by Neovictorian
“Just call me Josh.”
Our hands grip and he puts a good bit of pressure on, which I match. We can feel the untapped strength of the other, and our eyes meet in recognition, and we dial it back and drop our hands to our sides.
“Congratulations on your new job, Josh. I’ve only been around here for a couple of years, but your winning the election was supposed to be the biggest upset since 1912 or something like that.”
“Five months along and it doesn’t seem so new anymore,” he says. “But thanks. So what is it you’ve been doing around here for the last couple of years? I’ve seen you in this joint a few times, at a distance, but that’s it.”
“I work at the Barrett Mine,” I say.
“First class operation,” he says with a nod.
Jeannie the waitress walks up to the table. “Another Guinness, Josh? And you Cal, the usual?”
We both nod and say “Yep” at the same time and she laughs. “Men, so predictable,” and hustles towards the bar, broad hips and big round ass moving in a hypnotic figure eight. We both follow her with our eyes.
He chuckles and looks away. “I guess she’s right. She knew we were looking, all the way.”
“Some things aren’t all that predictable,” I say. “We get the paper every day out at the mine, and I see the Feds want to settle 300 South Sudanese and Eritreans at the old Indian boarding school. Temporarily. Meanwhile, damn near every single person in the county seems to be against it. You had a few choice words for the United States government the other day, I read. So what’s your prediction? Can they do it? Can they force something like this down everyone’s throat?”
“No. Not if I have anything to do with it.” He has a look in his eyes I’ve seen before. It doesn’t have a name, in English anyway. The look of the men around me in my vision, the men of my Contubernium. The look of the professional killer.
“There’s a real rot in DC now,” he says. “Sure people laugh when I say that, they say it’s been rotten in DC forever, but something’s different these last few years. They used to have big arguments about what was good for the country, Democrats and Republicans and they fought like cats and dogs, but that was the debate. Our country.”
He scans the room, the door. His jacket swings a little with the motion and I can see the wood grip of a blued revolver on his right hip. A Colt Python.
Jeannie appears with the drinks, and we watch her walk away, again. He picks up his glass, looks at mine. “What’s your usual?” he says.
“Jameson.”
“Ah, so.” It’s a kind of toast without the theatrics of raising the glasses. He takes a long drink of his ale while I sip at the whisky.
“Somehow Cal, you sound like you’re a lot more than just a gold miner, though that’s one of the most honorable professions, to my mind—clean and straight forward and righteous.
“You’ve been to college, I can just tell. Ever read Machiavelli? Not just The Prince, but his others, and the later Machiavellians, Mosca and Pareto and Burnham? Likely not but…”
“Yes,” I break in. “I read them all.”
He looks surprised, just for an instant, and then he grins. “So you understand where we’re at, now, this country this time. Hard times led to prosperity and that led to softness and greed and corruption. And that will lead to collapse and hard times.”
He looks up at the ceiling, elaborate plaster scrolls and rolls, vines and swirls and symbols. A hundred years old. What would the cost be to match it now? Could even one man be found who could do it?
“Maybe it really is Fate, like the ancients called it, but I don’t think so, Cal. I believe in action. I’m a private pilot, got a twin engine rating, and I’ll tell you what the most important thing I ever heard from my instructors was:
“Fly the plane. One of the controls quits working, use the other ones and keep flying the plane. Engine quits? Adjust, and fly the plane. Wings fall off, engine on fire, ground coming at you at 200 miles an hour?”
He hasn’t raised his voice a single decibel, but his face has gotten pinker and the whites of his eyes are projecting a Light now, so warm and real that I can feel my own face getting hotter.
“Fly the fucking plane. I’m not just gonna watch it all turn to shit, not after my great-great grandma walked here from Missouri. I don’t believe in the cycle of history, that it won’t, that it can’t, ever be broken. It’s going to be broken. Why not here, why not now?”
