Her name was Jolene, and in Michael’s opinion, she looked like a skinny cat someone had shaved, covered in makeup, and taught to walk upright. She rolled her eyes constantly, sometimes at Benny, mostly at Michael.
“Here. Dishes,” she said, unloading a stack of dirty plates by the sink.
“Morning,” Michael said.
She gave him a bored look. “Yeah, I noticed.”
Michael waited for her to go away before starting on the dishes. For there to be this many of them, a Party member must have come in with a few friends. They ate free at any restaurant outside the Inner Sanctum. It wasn’t an official rule, but no one in their right mind would think of charging a Party member actual money. Not out here, anyway.
“Michael? Michael?”
The high-pitched, parrot-like voice of his mother reached him before she rounded the corner. She wore her usual white shirt tucked into black slacks, and her hair sat atop her head in a greasy mound, a pencil sticking out of it. She was a short, heavy-breasted woman with a painted face that would have looked whorish were it not for the genuine look of innocence in her eyes. They were wide and desperate to please, like a child’s.
“Michael, there you are. I need you to help with dining room clean up tonight. Oh, don’t look at me like that. It’s only an extra hour. Do your old mother a favor. Her back is killing her.”
She placed a hand on the small of her back and rolled her eyes in a look of cartoonish agony.
“All right, all right,” Michael said. “I’ll do it.”
That was always his answer. Michael couldn’t say no to his mother. The few times he had turned down a request to work an extra shift, or work without pay, he had ended up feeling paranoid afterward, like he was going to wake up the next morning to an empty house, his family having vanished into thin air.
“Thanks, dear,” his mother said.
Michael picked up a metal sponge and began scrubbing a pot that was deep enough to swallow his entire arm. The screen door slammed shut behind him. His father came in from the back yard, a small patch of land that was mostly mud. He stood stomping his boots against the mat and looking over the kitchen to make sure everything was in place.
“Mike,” he said, snapping his fingers. “A box of sausage patties. Let’s go.”
Michael wiped his hands on a towel that was warm and damp from all the steam. On his way to the basement stairs, he looked at his father, who furrowed his brow at him and said, “Stealing liquor, huh? What do you think this is, the Targin Empire?”
Too ashamed to reply, Michael shuffled down the stairs to the basement to get the sausage patties, which weren’t really made of sausage, but of something else—grain and gum with sausage flavoring or something. They were about as thin as tissue paper, too, and fell apart whenever you tried to flip them on the grill.
The basement was a musty, dim place, quiet except for the constant low hiss of a water pressurizer. Old pipes covered in duct tape ran along the ceiling, dripping brown streamers of dust like some kind of hanging mold. The shelves, which were supposed to hold cans of preserved fruits, tinned beans and tomatoes, boxes of pasta and rice, and bottles of olive oil and Italian spices, were empty except for the occasional dusty item. At least the restaurant had frozen food left over from the year before, when there had been more rations.
The inside of the walk-in refrigerator always smelled like winter. Michael liked to pretend, whenever he was in there, that he was a forager in the Eastlands who had just hit the jackpot: a refrigerator full of goodies out in this barren wasteland where food was scarce (more scarce, anyway). Now he would eat for weeks. Forget about going back to the surface; everything he needed was down here in this basement. And once he ran out of supplies, all he had to do was climb up into the ruins of civilization to hunt and forage for anything else he might—
A sound like leaves scraping pavement reached his ears, coming from the walk-in freezer. It took him a moment to realize it was a human voice.
The door to the freezer was inside the walk-in refrigerator, right in front of him, a solid block of wood half a foot thick. And yet, despite the barrier, he could hear the carrying whisper on the other side as clearly as he could feel the cool, misty air sliding in and out of his lungs.
As he listened, he realized it wasn’t just one voice, but many.
...had to kill him, Gertrude. It was the only way to get this bread...
...Lard on sale here! Getcher cooking lard on sale! Prices so good they’re not even legal...
