by Nathan Roden
“Thank you, Monique. That will be all,” Vlada said.
The girl nodded with a sly and practiced smile. She spun on her heels and left the room. Vlada admired the young girl’s shapely legs caressed inside the classic hose with the black line up the back, which was part of the maid’s outfit that Vlada provided and required the female members of his house staff to wear.
A beeping notification came from Vlada’s computer as he took the first sip from his cup. He replaced the cup in the saucer, made a couple of mouse clicks, and sat forward. His smile spread wide.
“Well, well, well,” he said out-loud to no one.
“So you are not a machine after all, Jack Englemann. Humans are so much easier to deal with. Jack, Jack, Jack,” Vlada shook his head as he repeated the name slowly.
Dante Vlada leaned back in his chair.
“How interesting.”
Nine
Eight weeks later
"Good morning, Babe".
"Good morning, Millie. You look amazing. "
"Good morning, Babe".
"Good morning, Tom. You look amazing as well, Sugar Pants.”
“I’m weighing my indignation against that dozen and a half size box of Dunkin’ Donuts under your right arm, and I must concede that I am indeed, your Sugar Pants,” Tom said, as he propelled his office chair to the side of Millie's desk. He tugged at the box while Babe pretended to resist him.
“Damn, this cursed weakness,” Tom said. “Suffer me the orbs of sweet depravity."
"Joshua Owen Babelton, how many times do I have to tell you to stop this?” Millie asked, “I came into this office three years ago weighing one hundred and sixteen pounds with buns I could crack a walnut with. If it's not you with the pastry, then it's MG and the chocolate, and since I don't have her insane energy or insane metabolism, I get to spend six nights a week on the treadmill trying to burn this shit off. Pardon my French. Asshole."
This sent Babe and Tom into giggling fits, since they found nothing funnier than hearing the former Miss Alabama runner-up rant like a truck driver.
"I'm really sorry, Mil. Let me make it up to you. I'll get you a nice new pair of sweat pants. What size are you up to now?" Babe asked.
Babe and Tom erupted into laughter, so neither noticed the Boston cream filled pastry inbound to the side of Babe's head, until it exploded. Cream filling covered one side of his head and was sprinkled throughout the rest.
Babe and Tom froze momentarily, and then turned to stare at a wide-eyed Millie for about two seconds. Then all three laughed until they had peed themselves a little.
“Babe, Jordan left a message early,” Millie said. “He’ll be in at eleven and needs to see you. He says it’s important. MG will be in at one thirty and wants to go over the two latest evaluations, and she has a new profile for you.”
“Thanks, Millie,” Babe said. “I hope Jordan can do ‘important’ in an hour. Tom and I have reservations at Momma’s for twelve fifteen. You sure you don’t want to come with us?”
“Oh, sure. Why not follow up the donuts with one of Momma’s burgers? What do they call that monster—the one that’s the size of a fucking badger? The Sectional. Oh, yes. Order me a side of Lipitor and drop me off at the Home Depot so I can buy a wheelbarrow to haul my fat ass around with.
“No, my extremely sensible boyfriend is taking me to a real cafe, famous for its sticks, twigs and grass. While our meals are prepared somewhere on the jungle floor, we’ll likely hum some Far Eastern spirituals and dream of the day when our rib cages can finally be seen from the outside. No, no, I must respectfully decline your offer. As we say back home, ‘no, fuck you very much, Boss’.”
“Tooooooouché. That was Millicent P. Potty-Mouth, ladies and gentlemen. It’s great to have her back here at the Comedy Shack where she’ll be performing all week to split your sides and tickle your funny bones—with maybe even a half-day of typing and filing on Saturday,” Babe said.
“In your dreams.”
“You know you could use the overtime, Mil,” Babe said. “We don’t pay you squat, and that boyfriend of yours—how much can they possibly pay a professor at MIT? My Gawwwd, Millie. You’re practically homeless.”