He takes a big lungful of air, breathes it out slow. “I’ve got plans for if the Feds push the foreigners on this county, and for after. Why don’t you down the rest of that Irish firewater and I’ll buy you another one and tell you about them.”
27. 3 years ago, Washington, DC April 22, 10:33 pm
Jack and I have had two Laphroaig’s, neat, enough to appreciate the flavor and the modest effects but not enough to slow the reflexes, because everyone knows that in DC, whether at work or out in the street it’s wise to have your reflexes ready, funny that the capital of the Greatest Nation in History is rife with thugs and thieves, but then again that is the nature of the Dark World. I have a flash, standing there in the orange sodium light, that Rome was the same, the aristocrats and Emperors and Generals walking in their finery and the next street over, a man is being kicked to the ground and his money taken. Jack says something about how perfect of a night it is, perfect temperature perfect city perfect whisky, as we start the short walk to the parking garage.
Jack’s been working with me at Senator Miller’s office for the last three months, but it’s the first time we’ve gone out, just the two of us, for drinks. Occasionally a group of us have dinner and he’s been along but he always seems to talk little and listen a lot. Outside of that I spend a lot of evenings at the boxing gym and sometimes with a woman, always a woman who doesn’t connect me to San Jose.
I like hanging with Jack because he doesn’t try too hard to show the boss, the female staff and everybody else how smart and connected he is, and also he did eight years in the Marines and fills out his suit like a pro wrestler. I sense we’re in DC for the same reasons—to learn, to see, to be moles in the system. The Soviets spent decades of effort to get moles into the federal government; a few of the poor bastards had to work as gofers for some Deputy Secretary asshole, fawning over their bosses while staying up late going through the trash cans and unsecured desks. I admire those guys, I am one of them now, though I’m only in it for something private and personal and interesting, not in the service of some great World Historical ideal. I’ve got my own ideal. Something about Jack’s amused detachment tells me he does too.
We’re about 50 feet from the garage entrance in a place where a street light is out, when I see/feel/hear something, it’s not a sound or a sight but it’s an itch, my shoulders do a sort of shrug and I start to turn and behind us a guy says, not too loud, “Hey! You guys spare some money?” and we turn around to face it, there are three of them maybe 20 feet away, in the shadows, the tall talker in the middle and a darker shorter one to each side. They all have saggy colorless clothes and winter caps. The Tall One’s face is better lighted and I can see yellow/red eyes and a beard, the others are just dark ciphers. Tall One has what appears to be a Glock wavering somewhere between Jack and me. The other two’s right hands hang low at their sides, not empty.
“Kay mothafuckas, just get everything outcha pockets and set it down on the ground quick.” I look at Jack, looking down a little, he’s about five-ten and I think to myself, “What a stupid time and stupid place to rob two dudes” but these types aren’t known for detailed planning. He winks at me and I don’t know exactly what that means, then he smiles, turns and says ”Sure man, take it easy, here you go” and he reaches back and pulls out his wallet, squats slowly and sets it on the ground with great care, like it’s got a champagne glass balanced on it.
“Go ahead Cal” he prompts, looking at me from a squat and his eyes flick right. If this shit goes south, we’ll split in opposite directions
. I nod a millimeter and reach for my wallet, slowly set it on the concrete near his. “Phones too” says the Tall One and I realize in a flash, for some reason I couldn’t explain in words, that this is no robbery, the whole thing stinks and they’re going to shoot now, Jack is rolling left and reaching into his suit jacket and it takes me an instant to start diving right and there’s a flash and a noise and a punch in my left shoulder that tries to turn me but I keep diving, my head swivels midair to see what they’re doing and the two sideboys are raising their weapons and boom!boom! There are two shots from our side and the Tall One jerks and starts falling forward, then faster than I can count, maybe five more, so fast that they seem to blend into one big long explosion, and sideboy left is down but sideboy right is bent over trying to raise his right hand, and one more shot and he sort of shrivels into himself and falls.
