Canni

by Daniel O'Connor

  “What? There have been no such incidents.”

  The janitor grimaced as the admiral replied.

  “Exactly. Because we have a unit that stopped them both.”

  “What unit?”

  “Sir, they do not have a name.”

  “Okay,” responded the commander-in-chief, “I’m sitting here, being told by a retired naval admiral that there is an unnamed tactical unit that has stopped attacks that I, as president, have never heard of, and, no disrespect to anyone, a member of our cleaning staff, who has never uttered a word to me, is sitting in on the meeting. You know the old elephant in the room saying? Well, it’s here, and it seems to be shitting all over me. What in hell are you all talking about?”

  “I didn’t even know any of this until yesterday, sir,” said the VP.

  “Alright,” answered the president. Then he turned to the janitor. “Did you know about all of this?”

  He blinked feverishly and nodded as the admiral answered for him. “Sir, there is something about our friend here that you . . . ”

  “I asked him, Admiral. Now, sir,” he said, turning to the janitor, “it is not commonplace for a member of the cleaning crew to be present at a classified meeting. The Secretaries of Defense and Homeland Security are not even here, so I assume you have something of great value to add to all of this. I am asking you, and you alone, to tell me what it is.”

  The custodian squirmed in his seat, beads of sweat bubbling on his forehead.

  “Come on,” said President Collins, “don’t be shy. I hear you whistling all the time. It’s quite tuneful, too. Why exactly are you here, sir?”

  The sweating man leaned forward a bit, eyes watering. He spoke. It all came so quickly.

  “FuckYouPresident. EatMyAsshole.”

  The man was already waving his arms as Collins stood.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. President. I . . . I . . . can’t control . . . ”

  The VP interrupted, addressing his boss by the name he’d called him for decades, “George, this man has a medical condition. It’s why he limits his verbal communication. The whistling helps him control it.”

  “You knew that too?”

  “Again, found out yesterday.”

  “Okay, so what does he have to do with the nameless unit?”

  “I run it,” said the janitor.

  “Ah, that’s more like it,” answered the president.

  “I don’t blurt out swear words all the time. Sometimes they come and I can’t control them. It’s like a cough or a sneeze. If I’m quiet or whistling I do better. I apologize in advance for anything I might say. The words are not a reflection of my inner thoughts or feelings. They are merely words.”

  “So, you aren’t really a janitor?”

  “Well, Mr. President, yes and no, sir.”

  “Explain.”

  “I work here part-time on the custodial staff as my cover. There are other unit members employed in various capacities as well. SuckMyBlackCock.”

  “Dear Lord,” mumbled President Collins. He looked at his vice president, then at the two agency directors. “Is this all legit?”

  They all affirmed.

  Turning back to the custodian, Collins asked, “What is your name?”

  “Joe Isley, sir.”

  “Is that your real name?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What is your real name?”

  “I am not at liberty to say.”

  “Okay, Joe Isley. So you lead some super-secret team of Avengers that do not even report to the president . . . ”

  “Several presidents have not known about this team.” interrupted VP Montgomery. “Vice presidents as well. It’s a need-to-know basis.”

  “Did Obama know?”

  Montgomery had no answer, so he glanced at the admiral. The retired naval officer nodded. Then added, “Not during his first term.”

  “Mr. Isley,” said the president, “I think you know that I don’t sugarcoat anything, so I will ask you: how, with your verbal condition, can you possibly lead a team like this?”

  “Sir, I think that should show you how good I am. I have this burden, yet I am still the one chosen to command them.”

  Collins sat back and tapped his fingers on his desk. He still couldn’t quite process the scene before him. He looked into Isley’s eyes.

  “Quickly, Mr. Isley. Let’s say that in this instant, you learned that you must get me out of the White House to save the world. Everyone in the building is against you, including myself. Go!”

