Vessel

by Matthew Bryant

“I’ll never understand how you do that,” says Charlsie, shaking his head.

  “Magic. C’mon little man, show me what ya got.”

  *****

  Despite the beauty of unnaturally green turf, crisp striped uniforms of tiny ball players and aluminum bleachers without suggestive graffiti, it’s difficult to focus on any sort of sporting event when the lady next to you has the double-dee twins gleefully exposed to capture as much vitamin D as possible. My peripheral tries not to stare, particularly when they jiggle like a bowl full of boobies every time she cheers. Instead I direct my attention to the massive nets surrounding the four fields, which I assume keep stray balls from a three-hundred foot drop and any damage they'd cause to the streets below.

  Even more disturbing is the competitive nature of kids so young. I didn’t suspect seven year olds were capable of that kind of language, though I don’t recall much about the age. Most of my developmental years have diminished into a blur of inappropriate thoughts about babysitters and sneaking out to cause whatever havoc I could get myself into without getting caught or killed. Nothing in the memory banks about getting butt-hurt over a game. The dredge of society I deal with on a regular basis could learn a thing or two about trash talk from these kids; they could learn more from the parents.

  “Didn’t your kid ever learn how to catch?”

  “Wouldn’t have made a difference with how long yours spent fumbling in the field trying to pick up a ball.”

  “At least my kid isn’t crying about dust in his eye.”

  I turn a casual eye to the bickering pair. “I will personally see to an accidental slip off of the edge of this building if I hear one more word out of your mouths that isn’t ‘Go team!’.”

  Charlsie’s arm lands quickly on my shoulder. “Maybe we should hit up the concession and grab some snacks. Jan, you want anything?”

  “Some nachos would be perfection,” she grins, voice wavering from stifling a laugh. Despite Charlsie’s obvious intervention, I turn back to the two, point to my eyes, then to my ears, then back to the ladies. They only stare white-faced until they think I’m out of earshot. At least their newfound comradery at the nerve of “some people” should buy me a bit of peace when I get back.

  “Not one to judge,” Charlsie breaks in, “But a little more tact would be appreciated around people I have to see on a weekly basis.”

  Try as I might, I can’t come up with an argument and give a resigned sigh, scratching my head in embarrassment. “I see your point. Sorry, wasn’t thinking that deep about it. Just blame it on the turrets.”

  “You mean terrets?”

  “Fuck you and your big words.”

  A hearty howl of laughter lets me know I’ve been forgiven. “Shameful as it may be, I’m glad you said something before I did. Even Jan was getting red in the face. Those busy body bitches have a bad habit of ragging the most on Kyle when we sit near them. Things have been stressful enough without harassment from the league’s most notorious shit-stirrers.” We slow our pace coming to the tiny metal concession shack that was probably once used to house AC units.

  “Offspring number two keepin’ ya from your beauty sleep?”

  “That obvious?” He asks playfully, then the humor drops from his face and his gaze lingers at the ground in front of him. “I wish that was even half of it. Work’s drying up and honestly getting to be too much for me to keep up with since our best man left.”

  There it is. I’d swallow back the guilt, but I don’t think it would fit down my gullet. I knew there would be some ramifications to the group from me flying solo, I just never suspected it would weigh so much on Charlsie. At least I hoped it wouldn’t. “No new blood signing on? Seems like the money’s always been worth the risk.”

  “Oh plenty of newcomers. Trouble is, they’re green as all hell. Stupid mistakes, gettin’ nabbed half the time. And you know Barston, ain’t got the patience to bail them out. Creates some bad blood. Even the Captain’s pissed. Reserving the shit jobs for our little entourage.” He lets out a deep breath and I can see his internal struggle with coming clean. Admitting difficulties is a huge blow to pride. It also proves that my dear friend doesn’t have much left. “And I’m getting old.”

  “Well that’s horse-shit. What are you ya big lug? Thirty?”

  “Forty in two months.” Damn, that’s old. “Look I’m sorry to be dumping all of this on you. Pretty damned pathetic, huh?” Not the first person to spill his guts in front of me. Just possibly the first I cared about. “Any chance you’re planning on coming back to the old gang?”

