by TJ Martinell
“Why are you helping me?” I asked. “What do you want from me?”
“What I want isn’t something you can offer.”
“Which is?”
“There are things I can’t change,” he said ruefully. “There are things I’ve done, harm I’ve caused, which I can’t undo. I’m not here to make a confession to you, to ask for your forgiveness. I’m here to make atones for my own sins.”
“What’s your endgame?”
“I have none, except to do what little I can.”
“Bullshit. You’re the deputy director of the ISA regional office.”
He looked sad. “One rock cannot stop a river.”
“Why should I trust you?” I asked. “You sold my father out!”
A lump appeared in his throat. His eyes did not move away from me.
“I spared your father’s life,” he said softly, his voice full of reproach. “It was I who also saved you that night they raided your home. They wanted to take you, as well. I had you removed from the arrest warrant.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Then don’t.”
He stared at me harder. “You know about your father and I?”
“Enough. He spared your life. You arrested him, offered him a pardon. He worked for your people for years, then quit.”
“He was also foolish enough to go back to his old work. If it weren’t for me, they would have killed him right in front of you, then claimed self-defense later. Do you realize he is one of half a dozen people ever to be offered an official pardon by the agency? Half a dozen. He had a clear record. Had he walked away from this forever, he would be free.”
I stood up, my hands at my side. “You listen to me, Cutman. My father has been sitting in a cell for long enough. He didn’t deserve to sit there for a single day, a single hour. Not even a minute.”
“I appreciate that. But he is there, regardless.”
I treated him to a mirror-like reflection of his own smile. “I want my father back. I promised him I would rescue him.”
I pointed at him determinedly. “And you’re going to help me.”
He chuckled joylessly. “You’re just like him. Ever the rash one. He has no hope for a pardon. Not a chance. The only way to get him out of there would be to do so under the pretense of a transfer. But even then, you’d need someone to approve it.”
“Which is why you’re going to approve the transfer.”
He blanched. “You’re not serious, are you?”
I allowed my smile to grow as I flipped back my coat, exposing my revolver. I eased my hand onto the grip, flicking back the leather strap. He needed to fear.
“Serious enough to resort to things I’d never thought I’d do,” I said.
“You wouldn’t,” he said. “I’m your only hope for getting him out.”
“If you’re not going to help me I have no use for you.”
“You won’t shoot me, Roy. You’re not like them. You wouldn’t kill in cold blood.”
“I wouldn’t,” I said, taking my revolver out and holding it against my thigh. “However, my blood is anything but warm at this moment.”
Cutman looked at the revolver curiously, then at me. He abruptly rose to his feet, pressing firmly against his cane as he approached me, as if giving me the chance to aim the revolver at him.
I didn’t move.
“Don’t pretend to be what you aren’t,” he said. “I’ve learned this from life. Accept who you are or change who you are. But don’t pretend. You aren’t a natural born killer. You just wish you were.”
I put the revolver away. He thought he had called my bluff. There was no bluff, merely a test to see what kind of man he truly was. Either he wasn’t afraid of death or he could read me better than I had given him credit for.
“I want my father back,” I said. “You want to atone for the things you’ve done? Then help me. I don’t care what your story is, what you’ve done, or what you think of my father. He’s all I have, and he’s the only reason I got into this business to begin with. After I have him I don’t care what you do or what anybody does. Will you help me?”
My words seemed to have no effect on him. His dispassionate countenance gave no indication of inner conflict. It was the secret to his success. He was impossible to read, the perfect poker-face. It explained his success within the ISA. He had advanced by maintaining an indifferent demeanor, obeying orders and not offering skepticism.
What he couldn’t hide was the guilt emanating from him like a bad odor, weakening his resolve.
“I’ll make the arrangements,” he said. “I will have to go and fetch him there myself. He’s been classified as a level three information security offender, on account of breaking the terms of his pardon. I will have to come up with an excuse for it. But you may leave that to me.”
At that, Cutman got up and offered his hand. I accepted it, too surprised by his sudden acquiesce to question his word.
“Until we meet again, it is nice to finally speak to you man to man,” he said.
“One more thing,” I said.
“What?”
“I’m coming with you.”
To my surprise, Cutman did not protest, and I sensed it was out of weariness more than actual agreement. Jean opened the door for him as he tapped on his cane. I gathered my cap and quietly told her it was time to go.
The manager called out to me from the counter.
“He used to work for me when he was a teenager. He came here all the time as a kid. He loved hanging around. His home life wasn’t fantastic. I thought he was going to take over for me.”
“Why did he quit?”
“Got a job as a cop. I didn’t even know he wanted to be a cop. He wouldn’t tell me why. Who knows? The pay here wasn’t bad. Just not great. I don’t know. I’ve tried to figure it out. But I know why he comes here now. He wishes he hadn’t left. Sure, he wouldn’t have made much money. By the time I’m eighty I’ll barely have enough to live on. He was never the same after the earthquake. Saw a lot of bad shit. He wasn’t a bad kid. He had a good heart. I knew what it would do to him, but there was no persuading him. He wanted to accomplish something with his life.”
