“North.”
“Then we’ll be heading south. Anything else?”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Sissy said, looking at Adrianna and shaking her head.
“I know. I’m a real puzzle,” Cutbirth said. “I say again, anything else?” He looked at each person in the room.
A ship’s foghorn blared another deep-pitched warning somewhere in San Francisco Bay, and Diego wondered if somebody up there was trying to tell him something…something like: Warning! Proceed at your own peril!
“Are you people so fucking smart that you’re fresh out of questions?” Cutbirth challenged. “Or is the room filled with a gaggle of morons?”
Diego had a million questions, but he was certain someone with the flair of an egocentric drama queen and the sway of a fast-talking con man would not give him a straight answer. Besides, there would be time for questions later.
“How’d you lose your ear?” Sissy asked. She seemed genuinely concerned. “It doesn’t look bad or anything. I was just curious. I’ve never known anyone who was missing an ear. I’ll bet that really hurt. Losing it, I mean.”
Cutbirth tilted his head and looked at Sissy. “What?”
“Did you bleed a lot? Bet you lost it crossing the border, huh?”
“Kind of nosey, aren’t you, Hummingbird?”
“I’m a Gemini,” Sissy said with a girlish smile. “We’re inquisitive by nature.”
“A Gemini, of course,” Cutbirth mocked. He touched the place on his head where his ear once was. “Abortion riots. I was a private contractor. Pit bull got me. Mistook me for one of the rioters.”
“Private contractor?” Yong asked. “Don’t you mean paid enforcer?”
“Semantics, my dear fellow,” Cutbirth grinned.
“Which city?” Yong asked, his eyes burning.
“What the hell difference does it make?”
“I lost my mother in the second San Francisco riot,” Yong said, his eyes now turning cold. “She was beaten to death with a nightstick by a so-called private contractor.”
“That’s a damn shame, Yong.”
“Yeah, a damn shame.”
Adriana said, “How would you like us to address you, Mr. Cutbirth?”
Cutbirth uttered something Diego thought was meant to be a dismissive chuckle but sounded more like an after-dinner belch. “My friends call me Neanderthal, but since you are not, nor will you ever be my friends, you may call me Cutbirth or Mr. Cutbirth. Do not, and I cannot stress this point strongly enough, call me Arnold.”
“My grandfather’s name was Arnold,” Sissy said. “I think it’s a nice name.”
Cutbirth stepped over to where Sissy sat beside Diego. “What did you just say?”
Sissy tried to smile, but it fell apart. “Nothing, Mr. Cutbirth.”
Cutbirth said the meeting was over, but before he allowed anyone to leave he counted the money in his black gym bag. It tallied.
5
Diego and Adriana pushed through the heavy-duty impact doors of the Bureau of Travel, San Francisco Division, located on Pacific Avenue across the street from the new Laiwu Shopping Center. The impact doors had been installed the previous year after a car bomb had exploded during the grand opening of the Laiwu retail complex. Thirty-two dignitaries and well-wishers had been killed.
The Bureau of Travel was a large, drab room filled with dozens of government clerks stationed at computers. There was a disinfectant-like smell that permeated the place. Some sort of kill-all germicide, Diego guessed. Just inside the door was a take-a-number ticket dispenser. A sign on top of the low-tech machine read: TAKE A NUMBER AND BE SEATED. Another sign read: NO TALKING – NO SMOKING - NO CELL PHONES - NO FOOD OR DRINK - NO CRYING CHILDREN – NO PETS.
Diego took a number, and he and Adriana found seats on the front row of a half-dozen wooden benches that stretched across one side of the huge, featureless room. The benches were crowded with scores of other San Franciscans waiting to apply for Travel Passes. Their eyes forward, their faces pale and expressionless, everyone obeyed the NO TALKING rule, and it was strangely quiet, even though the room was filled to overflowing.
That silence was interrupted when two uniformed National Police officers in dark glasses and assault helmets marched through the impact doors and into the building. One of the officers wore a black eye patch. Standing next to the ticket dispenser, he announced in a loud voice, “Joyce Kenney!”
When no one responded, the cop repeated the name.
A pregnant girl perched at the end of the bench on which Diego and Adriana sat slowly raised her hand, and in a timid voice said, “I’m Joyce Kenney.”
She couldn’t have been more than 16 or 17. At least eight months pregnant. She wore a 49ers ball cap, a Hard Rock Café – Los Angeles T-shirt, and ragged blue jeans that Diego was sure had aged naturally from normal wear.
The two policemen strode over to the girl.