In another second or two I remember I’m shot, it’s almost funny that I could have forgotten but the pain hits, and I don’t try to fight it but just ride it, don’t try and make it stop but make it less, I’m lying on my right side and my eyes are watery and I dimly see Jack examining the three bodies, checking for a pulse in their necks, running hands through their pockets. He’s walking over and gets a kind of wry look on his face when he sees the blood on my jacket, his hands gently press front and back around my shoulder and he says, “Listen Cal, listen close. You’re going to be okay, the wound is not in a bad place, you’re going to be fine. Just tell the cops what happened, that it was a robbery.”
There’s a siren, its scream coming higher with Doppler closing effect and suddenly I can hear the rest of the world outside our little bubble, people are yelling and running around, he leans in and puts his lips next to my ear so I can hear.
“I’ll give you whole thing as soon as I can, you’re going to be fine.” I turn my head to look him in the face and his eyes reflect the orange streetlight so that the pupils disappear and it seems the lights are shining out, out from inside his head.
“Good move there. That bullet was for the center of your chest.” I almost laugh at the absurdity of how good I can feel with a bullet wound.
“Look, just tell the cops what happened, exactly what actually happened. Nothing more. But you need to know…this was a hit. I’m not sure if it was on you, me or both of us.”
The first police car stops behind me, headlights making his face unnatural paper-white.
“It’ll take me a few hours to talk to the cops and see you at the hospital. I’ll tell you more, then.
“We’ll work together again,” he says.
28. Today, Skyline Drive, Reno, Nevada May 27, 6:19 am
I have a rule, I never turn on the phone until 6:20, an hour and 20 minutes after I get up. I don’t need the news, because at a basic level I don’t really care if World War III has started—and everything else is just details. The nature of my business is such that anyone who wants to talk to me can wait until then. I don’t do emergencies. Jack sometimes sets something up in advance when we’re in different time zones, but that’s him and me. Everyone else can wait, or go somewhere else.
There are six voicemails today, five are from people on the list of 12 who have this number, people all of whom provide me with valuable information and insight for compensation and who have this number which I’ve tried hard to make one of the most private cell numbers in the world, which is why the other message is a huge red flag that for a second or two raises the heart rate and begins the fight or flight response stress hormones—and the counter responses I programmed those many years ago kick in; I remember, remembering is key, the fact that one’s body reacts this way is really rather amusing and automatically my heart begins to slow, the hormones reduce their flow and consciously I muse that these are pixels emanating light from a screen, not the scrape on a rock of Cave Bear coming to eat you and I chuckle and relax my jaw and wrists.
The number is from the 212, Manhattan, a 25-second message left…exactly an hour ago the same time when…
~
People’s understanding of probability is in general extremely limited, even when they’ve studied school math beyond addition and subtraction. For most, they know that when a fnord headline like “Murder rate in City rises for second straight year” shows on the bottom of a screen they’re supposed to be afraid and either buy some useless junk to feel a momentary release of tension, or vote for a politician to “solve the problem.” It’s Statistics! which is kind of like Science! or at least related cuz science is real and there is only matter and the void. Everything else, Nobodaddy Fiction-God is just right-wingers trying to control your vagina.
Here’s some probability for you: First ask how many events happen just to you each day? Every step you take every move you make every time you push the gas or brake should I work for five more minutes or take a piss now do you want that last cookie look there’s a paperclip on the floor I’ll pick it up or not etc. etc. and that’s just your actions how many high energy particles are striking your soft little body right this second is that cancer cell going to be killed by your immune system or not…but “experts” will tell you there’s less than a one in a million chance that you will be slaughtered by a Muslim this year, last year there were 320 million people living in the United States and only 319 died from the bombs at rock concerts and the mass shooters and the guy who ran down 43 people at the Farmers’ Market so you’re more likely to die from a bee sting you stupid racist hater. Okay here’s your one in a million chance TV talking head: If we go down just to the gross physical level of my little town, not even thinking about the molecular level much less the atomic or subatomic levels, then every single day there are a trillion trillions, hell no, more, of “events” every turn of a truck tire the Planck length, every raindrop that hits me in the left eye, and the odds of a one in a billion event happening daily approach unity. The greatest blessing they’ve been given, that most humans should get down on our knees in thanks for, is that they don’t notice these rare events that actually happen every day.