...like that, right in the vein, and press down right there...yeah, like that...oh, that’s smooth...
He put his hand on the door’s metal latch, which was ice-cold and slick, and thought for a moment. Were there people in there? No, that was crazy. But then what was he hearing? Lard on sale? That sounded like the lard vendor down the street. Why would he be hearing the man’s voice all the way down here?
His hand slipped off the latch. He breathed in and out until his mind cleared of all its questions, and then he reached over to grab the latch again. It made a metallic clanking sound as he pulled it toward him.
“Mike!”
His arm jerked back, his hand slipping off the latch, tingling still from the touch of cold metal. The freezer door stood open a few inches, only darkness beyond it.
Michael spun around and stared at Benny.
“What the hell’s taking you so long?” Benny said. “We need those patties now, you idiot.”
“Ben…” Michael tried to catch his breath. “Did you hear…”
Ignoring him, Benny shoved him aside, grabbed the latch, and yanked the door all the way open.
“There they are. What took you boys so long?”
Terry Lanza’s face was pink, but not from anger this time. He looked relieved to see Benny and Michael coming up the stairs, each carrying a load of sausage-flavored grain-gum patties sandwiched between layers of wax paper.
“Mike, Benny, you kids remember Uncle Sal, right? He’s come to pay the family a little visit.”
Michael had come up the stairs after Benny and couldn’t see most of the kitchen yet, only his father standing by the stoves. As the rest of the kitchen eased into his field of vision: the counters all covered in trays and cutting boards, a stack of bowls next to a small bucket of table salt, a set of stirring spoons hanging on the wall—he saw three men standing by the windows.
One man stood before the other two, short with a thick head of black hair that added two inches to his height. He was Salvador Mastrano, older brother to Michael’s father and an inspector in the Fatherland Security Department.
“Ey, Benny, come shake your uncle’s hand. Mikey, you, too. Get over here.”
They took turns shaking his hand and smelling the stink of whiskey on his breath. He didn’t come often to the restaurant, and this was the first time Michael had smelled alcohol on him. The insignia on his coat flashed: a pair of swords crossed at the hilts, the blades pointing downward.
“These two are Welcher and Boyd,” Uncle Sal said, indicating the two men leaning against the counter. “They’re working for me now.”
One of the men was lean and small and looked bored. This was Boyd. His cheeks were pockmarked, and he’d missed a patch of hair on his chin during his morning shave. He picked lint off his suit and ignored the boys. The other guy, Welcher, was taller than everyone in the room, with a head like a block of wood and thick stocky limbs. He kept his hair shaved military-fashion and flicked his eyes around like a soldier fearing an ambush.
“Congratulations on the promotion, Sally,” Terry said, clasping his hands together and shaking them. “Chief Inspector, wow. That makes you a Party member now.” He wagged his finger at his older brother. “You make our family proud.”
Uncle Sal lifted his hands as if to say it wasn’t his fault he was such a great guy. Then, flashing his artificially whitened teeth at Michael and Benny, he reached into his coat pocket and took out a piece of folded leather resembling a billfold o
r wallet.
“You boys ever seen one of these?”
He wagged his eyebrows and tossed it forward. Michael reached out and plucked it from the air before Benny could react.
“Look at that,” his uncle said. “Reflexes like a cat.”
It was a heavy, folded thing with two flaps of leather that buttoned together on the inside. Michael popped it open and studied the prize inside: a gold and silver FSD badge, two swords with silver blades and golden hilts, the points crossed over an elaborate shield; the ultimate status symbol in the People’s Republic. It meant you were a member of the Party, and no one could touch you.
“It’s nice,” Michael said, handing it to Benny. “Heavy.”
“Wow, Uncle Sal.” Benny gaped at it like a boy holding a shiny pistol. “This is great.”
“Well, you can’t have it,” Uncle Sal said and burst into laughter. His men saw how vigorously he was laughing and emitted their own half-hearted chuckles.
