A long scar on his right cheek suggested that he shaved with a cleaver. On the back of his scuffed yellow flakjak was sewn the phrase, LOST LOVELY AND VICIOUS. Dryco supplied the Army's helmets, and on every one was embossed the colored design of a smirker. Panzerman had drawn in fangs protruding from the smile of his.

  "Panzerman?" I asked, climbing into the passenger's side. He wore hobnailed boots not unlike Margot's and I wondered how difficult they made driving.

  "Yep," he said, offering nothing more. He had no rank, so near as I could tell; a patch on one shoulder said that he was a member of the Honduran Army, had one been unaware.

  "You know where we're supposed to go?"

  "Yep." he said, gunning the engine; dust clouds billowed after us as he floored. We took off for the Park Row egress. Flipping on the siren, he pulled into Church Street's IA lane and we cruised uptown.

  Traffic had been rerouted from the Tribeca Secondary Zone and for several blocks we were the only moving vehicle to be found. As we passed an abandoned cab, something I saw pinned me where I sat.

  "Stop the car."

  "Why?"

  "I said stop the car." Slamming on the brakes, he swung sideways as he pulled the car to a halt. "Back up."

  As we reversed I vizzed the sitch. Three soldiers busied themselves with a woman in the Army's everyday manner. Having pulled her dress up, entangling her arms and covering her head, they'd spread-eagled her on the hood of the cab. One squatted over her, bending back her legs with rough anklegrip. The other two sustained their anger in turn. I thought of Army memorabilia, posted back there on the board, and heard those screams forever burning my mind.

  "Desist," I commanded, standing up in the open car. The one presently at work stepped away, not bothering to rearrange his uniform. She cried and wriggled. The spider crawling over her hovered light, drawing her legs further apart so that I might see how much blood they'd pricked thus far. She screamed again.

  "Want a little, captain?"

  Guns removed the option of consideration before action could effect; amateurs, thoughtless at best, preferred them for that reason. About some things there was no need to examine options. Not having words proper for them, knowing the deaf ears off which they would ricochet, I fired my pistol, having leveled it at him as I stood. When I shot him he crumpled like paper and blew away in the wind. The other pair dashed off as if trying to reach the goal line before the whistle sounded; they bounced as they struck ground, tumbling end over end as if clipped between halves, sounding shocked as if hoping t
he coach would waste not time in complaining. With a gun it was usually too fast; here it could not have been fast enough. In using a different tool, for a different reason, I thought that at last I'd begun making my new way, following my new reason and my old feelings; using such maggots to cleanse new wounds, and not to worsen old ones. The woman carefully sat upright, tugging her carmeline dress down over her legs as she pressed her knees together, shaking her head as if to dry her mind of nightmare's slimy touch.

  "Move," I said, but only I moved, falling sideways with the shock of the noise. The woman, for a second, levitated above the hood of the cab as if easing into the paws of Godness-before it dropped her and she fell unseen behind the cab. Panzerman reloaded his rifle.

  "One hundred percent, sir," he said, smiling silently as if the moment didn't warrant an audible laugh.

  12

  We pulled alongside the Dryco building. Panzerman had been silent the remainder of the trip, though at intervals he quietly chuckled to himself, as if recalling some memorable anecdote he kept handy to keep him cheerful. A stiff breeze lashed me; sooty cinders etched my eyes. A copter buzzed quite low, flying west down Fiftieth.

  Drivers stood at ease beside the limos lining the plaza; Jimmy was easiest spotted, being a head taller than any of the others. He lounged beside the Castrolite; his arms crossed against his chest resembled nothing so much as sewer pipes insulated with coat sleeves. Best to avoid him, I suspected, having no idea for whom he might truly work and estimating that I was wanted no matter who behinded. Avalon must be inside, I hoped, entering the Fiftieth Street side so nonchalantly as I could. Thoughts of her correction by Dryco minions darted through my mind, stinging and making raw. I unlocked the door leading to the guard's stairway. Mine is a peaceful soul, as I have said, but if need calls I cut no corner and cool no fire, and I had the unerring hunch that need would call. As I climbed the stairs, eyes alight at those places where boobies awaited tripping by the careless, I knew that were I to discover that my arrival came too late, that my presence changed no mind, that my explanation should not suffice, then my hands, unbound and set loose, should take so many along as I could carry as I was sent along on my way.