“I think the phone is ringing in your office, Mister Babelton, sir.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Roll Tide,” Babe said.
Millie spun a 180 back to her computer, waving as she turned.
“Roll Tide.”
“Come on in, Babe,” Jordan Blackledge said. He was on the phone, pacing in front of his enormous bay window and holding up a ‘this will just be a minute’ finger. Babe nodded and crossed the office to the water cooler that stood next to a corner fireplace. The fireplace was a recent addition, a gift from Jordan’s wife. Samantha Blackledge had recently redecorated the mantel and the walls around it with an arrangement of photos, some of which Babe had not seen before. He filled a paper cup and looked up at a photo of Jordan and Samantha with Rudy Giuliani. There were a few pictures from Jordan’s and Samantha’s wedding, including one of the couple with Jack and Jill.
A slightly older photo showed Jordan and Samantha at a party fund raising dinner with Jack and Helen. Babe stared at Helen’s face. This photo was the latest picture of her that he had seen. It was taken about two years before her death. This was the first photo that Babe had seen where he could see signs of Helen’s illness evidenced in her face.
The look was suddenly too familiar; and he turned away. He took the seat in front of Jordan’s desk.
Jordan Blackledge was fifty two years old—six foot four and trim with a thick head of black hair with a few flecks of gray. He was the head of Research Consultants, Inc.—the company that employed but five people: Jordan, Babe, Tom, Millie, and Madeline Gerard, aka MG, who served as liaison between the company and the FBI.
Jordan exhaled a heavy breath that matched the exhausted look on his face. He hung up the phone and walked around his desk to sit on its corner.
“Sorry I’ve been out so much lately, Babe. How are you?”
“Fine, Jordan. Okay. How is Samantha?”
“She’s great. Say, I need to talk to you and Tom together. Are you free for lunch?”
“Tom and I are going to Momma’s in about an hour.”
“Bingo. I’ll join you if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. Anything else?”
Jordan looked rather uncomfortable. He fidgeted, adjusting himself on the corner of his desk.
“I talked to the SAC from Phoenix this morning; for quite a while, actually.”
“So,” Babe asked, “How did that whole thing turn out?”
“They have the Palmer kid in rehab and on indefinite suspension,” Jordan said.
“The legal thing is going to take forever to sort out. Hell, one of the kids’ parents was trafficking millions of dollars’ worth of coke and the neighbor kid was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Babe nodded.
“He had a lot of questions about you.”
Babe looked down and then stared straight ahead into the wall.
“The SAC and Palmer’s father and uncles have been together since the Academy. He says you saved that kid’s life. They confronted Palmer with the things you said and he gave up the whole story in a blubbering mess. He’s getting proper treatment now and seeing a therapist twice a week. They like the results they’re having with some new medications, and they say he’s sleeping like the dead.
“The SAC said that according to the doctors, Cole would have been dead in less than a year the way he was going.”
Babe nodded some more.
“How the hell did you… how did you know what was going on with that kid?” Jordan asked.
“I told you, Jordan, I have no idea. Don’t you ever just know things, things that you can’t explain?” Babe asked.
Jordan continued to stare.
“Never happened to me. Anyway, he wanted me to thank you; for all of them. I don’t think he’ll call you. He was pret
ty shook up. It’s just like the movies, you know, or the comic books—you save Gotham City, you save Metropolis, and the citizens are grateful but you still scare the living shit out of them.”
More nodding.
“Are you seeing much of Jack?” Jordan asked.
“Nope. He’s throwing himself into work even more than usual. He says that he wants to keep a low profile for a while because he makes everyone so uncomfortable. No one knows what to say to him. I’m not too worried about him, yet.”
Jordan stared into space for a few moments.
“You know, Babe. It’s none of my business, other than the fact that we’ve been friends for so long. But, uh, do you think Jack might be…?”
“Drinking too much?” Babe asked.