Noticing can be Dangerous:
For only a very few are able to see without imminent madness. Once we had many names for those few. But gradually men were persuaded by the hypnotists with the newer technology that the old was the dross; that only the New Things they controlled and doled out for money could keep the ancient fear of the beasts skulking in the dark at bay for a while; at least until the next monthly payment was due.
~
In the sense that pure chance is “pure” it’s when we convince ourselves that one thing has no connection to another, because to entertain that connection would result in a cascade of implications that it would take a great deal of courage to face. I can right now run the New York phone number through systems and searches and commercial databases and maybe find out the carrier and the name attached to the account and even their location when they called. Instead I touch the message and put the phone to my ear.
[Faint sounds of engine and road noise, they’re calling from a car] “Umm [my ‘greeting’ is just a computer that says “Leave a message at the tone” because everyone who calls knows who it is. The caller is a woman voice, young. She’s figuring on the fly how to say this in case someone else hears it] This message is for Cal Adler. Mr. Adler I, umm, have a very important matter to discuss with you, I umm, need your assistance. It’s urgent, umm, I understand you have an office on Third Street in Reno, I’ll be there by eight. I’ll wait as long as it takes but please [hint of sob] come as soon as you can. I’ll wait until noon today otherwise I’ll try to contact you some other w… [message cuts off]
One, she got this number somehow, though that shouldn’t have happened. As they say, World War I shouldn’t of happened, either. Two, she sounds about 18 on the phone, she could be older but something about the voice the inflection the tone the words; “matter” “I understand” “contact”—it all sounds very Upper Class. Three, my “office” is a shared space open concept that I use because the conference room h
as good soundproofing and the elevator lobby from the parking garage is invisible from the street and no human receptionist. There is a public waiting room outside the conference room suite. The chairs are modestly comfortable. Four, the way the message cut off in mid-word could be important and it could be accidental and it could be…deliberate, to intrigue me, get me to show. It’s the kind of thing I’d think of.
The drive to the office is about 12 minutes. I start running the number through the systems I have available, which are considerable. Not NSA/CIA/FBI level but people would be amazed at the services the free market provides for a modest monthly fee. Fifteen minutes later I’m convinced—the number doesn’t show up anywhere public, just like mine would not if you ran it the same. Supposedly. She had my number and a story that was sure to interest me. It could be a setup; hell it could be an ambush.
I’ll show at 8:30, spend a half hour scouting out first, let her sit and stew, if she actually shows.
In some sense I don’t mind if it’s a trap. Things have been so quiet lately.
29. Today, Skyline Drive, Reno, Nevada May 27, 7:14 am
My muscles are just the right degree of tired after a half hour of work in my basement weight room and I step into a hot shower and rinse one minute, soaping off takes 30 seconds then I turn up the heat for another minute, skin beginning to glow as the surface capillaries expand. I know from experience just the right time to turn off the hot water and reach for the separate knob above the others, open it up and a rain shower of ice water begins to fall straight down, I lean forward so it just hits my back at first, slow slow breaths, one every ten seconds, there’s always the shock for an instant, another slow breath and it feels great like living, I’ve been doing this for about three months and it’s just like he said in the video, if you breathe slowly you don’t feel the cold except as power, more and more blood is flowing interior through the liver and kidneys, I imagine it being scrubbed and filtered beautifully clean blood and now my whole exterior is numb, I’m not feeling anything except the core, it’s like there’s a cylinder of steel in the middle of my abdomen that can’t be broken by anything human.