  “I would impale your hand to that desk with your letter opener. As you dealt with that, I would kill the three men beside me with your fancy pen. You may or may not have pushed your button by then, but I would expect those two guards outside to come rushing in. I’d be waiting for them, maybe with this chair as a weapon. I would kill them with their own guns, take those weapons, maybe their body armor, too. I would then retrieve you, sir, and take you out of the office and to the tunnels, hoping I could do so with minimal engagement, but feeling relatively safe with you as my hostage.”

  The president stopped tapping his fingers.

  “Damn.” he said, “Not gonna lie. That was impressive.”

  “FuckDatAss.”

  “Okay, then. You know the White House tunnels?”

  “Somebody has to mop them, fuckface.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  “Sorry, Mr. President. I don’t usually do it this much. I’m a bit nervous.”

  “You get nervous?”

  “Not in the field, sir.”

  “Then why now?”

  “Because I am in the Oval Office in a meeting with four men whom I greatly admire attempting to save the country that I love so.”

  President Collins pondered that answer while casually moving the silver letter opener further away from Isley. He then turned to CIA Director Hamburger.

  “Warren, you’ve been noticeably silent.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Well, if you are asking, while I do appreciate their effectiveness, I do not support certain methods and I am not a proponent of zero accountability. They basically answer to no one. To them, waterboarding may as well be a footbath, and I am quite sure that they would kill anything from an old woman to a newborn to achieve their goals.”

  “Ouch. What say you, Mr. Isley?”

  “I respect Director Hamburger’s opinion. He is a patriot and a man of honor.”

  “But what about all of the baby-killing and such? You have the head of the CIA saying that you all are too brutal. That’s some crazy shit right there, no?”

  “Anything we may do is thoughtfully considered beforehand. The potential reward must exceed the deed. I will not mislead you, Mr. President, our country is facing virtual extinction. My team, if implemented, will do anything to prevent that.”

  “Right. What I don’t understand is how you function. Who pays you? What about your families? What do they think you all do?”

  Isley grabbed a hanky from his pocket to mop his brow. “None of us have families. They either think we are dead, missing, or they never gave a damn in the first place. We have no real friends besides one another. But we are well-paid and live like kings, truth be told.”

  “Where does the money come from? I’ve been slicing budgets since I first sat in this chair.”

  “Well, I’m not a financial or budgetary expert, but, you know when you hear folks complain that the Pentagon pays two thousand dollars for one little box of nails?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We are the nails.”

  President Collins could see Admiral Lamb’s grin.

  “Another secret.” said Lamb, nearly whispering. “We sometimes call them The Nails.”

  “I see.” said the president. “So then why was it that our SEALs were the ones who killed Bin Laden?”

  “The public needed to see that,” answered Lamb.

  “If I may add,” responded Isley, “the SEALs t
hen wrote books and movies about the whole thing.” He put his hanky away. “We don’t kiss and tell.”

  “Mr. Isley, you know that attractive young female custodian who is always smiling at me? Is she a part of your team too?”

  “She is a cleaning lady, sir.”

  “Gotcha. Just wondering. So, is my blessing required for you all to track down those behind this?”

  “Yes. Just a verbal affirmative.”

  “If I don’t agree, then you don’t act?”

  “That’s correct, sir. We are ghosts, but we are your ghosts.”

  President Collins looked at the men before him. Director Hamburger was the only one who failed to make eye contact.

  “What’s next?” asked the president. “You all gonna tell me that we actually have aliens at Area 51?”

  No response.

  “Great. Well, considering the unique nature of this threat,” said Collins, “I realize that extreme measures must be taken. If there is an asset that our country has, I’d be neglectful if I offhandedly dismissed it. On the other hand, I’m not a fan of just torturing and killing folks who may not be directly involved in terrorism. We are a civilized people. Gentlemen, I know time is short, but I’ll need even a small segment of it to think clearly about this. Gut reactions are sometimes overreactions. So, Mr. Isley, when I’ve made my decision, I will tell Admiral Lamb, and if we need to speak again, it will be arranged. How does that sound?”

  “SuckMyBlackDick.”