  “Thought never crossed my mind. Though I’d be lying if I said I felt bad about Barston’s downfall.” His brows furrow almost faster than I can spew out the rest. “Because it might make it harder to recruit you.”

  “Recruit me? Are you starting your own team? Did the Captain put you up to this?”

  “I’m not exactly working with the Captain this time around.”

  “Oh, right. I forgot you’re working with Rex now.”

  Pulling out my phone, I flip to the Non-Disclosure Agreement and pass it over. “It might make it a bit easier if you read this.” He gives me a curious look, then proceeds to look over the text on the screen. His eyes scan back and forth with a dragging speed that threatens to skyrocket my blood pressure. His body language isn’t helping much, shifting his weight back and forth uncomfortably on what should have been an easy sell. Or at least I thought as much when I’d planned it out.

  Eyes squeezed shut tighter than the fist he makes around my phone, he slams the device into my chest, knocking the wind from me. I do my best to suppress a gasp. “This some kind of joke?” His eyes open to stare me down hard and I can practically see the flames of rage burning through the sleep-deprived veins. “You need to explain this. And fast.” He suspects I’ve betrayed him. Betrayed them all. Really should have planned this better.

  “Wish I had time to give you the full rundown,” I sputter, checking around to see how much attention we’ve drawn. “Got picked up after that Phoenix job a few weeks back. Managed to get the kids out all right, but not without attracting enough attention to be brought in for questioning. Then some creepy old guy approached me. He had dirt. And not just run of the mill dirt. The real shit.” I shudder, thinking back to that dark room and the single most incriminating photo I’ve ever seen. One simple act I would never care to revisit. “Everything.”

  “Then you tell them to shove it and take what you get.”

  Now it’s my turn to shoot daggers. “Pretty words there, Barston.” Charlsie recoils at the accusation, but only in the slightest. “And that’s exactly what I did. Told ‘em to eat a bag of dicks and went to wait out my sentence.” Which is mostly true. True enough for the present conversation. “But they had something else up their sleeve. Something even dirtier.”

  “And what couldn’t you hack, huh? What sort of awful torture brought the invincible Fallows to his knees?”

  I catch his eye, lock his gaze. “Beth.”

  The mere mention of my old lover and our former teammate opens up the air-tight seal and lets all the steam escape from his expression. Slack-jawed, he licks his lips and runs thick, calloused fingers across the stubble of his chin. “Is she…?”

  “Safe. Or at least I assume so. I upheld my part and no news is good news as far as our line of work is concerned.”

  “So spill. What price? Who got sold out?”

  “Nobody. Nobody but me least ways. Spent a few days hunting down the manufacturer of that Impulse drug that was having people run stupid through the streets and offing themselves. At the end of the day I got a nod of approval, a couch, and a nasty promise that they’d be in touch.”

  “Who are they? I mean shit, they got enough intel to get something under your skin and through that thick skull, must be something fierce.”

  “Best way to put it would be to say they’re a body of government that runs behind the scenes with their fingers in all the districts.” No. That
doesn’t seem right. “Or at least most of them. They pulled me in on something big this time with a promise of real pay.”

  “Not more furniture?”

  “Maybe they trust me enough to do my own decorating now.”

  “My trust in their judgment is faltering.”

  “It gets better. I convinced them to let me put together my own team.”

  “Outright morons.” He tries to fight a grin, to hold off the hope, but a part of it shines through. “You think there’s a chance for mobility in the company?” And there it is. That’s his selling point. Charlsie wants what he’s wanted since the day he signed on with Barston to keep enough money coming in to support his family. He wants out.

  “I make no promises. But you come in with me? I’ll do my damnedest to find you something more stable. If nothing else,” I shrug, “They can be awful persuasive.”

  “Then it seems like you’ll fit right in.” In an instant my body relaxes muscles I didn’t realize I could tense and the rest of the weight just rolls off my shoulders. “Quit grinning and give me that damned contract before I change my mind.”