“He’s certainly done that,” I remarked. “And now he’s trying to undo it.”
He grinned at me, gesturing at my stringer clothes. “All jobs bring misery, kid. It’s just a question of what kind of misery and if it’s the kind you can deal with.”
Chapter Eight
Tom and I sat at a table against the wall inside the Merchant Cafe, peering through the obscure room at the other patrons who mingled and clustered near the bar counter as though encircling themselves in case they had to fend off evil spirits.
A chandelier with small bulbs designed to give the flair of tiny fireflies hung lowly above their heads, a blend of cigarette and cannabis smoke swirling together into a soft white haze. The recording of an old piano player crept through cracks in the baseboards.
The whole thing was a theatricality I ignored. Tom had picked the Café because it was one of the few places we could speak in private, one of the few places anyone would expect to find me.
Tom drank his liquid courage, his eyebrows knitting as he scowled. He threw a hand dismissively as he slammed his glass on the table and pushed it away. I glanced around, then pushed my drink to the side. It tasted like soured water. Nothing like the stuff at Jamal’s.
“You sure we’re safe here?” I asked.
“Positive. It’s for the local addicts and spooks who love their weed. Explains why they’re so paranoid and see Casper every five seconds.”
He was clearly agitated. Not about me or what I had said. His response to it all had been decidedly odd. He hadn’t questioned Cutman’s intentions for helping us.
I glanced down at my clothes, which I had bought solely to wear to the café on Tom’s insistence. We didn’t look like stoners, but that wasn’t the point. Our normal cl
othes were too distinct. It’d make it easier to lose anyone following us if need be.
“Cutman and I are going to get my father,” I said. “He got a date for us.”
“When?”
“Monday.”
Tom put his cigarette down and studied me. “You don’t seem very happy.”
“The problem is the fact that we don’t know anything about the facility. The layout, the security system, the number of guards, schematics, nothing. Even Cutman knows very little about it, and we can’t be sure his colleague’s description was accurate or even applicable to this specific facility. They may not all be the same.”
“I see.”
“What would you do?”
He laughed. “Bring a gun.”
“Can’t. There has to be a checkpoint or security inspection.”
“Easy. I’ll call one of my friends. He prints guns, all kinds. Believe you me, he can make anything.”
“Excellent.”
Tom’s complexion suddenly paled. He put a hand to his head, leaning on it as he tapped his cigarette against the ashtray. He looked up at me, speaking with a distinct tentativeness in his voice.
“I haven’t seen your old man in a long time,” he said. “Hell, I’ve hardly spoken to him in twenty years. We never really got to talk, you know? He just agreed to help me out on some stories. We didn’t get to chat like you and I have.”
I was at a loss of words. Normally Tom treated me with sarcasm or gravity. I was far less accustomed to seeing his other sides. There was nothing strange about it. Our work didn’t leave much room for emotions.
“I guess that gives you plenty to talk about when he’s with us,” I said.
Tom nodded, dropped his cigarette in the ashtray. “I don’t know, kid. I don’t know.”
“You don’t trust Cutman, do you?”
“Cutman? Hell, he’s the least of your worries.”
“Then what’s bothering you?” I asked, growing anxious as he became more and more despondent.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Hard to put a fine point on it, you know? I guess I don’t know how to handle seeing Carl again. I’ll bet you have the same thing going on.”
“You think he might not recognize me?”
“He might not recognize himself.”
“What’s the trouble with that?”
Tom leaned back in his chair, hesitant to speak. “I’ve told you before. Carl didn’t want this kind of life for you.”
“Can we stop talking about what my father wants or doesn’t want?” I snapped. “He won’t have much of a choice, will he? He has nowhere to go. He will have to come with us.”
“Kid, this is my point. I think you have an idea of how things will be when we get him out, and in the end, they won’t happen. Carl is his own man.”
“So am I.”
“Never said you weren’t. So, it’s just you and Cutman?”
I should have lied. But I couldn’t keep it from Tom.
“Jean is coming with us,” I said.
Tom looked at me like I had just announced I was committing suicide later that evening.
“She almost got you killed just the other day,” he said. “Are you really that stupid?”
“She’s coming with me, Tom.”
Tom put one hand on the table, forming a fist as he clenched his teeth. His tone conveyed the sense of a predetermined decision.
“I can’t let you do this,” he said. “I won’t let you go there like that. You won’t walk out alive.”
“What do you propose?” I replied.
“If she’s going with you, then I’ll have to, as well.”
I wasn’t sure if he was trying to maneuver me into pulling out of my plans while thinking it was my own idea or if he genuinely feared for my safety.
“Alright,” I said. “I’ll have everything arranged to have you accompany us.”
He picked up his cigarette and turned to the right. A frown, then a hand gesture to hint we were being watched. Improvising the remainder of the conversation, we saw the bartender giving us a weird glance from time to time.
Time to leave.
I flashed another private hand gesture to Tom and within seconds we had paid and left the café, waiting in the same alley to see if anyone had an interest in our whereabouts. No one exited and eventually we decided our precautions had worked well.