Michael’s eyes drifted over the contents of the kitchen. How much longer would this take? A small mountain of dishes had piled up by the sink, and he could hear the heavy clanks as the waitresses continued to set down more. There were definitely Party members eating for free in the dining room today.
Uncle Sal pulled a flask out of his jacket and unscrewed the cap with an obnoxious metal squeak. “It is something, though,” he said, looking at Benny. “Maybe someday you’ll have one of your own.”
Then he looked at Michael. “Your brother, on the other hand—he wasn’t even baptized. Working as a dishwasher, no car, no girlfriend, no schooling. What is it with you, Mike? Always getting the shit end of the stick.”
He gave Michael a light smack on the chin with the tips of his fingers. Michael frowned and turned away with a “Yeah, yeah.”
“Don’t yeah yeah your uncle. Geez, you know? You’re always brooding.” Uncle Sal looked at Terry and took another gulp from his flask. “What is it with this kid?” Then back to Michael. “You got to get over yourself. There are more important things in this world than you, kid, sorry to break it to ya.”
“Like the regime?” Michael glared at his uncle.
The man’s face tightened a little. “I don’t like your tone. But if you gotta ask, the answer is yes. The People’s Republic and its devoted leaders are worth a hell of a lot more than a little dishwashing piece of shit like you.”
“Hey, now,” his father cut in. “Sal, how ’bout I fix you up a nice—”
“Shut your mouth, Terry. What are you, my wife? You’re going to fix me up a nice plate of what, apple pie?” He gave his brother a sour look and took another pull from the flask. “Ought to beat some manners into this boy, or he’ll end up in the Tank someday.”
Michael’s chest tightened a little. The Tank, officially known as the Dissenter Rehabilitation Center, was still in its experimental stages. According to rumor, the Tank employed telepaths who were trained to break open your mind and rewire it to make you follow the One President without question. People who went to the Tank never came back the same. They always seemed broken somehow. Michael had seen them come into the restaurant; pale, somber individuals that sat alone and stared out the window for hours, even as they recited their food and drink orders.
Usually drink orders.
“See? That got to him.” Sal clamped his free hand on Michael’s shoulder, lifting the flask in the other. “You want to go to the Tank, boy? One word from me and your whole life changes.” He lifted his hand and snapped his fingers. “Like that.”
Having noticed the desperate, pleading look on his father’s face, Michael looked down at his uncle’s shiny black shoes in defeat.
“I was out of line. It won’t happen again.”
“Won’t happen again, what?”
Michael met his uncle’s narrowed eyes. For a moment, he considered telling Uncle Sal to get lost. After all, they were family. He wouldn’t really throw Michael into the Tank, would he?
Something strange happened instead.
A pale spot appeared in the center of his uncle’s forehead, almost the same color as his skin but slightly transparent; like a foggy spot on a pane of glass. Behind that misty smear was what appeared to be a vertical, shivering thread, and it was dancing for Michael and no one else. Sal’s men peered at him like they knew something strange was going on.
“I don’t like the way you’re looking at me, boy,” his uncle said.
Michael snapped out of it and took a deep breath.
“It won’t happen again, sir,” he said loudly enough to fill the restaurant with his voice.
He even saluted.
Chapter 4
Uncle Sal and his men returned while Michael was finishing cleaning up the dining room.
A light rain fell outside. It was past ten o’clock, and the restaurant had already closed for the night. When Michael saw his uncle’s black car slide into the parking lot, he told his mother to keep his overtime money and ran for the stairs leading up to his bedroom.
She caught up to him and spun him around, eyes wide with fright.
“Don’t leave me with him. Please.”
Michael’s stomach tightened. “Okay, but just for another hour. Then we kick him out.”
“You know we can’t do that.”
Uncle Sal’s fist banged the front door. His mother crept up to it and said meekly, “Who is it?”
“It’s me, Sally. Come on, open up.”
She held the door against her like a shield as the men stumbled in.