  Seven

  There's only a slight detour to swing by my apartment, throw on a quick disguise, and grab the camera. I’ve got a little time to make a house-call while Milton and Charlsie get everything ready for our impromptu run later.

  According to Wyrmwood, my assailant is a girl by the name of Molly Womack. Sounds right, I think I recognize the name from the schedule, though I honestly never pay much attention to my coworkers if I can avoid it. Just keep my head down and nose clean until Rex tells me where to stick it. Either way, she was released a good thirty minutes after apprehension. Which means she’s on somebody’s payroll.

  Today’s guise is straight up fraternity, complete with Teen Vogue hair, a single pierced ear, and a lazy stubble. Following an awkward compliment from Rex about my eyes being “unforgettable”, she bestowed upon me a set of colored contacts. I go with shit-eating brown for the purposes of breaking and entering. Womack's place is somewhere in the Pylos district. It couldn't hurt to pop in for a quick peek.

  This particular district is known for its high lofts nestled atop floors of commerce. Only a few of the towers have ground level shopping with tight security to make it to higher floors. I've never tried before, but I hear all elevators only travel one floor at a time for the first five levels with a security check at each stop. What a hassle. It's no wonder that the district is notoriously void of street pedestrians.

  Molly's building has no such shop, just a nice, smooth layer of plaster sealing the brick and mortar foundation in an attempt to dissuade any would-be wall-crawlers. Not that I have any intention of climbing to the 47th floor of a building anyway, broad daylight or otherwise.

  Common sense tells me to come back later, to avoid trouble until I can bug somebody for the proper clearance. Who knows, maybe I could even convince Cellar that the girl might have information on the job he's trying to push on me this time. But common sense and I haven't gotten along in ages, having burned that bridge when I ran away from home for a long-term sentence of life on the streets.

  Rather than cutting my losses and heading back to the tram station, I find the nearest building with a direct skybridge to Molly's. It's not too far, half a block at most. Unlike Molly's, this one has a street-level shop.

  The automatic doors swing wide and my senses are bombarded with warm air and the strong scent of burning incense. Shelves are lined with the cheapest hand-me-down crap in the districts; stuff that would look bad even in my barren apartment. It all backs up to glass cases of hookahs, pipes, and other paraphernalia. All this fanciness and I'll bet their biggest seller is still cheap cigarettes and cigars.

  The elevator is towards the back of the establishment, but well within eye-shot of the obnoxiously alert clerk, presently staring me down like I don't belong in a second-hand antique store.

  Completely ignoring the courtesy baskets, I palm my identity scanner and load my arms with cheap, bulky items. A couple plastic vases and some tacky lamps won't do much to brighten my apartment, but they’ll serve as an excellent cover while I wait for a good citizen.

  It doesn't take too long before the doors chime and a middle-aged man with immaculate blonde hair and crystal clean hands emerges, dressed down to sweat pants and an oversized shirt. The expression on his face combined with the constant itching on his clothes is all I need to know that these trips to the streets are not his idea of a good time.

  As he draws closer, I let a tin soap dispenser roll from my hands and onto the floor, then make a show of kneeling to retrieve it with my arms full.

  “Let me help you with that,” he says, rushing to my rescue. I almost feel bad for duping the poor guy as he scoops the fallen item from the shoe-worn tile and reaches to stack it on top of my pile. With his eyes distracted, I run the scanner past his wrist. Mission accomplished.

  “Thanks so much. Should've grabbed a basket, but you know how it is. You come in for one thing and find all these deals.”

  He smiles politely, flashing a row of pristine teeth so straight you can barely tell where one ends and the next begins. “Oh I remember those days well. My wife does all the shopping now. Just move out on your own?”

  “That obvious, huh?” I give my best impression of bashfulness. Hopefully it doesn't come off like indigestion. “Probably shouldn't have sneered at all those 'fully furnished' deals.”

  “You made the right choice. If you think this stuff is junk, you should see the stuff they cram into those. Unfortunately the beds don't come with a chiropractor coupon.” A what? He gives me a wink and pats his hand on my shoulder. “Best of luck, friend. We'll see you around.”