  The guard's stairway emerged, many floors above, into a small closet in Mister Dryden's office. With steady silence I crept in, looking through the long two-way mirror inlaid in the closet's door.

  Mister Dryden sat behind his desk, overlooking a thick printout. His lips were drawn so tight they appeared sewn. His desk terminal glowed radium green as menus and graphs flashed past. Nine phones sat on his desk; from his Russian associates he had developed the idea that innumerable phones at close reach provided fresh mortar for his wall of perceived power. I always pictured him attempting to answer seven phones with his feet, if two were in his hands; as only one line entered his office, the point was more than moot. Above the fireplace, its gas logs eternally lit, hung a large portrait of himself as done by the family's artist. All the Drydens, I think, preferred to see themselves in this wayoutsized, as if engorged after feeding, and softened with oil's gauzed film. On one wall, near the giant smirker and his Yale diploma, hung a small plaque. ONE OF THESE DAYS, I knew it said, I'M GOING TO HAVE TO GET ORGANIZIZED. His bookshelves, for all his reading, were wonderfully free from books. One of his less understandable conceits was a fondness for stuffed animals. Dozens of them caught the room's dust, perched on the shelves. The taxidermist he employed prepared them to his wishes; sitting at tea tables or at pianos, conducting and playing in big bands, clad in tiny vests and hats, sunglasses and shirts. Puppies, kittens, piglets, frogs, monkeys, bunnies, duckies, and chicks, in clever attitudes forever frozen, looked askance upon him.

  His office was very large, and very dark. The room's decor was bicolor, forest green and black oak. Though the view from his window was so attractive as any from this height, the drapes were pulled perpetually shut-such light hurt his eyes. I opened the door and walked in.

  "I'm here," I said; he jumped, as if he'd been shot. I began coming toward him.

  "No nearer!" he said. "Oppro spoke, OM. Your ears shut. You could have carved your own way-"

  "Where's Avalon?" I asked.

  "Where you'll soon be," he said, sliding his chair back. "I never expected this, O'Malley-"

  "I can explain," I said. "Look, what's going on? Where's--

  "With me, a win. With her, a loss. Your loss."

  "You don't understand. Wait a min-"

  "Mistakes teach, OM. Learn."

  He pressed a button on his desk, signaling Renaldo.

  "Fools like you come dimedozened. Deceit negates function. "

  Renaldo entered, stripped to the waist, looking not so much muscled as upholstered. The Virgin tattooed on his padded chest seemed to sneer at me from beneath his forest. He paused at the doorway, resting his ax upon his broad shoulder.

  "Entra, desepria," Mister Dryden said. "Should have kept to the street, OM. Waste's place. Having took out, I'll put back."

  "What is this?" I said, disbelieving at how quickly, how dreamlike, it seemed to be occurring. "I said I can explain. I thought-"

  "Fair punishment fairly given," he said, slipping into the leg space beneath his desk; the desk itself was bulletproof, with Krylar inserts. "Solo conference. The bottle breaks where it's thrown. Renaldo. Go!"

  Renaldo lifted his ax above his head, lunging toward me. I hopped aside with moment's notice. The force of his swing was great enough for the ax to sink halfway through the rug, and the floor, as it landed.

  "Maricon!" he shouted to me, "Venaqui." I pulled out my gun; Renaldo thrust out his hand faster than a snake's tongue, flicking it from niy grasp, sailing it across the room. As he moved to set loose the ax's blade, I dropkicked him. He swung out as he fell, punching me in the ribs; one of the lower ones split. Holding tight to one of the office's tufted-leather chairs, I lifted myself up, kicking the ax away. Grabbing a floor lamp, he attempted wrapping it around my head. We grappled; the lamp bent and we threw it out of our way. The first tool my hand clamped was my trunch; I pulled it out.