  LAS VEGAS

  “Suck my white dick.”

  These words were whispered into Rob’s ear from behind as he sat at the restaurant table.

  He didn’t flinch. He turned, knowing exactly who would be standing behind him.

  “What if it wasn’t me sitting in that table, asshole?” smiled Rob.

  “I’d either have a broken nose or a date. Maybe both. Hey, you said first table by the casino entrance. I trust you.”

  The American Coney Island hot dog joint sat snugly inside the D Las Vegas Resort and Casino, right in the middle of the bustling Fremont Street Experience. The gambling hall had an old Vegas vibe but with all of the modern amenities. The music was loud, the dancing girls pretty, and the drinks strong. But all of that was just beyond the restaurant entrance. This was still a family-friendly dog and fries restaurant.

  “Glad you could make it, Johnny,” said Rob.

  “Hey, a deal’s a deal.”

  “Come sit, brother.”

  John G felt the table edge and sat, across from Rob. He put his white-tipped cane down beside him.

  “So, where is Cash? You know I’m dying to meet her.”

  “Yeah, more on that later,” said Rob. “How have you been, bud?”

  “Well, I’m in a nice room here. A corner king! Great deal, too.”

  “You’re staying here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So why didn’t you just give me your room number instead of meeting down here?”

  “I think you need a room key to come up. Security, you know.”

  “Oh, okay. How’s things otherwise?”

  “Decent. I made a new friend. Oh, and the bus driver who brought me here also tried to devour me. My new buddy saved my ass. Big guy. Linebacker or something.”

  “What? Are you alright?”

  “Fine. My friend—Willie is his name—he went to the hospital, but he’s out already.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me on the phone?”

  “No biggie. That’s the new world, right?”

  Rob took a sip of soda from his icy white cup.

  “This must be beyond horrifying for you, John.”

  “No more than you, brother. Maybe I’m better off. I can’t actually see these fuckers when they flip ugly.”

  “Lunch is on me, by the way.” said Rob as he stood. “What can I get you?”

  “Well,” replied John, “you do know that I study the culinary arts. My palate has matured quite a bit lately so, without being rude . . . ”

  “Stop jerking me off.”

  “Two dogs with everything, and a gyro. But wait a minute: I want to know about Cash. Where is she?”

  Rob took another hit of cola.

  “Well,” he said, probing the edge of the plastic cup lid, “you know my car that I was always talking about?”

  “1983 Chevy Malibu. You think I’d forget?”

  “The car is gone. Stolen. My dad’s tape collection too. And now it seems so is my girl.”

  “What? But, the wedding . . . ”

  “Yeah, the wedding. Seems that might have been nothing more than my own personal fantasy, Johnny.”

  “Cash is really gone?”

  “Well, not entirely, but we barely speak. She hooked up with a guy who is supposed to be our friend. He set us up where we’re staying right now.”

  “Where is that?”

  “In the drainage tunnels under the city.”

  “Drainage tunnels? Sounds like an awesome friend.”

  “It’s an odd thing,” said Rob, lowering his voice. “Nobody in that little tunnel area has flipped.”

  “Really?”

  “Nobody, John.”

  “Underground tunnels. Is Teresa living there with you, too?”

  Rob sat back down.

  “Teresa . . . ”

  “Is she gone as well? Dude, you were gonna hook me up with her!”

  “John, Teresa . . . she . . . she’s passed away.”

  “Oh, my God. I am . . . so sorry. I don’t even know what to say. This trip has been hell for you, Rob. Your friend has died. That’s worse than everything else combined.”

  “Cash killed her.”

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  President Collins raced down the hall. His necktie was over his shoulder and pointing back at three members of his helmeted security detail, who fought hard to keep pace. Two further guards manned a set of metal doors toward which Collins was headed. They pressed a code as they spotted their commander-in-chief, and the entryway opened with a blast of air.

  Once inside the White House Medical Unit, he was intercepted by two members of its staff.

  “Where is he?” asked President Collins, breathing heavily.