  “Take care, Mister...”

  “Hanson. James Hanson.”

  “Heath,” I nod, giving another polite smile. “I'd shake hands, but it would probably lead to more picking up.”

  The man gives a light-hearted chuckle, then waves as he steps out the door and onto the streets. Probably more of a show than necessary, but something about his mannerisms made him easy to talk to. He'd probably kill in sales.

  Dumping my bounty on the clerk's desk, I'm amused to see his change in disposition. “Heath, huh? Not a very common name these days.”

  “Pretty sure my mom named me after a candy bar, though she'd never admit to it.”

  He rings up my order and even packages my items in two large, canvas sacks. “Long ways to walk?”

  I shake my head and smile. “Just to the elevators. After moving all the big stuff, this should be no problem.”

  “Have a nice day, Heath.”

  “You too.” I can't help but marvel at the difference in treatment. Sure most people on the streets are impoverished, but we're not all lying, cheating assholes. I run the stolen identity across the elevator scanner. Not all of us at least.

  I step inside, wondering that only thirty-five credits worth of junk can get a person access to the elusive high-rises of the Pylos district. Nearly home-free when I watch the doors of the shop open up.

  “Hold it, please!” A woman rushes quickly inside, dragging the hand of her young daughter with her. The little girl couldn't be more than five or six years old and wearing a bright blue sundress that screams 'I'm not from the streets'. A twist in my gut tells me to play dumb, but my mom raised me better. I stick my foot out to block the door from closing, giving plenty of time for the pair to rush inside with me.

  “What floor?”

  The woman, still out of breath from her brief jog through the store, smiles graciously at me. “You've already got your hands full.” She presses a button a full two rows above where I've hit the 40th floor; the one clearly marked as the skybridge. “Thank you so much. It can be a long wait for these elevators all the way at the bottom.”

  “My pleasure, ma'am.” I offer a smile to the daughter who stares up at me curiously. “That's a sweet little doll you have there.”

  She clutches it tightly to her
chest for a moment, then thrusts it at me with unexpected enthusiasm. “Her name is Ginger. Mommy and daddy used to put her in the crib with me when I was just a baby so I've had her my whole life pretty much and she's my best friend in the world even better than Sally who lives on my floor and sometimes goes to the park with me but mommy says can't sleep over because I'm not old enough to have sleepovers yet.”

  I glance at the mother, mostly looking for a translation, but her smile is enough to know that she's happy to see her daughter otherwise engaged for the moment, her attention diverted to tapping on the screen of her phone. Doesn't anybody teach stranger-danger anymore? The elevator car comes to a halt and a panel opens up, displaying a scanner. The woman swipes her wrist across without looking up from her phone and the elevator starts again. “What kind of games do you and Ginger play?”

  “She has tea parties with me and we tell each other secrets. I tried to play hide and go seek with her, but she finds me too fast.” She places her hands on either side of the dolls head and whispers in a tone of complete seriousness, “I think she cheats.”

  I feign shock. The elevator stops. The woman swipes. We continue. “That's a pretty serious accusation.”

  “What's in the bag,” she asks as she lifts the flap to my satchel and all but shoves her nose inside.

  “That's my camera.”

  “A real one?” she squeals. “Will you take my picture?”

  “Another time,” I laugh. “My hands are a bit full at the moment.”

  “Mommy, will you hold his bags so he can take my picture?”

  Stop. Scan. Start. “Not right now, sweetie. The man said he would do it another time,” the woman says from her phone. For a moment I'm reminded of Limmon, my former colleague, with his attention constantly stuck in those little video games.

  “Awww,” the girl pouts. “Have you lived here long?”

  “Just moved in, actually.”

  “Where did you move from?”

  The car stops. The panel doesn't open. The door does. A lone guard sits bored at a security station. My heart leaps to my throat. I hadn't counted on this. The man glances up briefly from his datapad and smiles. “Good afternoon, ladies. Is that Frank with you?”