“Come with us,” the one-eyed cop said, taking the girl by the forearm and yanking her to her feet.
“What have I done?” the teenage girl asked, fear and desperation in her voice. She reached down and grabbed her purse. “I have to go to L.A. I have to see my mother.”
The policemen each took an arm and escorted the girl toward the exit.
“Please tell me what I’ve done,” the teenage girl begged, looking at the cop with the eye-patch. “My mother’s ill. I have to see my—”
“Don’t say another word,” the cop interrupted in a sharp, cold voice.
The three of them exited the building.
“Bastards,” Adriana said, the anger showing in her eyes.
Diego tried to imagine what terrible crime a pregnant teenage girl might have committed. He couldn’t.
Forty-five minutes later, their number was called over the loudspeaker, and they were instructed to report to workstation number 15. Diego and his wife made their way through an endless cluster of desks to the one marked 15. Adriana sat in the only chair; Diego stood. Across from them was a dumpy woman in her sixties, her gray hair wrapped on top of her head in a spinster-like bun. A nameplate on her desk identified her as Rowena Foy.
“Purpose of your trip?” Rowena asked, not even bothering to look up from her computer screen, her arthritic fingers poised over the keyboard.
“It’s a little romantic getaway,” Diego smiled.
“How nice,” the woman said, her knobby fingers tapping the keys. “ID cards.”
Diego and Adriana produced their photo IDs, laying them on Rowena’s desk.
“And just where do you plan on going for this romantic getaway?” Rowena asked, glancing down at the ID cards.
“We haven’t decided yet,” Diego said pleasantly.
“So you’re applying for Unrestricted Travel Passes?” Rowena looked at them for the first time. “Is that right, Mr. Sanchez?”
“Yes. Unrestricted,” Diego said.
Rowena looked at her computer screen. “I see from our records that you applied for and received a Travel Pass to Phoenix on May five of this year.” She looked up at him. “Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s right. Business with a client in Phoenix,” Diego said, his smile starting to fall apart.
Rowena turned back to her computer screen. “I see that the Department of Criminal Justice has scheduled an interview with you regarding this business trip. Is that also correct, Mr. Sanchez?”
His throat drawing tight, Diego said, “Yes. I received the notification.”
Adriana looked up at Diego with surprise.
Rowena said, “Why would the government want to interview you about a trip you took three months ago, Mr. Sanchez?”
“I have no idea.” His stomach gurgled.
Reading her computer screen, Rowena said, “A follow-up letter was sent to your Baker Street address on the 28th of July. The letter would have stated the specific reason for your interview.” She looked up. “Are you telling me you did not receive that letter? It was sent by special courier.
Someone signed for it.”
Diego said, “Yes, well, sometimes the building super signs for things…packages, letters, and what have you. He may have signed for the letter and forgotten to give it to me.” The thin veneer of calm began to flake from Diego’s body and a sudden tightness gripped his chest.
Reading her screen, Rowena said, “The interview has been scheduled for next Friday the 13th, Mr. Sanchez. I suggest you talk to your building superintendent about the letter and make plans to attend the interview. Is that clear?” Rowena Foy’s eyes shined with loathing. It reminded Diego of his high school English teacher, Sister Carmen Hernandez—her eyes shined with that same loathing right before she slapped your hands, palms up, with a yardstick. Slapped the shit out of them. It left terrible marks. The punishment was meted out for any number of pious infractions.
“Yes, very clear,” Diego said.
“I will make a note in your file that you have been officially advised of this interview.” Rowena made several hurried keystrokes. “The Criminal Justice Department building is located on Van Ness Avenue.” She looked up. “Are you familiar with it?”
“Yes,” Diego said.
“Now, regarding your Travel Pass request,” Rowena continued, “when will you be returning?”
Feeling short of breath, Diego looked at Adriana, shrugged, then told Rowena, “A week. Seven days from today. I’ll need to be back in time for my interview on the 13th.”
“Indeed.” Rowena typed the information into her computer, then looked at Adriana’s photo ID again and said, “I can only issue one Travel Pass.”
“What?” Diego said.
Rowena picked up Adriana’s ID card and looked across the desk at her. “Your card expires August the 5th, Mrs. Sanchez,” Rowena said. “Today’s the 5th. You’ll have to renew it before I can issue you a Travel Pass.”
Diego couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Don’t tell me...” Adriana groaned. She studied the expiration date on her photo. It had, indeed, expired today, and Adriana looked at the government clerk with a grimace. “An ID renewal can take weeks. We don’t have weeks.”