  “Sir, he’s in the trauma center, we . . . ”

  Collins brushed past the clerical staff, knowing that if he hadn’t been greeted by a doctor or at least a physician’s assistant or registered nurse then they were all possibly in a code blue or similar situation. He noticed a pattern of blood droplets that led to the trauma room.

  He was there in seconds, and his worse fears were realized. The entire medical staff seemed to be behind the glass, all working feverishly on Vice President Montgomery. Collins could barely grab a glimpse of his friend as he lay there, motionless, surrounded by medical personnel, tubes, wires, and covered in blood.

  Collins stood there alone with his security detail and the WHMU clerks keeping a respectful distance. He knew that some of Owen Montgomery’s family had come to visit him at his White House office today, but why were none of them here with him now?

  He looked over at the unit clerks.

  “Who did this?”

  They both turned their heads toward another room in the unit. Collins walked toward it; there was no longer a need for running. As he approached the glass, he could see Montgomery’s son and daughter-in-law in an embrace. Then, he saw little Gregory, his Washington Nationals shirt soaked with blood. The boy sat in a chair, being tended to by a nurse. She was cleaning caked vomit from his lips and chin.

  George Collins’ thoughts quickly turned the way his mentor would have wanted: they veered from personal to presidential. He pondered how terrorists previously would have had virtually no chance at attacking a prime target while he or she was safely ensconced in the White House, but now with their latest assault, they have had the vice president’s six-year-old grandson do it for them. He looked again at the trail of blood on the hallway tiles.

  Young Gregory spotted the president thr
ough the glass and, probably not fully aware of what he had just done, lifted his small, trembling hand to wave.

  By the time Collins mustered a smile for the boy, he knew that Joe Isley would be required to do some mopping.

  LAS VEGAS

  Rob had anticipated difficulty in leading his sightless friend through the dark tunnels, but it was almost as if John G were showing him the way. The only advantage Rob had was at the tunnel splits, and that was only because he’d been through them before.

  “Darkness: the great equalizer,” smiled the blind man.

  They had happened upon Polish Joe. Rob was about to introduce him, but his only words were, “Fuck Lindenhurst, fuck the geese, fuck Pat Benatar.” They kept moving.

  Some of Russo’s men weren’t thrilled with an unannounced visitor, but Rob didn’t care.

  “Mildew, marijuana, urine, and strawberry,” said John, almost to himself.

  They reached Rob’s living quarters, and on her bed, reading a Barbara Taylor Bradford novel by flashlight, was Cash.

  “Hey,” said Rob.

  Casually looking up from her book, she saw the fellow with the cane and dark glasses. He was smiling broadly. She put the paperback down and stood.

  “Hello,” she offered. She shot Rob a look that said Who is this?

  Before John could reply, Rob said, “Cash, this is my buddy, John G.”

  “Oh? Oh! So nice to finally meet you, John. Rob calls me Cash, but my name is actually Caroline—or Carrie.” She wanted to say Rob, why the fuck did you never mention that he was blind?

  “I only know you as Cash so I really do want to call you that,” replied John, “Also, damn you Rob, she is gorgeous!”

  Rob smiled at the puzzled look on Cash’s face.

  “Oh, I know,” continued John, “I know that Scarlett Johansson is absolutely killer; not because others tell me, but because of her voice and the way that she breathes. Your sound is different than hers, but I can tell, Cash.”

  “Um, well, thank you, John,” she answered. As she absorbed John G’s flattery, she realized that the fact that Rob never mentioned his friend’s lack of sight is because he would never mention her OCD issues when describing her to others, nor would he bring up in conversation if a friend happened to be diabetic or HIV positive. It wasn’t how Rob saw them. None of that was at the essence of the person. Rob had told her that John was funny. He was a good cook. Maybe a tad eccentric, with his disdain for cell phones and the like. Rob told Cash that John was a great friend who would go the extra mile for others. Winthrop Robert was blind to the fact that John was blind.