“There we go,” Uncle Sal said, shaking raindrops off the lapels of his coat and drinking in the sight of the empty, freshly cleaned restaurant. Michael could still smell the hot breath of the vacuum cleaner, which he had stuffed back into the closet only moments earlier.
Terry Lanza emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands with a rag.
“Sal?”
“You know it, baby brother.”
Jolene emerged from the bathroom, dressed to go out on the town, all done up with plastic heels, black tights, and heavy eye shadow. When she saw Sal, her painted face tightened with regret. Michael imagined what was going through her mind: If only I’d gone out the back door...
Uncle Sal fixed his gaze on Jolene. “I didn’t realize you had such pretty girls working the place, Terry. Bet your wife worries all day long, eh? You ever think of taking one into the back room?”
Frowning, Terry Lanza inspected his hands and kept silent. Jolene backed away a step as Uncle Sal and his men closed in on her.
“You put that apron back on, sweetheart. We’re huuungry.”
His nostrils flared as he took a big whiff of her scent. Boyd and Welcher grinned at each other.
Jolene swallowed her anger, turned, and headed back into the bathroom. Michael let out a quiet sigh of relief. He had expected Jolene to rattle off some catty response like she usually did. Thankfully, she had kept her mouth shut.
The men, still in their suits, made themselves comfortable in one of the large center tables, which Sal demanded that Terry load up with hot food. Michael’s mother was ordered to bring out a constant stream of beer and wine. She kept wincing in disgust as the men took liberties with Jolene, grabbing handfuls of breast, smacking her rump, forcing her to bend down and kiss Sal’s cheek in congratulation.
This continued for the next two hours, and the anger burning inside Michael was enough to make him sweat. Jolene bore the brunt of their vulgar behavior, keeping amazingly calm. He wanted to rescue her from it somehow, but he had never felt more helpless in his life.
Uncle Sal caught Michael staring at him from the back of the dining room, where Michael had been instructed to stand until he was needed. With his mouth full of pasta, Sal reached toward Michael’s mother, watching him the whole time, and cupped a hand around her sizeable right breast. He smirked at Michael as he squeezed it.
When they were gone, Michael spent ten minutes standing in the refrigerator, but even that wasn’t enough to cool him off. A
nd what was the deal with those voices in the freezer? Was he going insane?
When he came back up, his father was looking at the bill.
“What’s the damage?” Michael said.
“A little over five hundred,” his father said with a heavy sigh. “Thousand.”
It was as much as the restaurant made in two weeks if they were lucky.
“Did he leave a tip, at least?”
His father placed the list of expenses on the counter, propped his hands against the edge, and let his head hang.
“No. He thanked me for throwing him a nice party, though.”
They sank into an uncomfortable silence. The kitchen needed to be cleaned again.
“Call it a night, Dad. I’ll take care of the mess.”
“No.” He looked at Michael and his face seemed to sag. “I’ll do it myself. Go on.”
“Dad…”
“Damn it, Mike. Just go.”
A week later, Michael was on his way to the Capitalist Pig to meet Benny when he heard his parents talking in the living room. He held back, perched on the stairs in his dark jeans and black sweatshirt, a deeper shadow among shadows, and listened.
His parents spoke in hushed tones. There was someone with them. A man.
“I’m the one protecting this family. I’m the one keeping the Feds out of your business. You don’t think I know you’re holding back on your taxes? You don’t think they know? Come on, Terry. You’re smarter than that. They could take the place away from you.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that.”
It was Uncle Sal. Michael held his breath as every muscle in his body tensed.
“My God, Sally,” his father said. “This is all I got.”
His mother made a shushing sound.
“It’ll be all right,” she said. “I can handle it.”
A fist crashed into the table with a loud bang.
“Don’t tell me you want this, Lydia. Don’t you dare.”
“Hey, hey,” Uncle Sal said. “She’s no whore, Terry. But she’s willing to make the sacrifice. For her family. For this place. Come on, you’re my brother. You understand the guys at work expect this sort of thing. Protection comes at a price. Unless you can afford—”
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