“I’m sorry,” Rowena said, sounding anything but sorry. “I don’t make the rules.” She looked at Diego, her dull, lifeless eyes uncaring. “You want me to issue a Travel Pass for yourself?”
Diego shrugged. “What good is one pass?”
“Do you want it or not?” Rowena pressed.
Adriana said, “Yes, we want it.”
Diego turned a frustrated eye toward his wife. “Adriana, tell me how one pass is going to help us!”
“Please, Diego….”
Diego heaved a sigh—he could see the angst in his wife’s face—and turned back to Rowena. “Surely you must have memories of a romantic getaway of your own, Mrs. Foy,” Diego began. “The joy you and your husband must have felt at the time. The warm memories you shared. That’s what romantic getaways are all about, shared memories, and that’s why it’s so important that my wife be issued a Travel Pass too.”
“I was never married, Mr. Sanchez,” Rowena said, throwing her shoulders back. “Your story has no meaning to me. None whatsoever. You are embarrassing yourself, sir.”
Stepping closer to Rowena’s desk, and in a low voice, Diego said, “Isn’t there anything I can do to grease the bureaucratic skids?” Flashing his million-dollar smile—the one he saved for the agency’s best clients—he removed his wallet from his jacket pocket and laid it on Rowena’s desk.
Rowena’s impassive expression tightened. “What are you suggesting, sir?” She glanced at the wallet.
“I’m suggesting that it is extremely important that my wife be issued a Travel Pass.” He nudged the wallet in Rowena’s direction.
“Your wife’s ID has expired, Mr. Sanchez,” Rowena said deliberately.
“Yes, well, I understand that, but I was hoping you would show a little flexibility.”
“Mr. Sanchez,” Rowena began, “must I remind you that we have rules? This is a nation of rules, and we follow those rules. We do not break, bend, or tinker with those rules. Am I making myself clear?”
“Quite.” He shoved the wallet closer to Rowena Foy.
Her expression hardening, Rowena stiffened her back. “Mr. Sanchez, are you aware you are being monitored by several surveillance cameras?” Before he could answer, Rowena said, “And furthermore, a government bribe is punishable by a fine of $50,000 and five years in jail for the person offering the bribe and the one accepting it. Are you prepared to live with the consequences of your actions, sir? I am not. Furthermore, if I open this wallet and find more than $1,000, you will be arrested and taken to jail for a violation of Edict 8-12. Are you familiar with that, sir?”
“Yes, I am,” Diego said.
“Well…?”
“Well, I simply thought perhaps you might show some—how should I say it—compassion? Isn’t there anything called a hardship case?” His wallet contained about $400. Not a king’s ransom, but enough for two tickets to Los Pecadores Del Norte at the Curran Theatre.
“You thought wrong, sir,” Rowena said, all business, reaching over and nudging the wallet toward him. “There is no such thing as a hardship case. There are only rules.”
Diego gave a dazed smile. “Yes, rules.”
“Now, do you want a Travel Pass for yourself or not?”
“Yes,” Diego said, snatching up his wallet.
Rowena Foy keypunched the information into her computer. A small printer beside her desk buzzed to life, and in a few seconds it spit out a wallet-sized laminated document. UNRESTRICTED TRAVEL PASS - DIEGO SANCHEZ was printed at the top.
“Pay the clerk up front, and good luck with your romantic getaway,” Rowena said with a smile.
It was the phoniest smile Diego had ever seen.
***
“We need to talk, Adriana,” Diego said that evening. He hadn’t touched his Quiche Lorraine. It was Adriana’s specialty.
She looked across the dining room table at him. “I wondered when you’d get around to telling me. You’re a terrible liar, Diego Sanchez.”
“Indeed. Very little practice at it.” He wrung his hands. They felt sweaty.
“Okay, what happened in Phoenix?” Adriana asked, her eyes showing her uncertainty. “I remember the trip. You were a nervous wreck when you got home. I’d never seen you so nervous. You said you were nervous because you didn’t think your meeting with Taco Delicioso went well. That about right so far?” Adriana had made a bold attempt at sounding controlled. But she wasn’t. Diego could hear the fear and insecurity in her voice.
Diego rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. “Yes.”
“I don’t think I’m going to like this conversation, Diego.” Lips pursed, she set her glass of wine on the table.
“I’ve had a very good reason for not telling you.”
“Does it involve another woman?” Her gaze was steady.
“Jesus, Adriana, I can’t believe you’d think that.” He seemed bruised.
She nodded. “You’re right. Sorry. Tell your story.”
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