  "Muerte-" he said, his hand squeezing my throat. With all my strength I brought my trunch down against his head. Blood spattered the air like Serena; the metal plate in his skull lifted, spinning away like a bird in flight. He kicked out, striking my knee with a sharp heel, and I went down, landing painfully against the articles filling my coat. I found what I needed as he picked up his ax. I heard Mister Dryden crying, beneath his desk.

  "Suplica," Renaldo said, blood streaming down his face. Lifting the ax again, he began bringing it down; it descended as if in slomo. Halfway through his ax's downward arc I blocked its path with Enid's chainsaw.

  "Madre de Dios-"

  The saw roared out, tripling its length; the force of that impact knocked the ax from his hands, slamming it back against his mouth. He fell over. I sat up, my saw whirring away. His jaw had broken when the ax handle hit it; he made no recognizable sounds. I could see that his loss of blood was weakening him, and I saw no need for overkill, and so shut off my saw. Sitting down on his chest, I placed my hands around his neck, pressing my thumbs against his Adam's apple. It didn't take long. As I sat there, panting, hearing only the sound of Mister Dryden's sobbing and my own breathing, drying blood encrusting my hands, my split rib stabbing my side, my cheekbone athrob, the wound on my head reopened and stinging, I thought of Avalon, forcing myself to move by visualizing what would happen to her if I didn't do something more, demanding of myself that I go further before I dropped cold.

  "Mister Dryden," I said, so calmly as I could make myself sound, "let's talk."

  "There's reasons," he cried; I barely understood him. "It wasn't-"

  There were many objets d'art on his desktop: a thermometer in the guise of the Statue of Liberty; a heavy glass paperweight, snow ensprinkled within forever drifting down; an old photo of himself with his mother, Susie D. Blood tickled my brow as I perused them, awaiting his emergence.

  "Come on ou
t," I said, "Mister Dryden--

  "Scared-" he mumbled. Heaving myself up, the underside of the desk in my hands, I rose, tipping it over; it slammed against the floor behind him with a terrific crash. Broken glass rang for several seconds. He cowered against the floor, trembling in unexpected light like something found beneath an upturned rock. I lifted him to his feet.

  "Let's talk," I repeated. "Where's Avalon?"

  "I knew you'd top Renaldo," he said, attempting to look away. With my free hand I held his chin, turning his face toward mine so that he wouldn't be distracted by the scenery. "Only testing-"

  "No test," I said. "You wanted to kill me. I'm not quite dead. So talk. Where's Avalon?"

  "I don't know!" he screamed. "You wanted to kill me, too-" Perhaps it was because I hurt so much, in so many places, at that moment; perhaps it was because I had grown weary of hearing naught but doubtful tales and elaborations of fancy. Whatever the reason, I took my hand away from his chin and smacked him so hard as I could across the face. He shivered. Holding him once more with both hands, I shook him roughly, and then pushed him against the nearest wall.

  "I didn't want to kill you and I didn't try to," I said. "Keep this up and I will. Where is she?"

  "I don't know, I don't-"

  "Where is she?" I repeated, slamming him against the wall; I heard plaster dropping down within. "Somebody took her this morning. They left a message from you. Said I was next and to get in touch. I didn't plan to be termed. I haven't been yet. Tell me what happened. Quick. Was anyone in the room when the bomb went off?"

  "It didn't go off," he said, catching his breath, rubbing a tear away on his shoulder.

  "It didn't?"

  "Stella found it."

  "What was she doing in there?"

  "He wanted to fun it up while he abused me," he said, shaking his head. I relaxed my hold enough to allow him to let his feet brush the floor. "So when we transferred to the study he wanted her underdesk. She crawled under and spotted. Said it looked like a gumwad with a watch stuck in it. He looksaw. Had Scooter enter and disassemble. Unsuspected, unforeseeable circumstance-"