When we reached the library, we parked two blocks away, changed into our normal clothes we had left in the trunk, then entered as discreetly as possible. When we greeted Jamal, I murmured under my breath. Jamal nodded his head in acknowledgement. He called off the rock and roll band and had them replaced by the SoDo Quarter, sans Adrianna. A small but thick group of men formed around the stage in a semi-circle and raised their glasses in the air as they sang along with the lead guitarist who belted the lyrics with a painful longing in his voice.
Taking advantage of the large distraction, we snuck into our usual booth and ordered brandy, snatching newspapers from empty tables and spreading them out on our table as though we had been there for hours.
We didn’t plan to stay long. Our presence was to protect us from any spies watching our movements who might be suspicious if we didn’t show up at the library Friday evening as usual. It was the smallest of risks, but one I didn’t care to chance. Nothing was to be left to chance on this one.
Port’s fish-belly complexion was noticeable despite the soft lighting. With a glass of ale in his hand he approached our table, his forehead glistening with sweat and his eyes glazed over like a freshly made donut. He teetered and tottered and swayed as he placed his hand on the table for support, panting as though he had just completed a foot race. Or drank too much.
“Hello, gents!” he said loudly.
Tom rolled his eyes. “What do you want, Porter?”
“Mind if I chat with Roy Boy here for a second?”
“Go ahead.”
Port paused and looked at him awkwardly. “Alone.”
“What for?”
“If I could tell ya I wouldn’t be askin’ ya to leave, would I?”
Tom looked at me and I nodded. He got up and walked over to the counter with his brandy, while Port lowered himself into the seat. He laughed and coughed and slapped the table hard.
“That was a helluva story ya wrote on Pike Place!” he said.
“It wasn’t a ‘hellevua’ story,” I said. “If it had been, I would have mentioned the man I saw half blown up, his intestines spilled out and the young man and woman I saw holding hands and smiling and kissing before they disappeared completely. Couldn’t even find their remains. Gone. Vanished. Nothing to bury.”
I let out a long breath, wiped my mouth, and then resumed sipping on my brandy. Port stared at me like I was speaking in an alien language.
“Christ, kid, what the hell was that all about?” he said. “I ain’t challenin’ ya on nothin’. I guess it sorta answers my question on how ya are.”
I rolled my eyes at him. His face was barely visible in the dimness. “What do you want?”
“The newsroom hasn’t been the same since ya left. The fellas want ya back. So do I.”
“I prefer where I am.”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s all well and good enough ya get shot by some other stringer,” he said.“Ain’t it smart to call it quits while ya can?”
“What do you want, Port?”
Port took a long chug of his ale. He wiped his mouth and smacked his lips together, straining his neck as he lowered his head, his face coming into the light. The color had returned to his cheeks.
“It ain’t safe for ya out there no more,” he said. “We know somebody’s got a hit out for ya.”
“Who?”
“Come on, kid! I can’t say!”
“Then it doesn’t mean much to me.”
He put his hand on me. The gesture felt forced. “Look, kid, I’m lookin’ out for ya interests, here. Ya may not
believe me, but how many friggin’ times do ya have to escape by the skin of ya teeth before ya realize ya ain’t gonna last much longer? It’s not the most excitin’ place in the world, sittin’ in the newsrooms and writin’ other people’s shit. But it’s safe. Nobody’s been bumped off before inside the newsroom, and it ain’t gonna change if ya come back.”
“Why does someone want me dead?”
“If ya piss of the wrong guy, he’ll do whatever it takes.”
He had always been a terrible bluffer, and he knew it. Whenever a game of poker was proposed, he’d shrink away from it and act as the perpetual spectator. His affectations were just as obvious in other matters.
“You think you know who, don’t you?” I said.
“Well, I keep tellin’ ya Olan’s fishier than a salmon hatchery in the fall. He’s spent a lot of time out of the office, making a lot of personal trips he don’t account for. Doesn’t explain nothin’ to nobody when he gets back. I think he’s got it out for ya, personally.”
“What makes you think this?”
“There’s a lot of shit ya don’t know about, kid. I don’t wanna tell ya because if I had had a chance to go back to when I was ignorant I would have chosen to stay that way. They say ignorance is bliss. Sonuva bitch, whoever said that was damn right. Ya ain’t gonna change it and ya ain’t gonna help by gettin’ involved. The best thing ya can do is trust me when I tell ya that Olan’s a paranoid bastard and he don’t like people who he can’t control. Ya one of ‘em. He don’t control me, but I ain’t a stringer.”
“You need to start making more sense. If not, I think it’s time to call Tom back here.”
Port leapt out and blocked my hand as I waved at Tom. He pushed me down back into my seat and looked around anxiously. Inasmuch as I enjoyed his animated state, his angst was real. The source of it was the mystery.
“Kid, kid, ya need to calm down and listen,” he said. “Ya like a blind guy walking across a bridge with no barriers or nothing and ya don’t realize how close ya are to the edge. Ya ain’t never gonna see it, so ya might as well listen.”
“Alright. Go ahead.”