“Yeah,” Jordan said. “What do you think?”
Babe shook his head.
“He enjoys a beer like the rest of us, sure. But he can turn it on and off like no one I’ve ever seen.”
“Yeah,” Jordan said, “he’s always been the poster boy for responsibility. But how much crap is too much? I don’t like it that he’s spending so much time alone.”
“Maybe it’s time that I push or pull him a little,” Babe said. “If I can pull that off without looking like a psychologist.”
Babe left Jordan’s office at the same time that Millie’s lunch date showed up. Bradley Weyner had been to the office of Research Consultants a few times. Bradley and Millie had been dating about a year, and it obviously drove Bradley crazy that he had no idea what Research Consultants Inc.—and therefore Millie—did.
Every visit from Bradley turned into a game of twenty questions. He attempted to corner Babe or Tom at every opportunity—trying to get them to give away clues about their business. Babe and Tom hid their feelings about Bradley out of respect for Millie, but neither could stand the man. His quest to unveil their mission statement had been whimsical for a while, but it had escalated to a level that was not only uncomfortable, but confrontational. It was obvious that he had no luck getting information from Millie, and in fact, Millie was losing her patience with Bradley on the subject. She found his behavior to be humiliating.
Babe and Tom made a game of tormenting Bradley, stringing him along with disinformation to make him think he was about to unveil the mystery. The two of them also enjoyed making fun of Bradley when Millie was not around.
“Here comes Bradley, Babe. Are you ready to be grilled? Are you ready to be grilled by ‘the weener’?” Tom whispered.
Tom came up with the mispronunciation of Bradley’s surname shortly after Bradley’s first visit. Babe and Tom bonded over the last four years in a number of immature behaviors, and the ‘weener’ game zoomed to the head of the list. The game consisted of making new and unusual ‘weener’ references—out of Millie’s earshot—while trying to keep a straight face and trying to make the other man lose it. Babe made his tongue bleed twice after he bit it, because Tom was a worthy adversary.
“Hello, Bradley,” Babe said, offering his hand.
“Good day, Joshua. How goes life at the war machine?” Bradley answered, breaking eye contact to survey the office.
“Excuse me? War machine? Tom, do you know anything about a war machine?” Babe asked.
“Of course I do. It chewed up another toner cartridge. They took it to ‘The Bunker’ for analysis. You want me to check on it?”
“Would you mind? I haven’t had my new contact lenses calibrated for the retinal scanner, so I’m unable to access ‘The Bunker’.”
“You guys are hilarious,” Bradley said. “But you’re not fooling me for a minute. I’ve seen the guys come and go from this place—the hard bodied twenty-somethings with high and tight haircuts and perfect posture. You’re up to something either military or high level government ops—probably black ops, off-the-record stuff. And if I find that out I’m getting your girl out of here. It’s not bad enough that we’re turning the planet into a sewer; we have a government full of spooks trying to burn every poor country to the ground in the name of ‘democracy’. Millie, are you even ready to go? I have that meeting at three thirty. Chop-chop.”
Millie was fuming. She grew more detached from Bradley at every visit he made to the office. Bradley seemed to enjoy embarrassing her in the presence of her co-workers. As he helped her on with her coat, Millie made brief eye contact with Babe—an intensely fiery look that made Babe shudder. Bradley nodded toward Babe and Tom as he followed Millie out of the door.
Babe and Tom stared after them.
“Jesus, Babe. ‘I’m getting your girl out of here’? What is she doing with that asshole?” Tom asked.
“You got me. MG said they met on a blind date. Remember we always wondered why she wasn’t going out every weekend? Maybe she just got tired of turning guys away. But, yeah, I don’t know what she sees in ‘The Weener’. Sure, he’s decent looking and has a good gig at MIT. But he’s about as deep as a saucer and he treats her like shit. Top that off with the ‘college professor’ sweater vest uniform and the little pointy beard. Have you seen the pipe in his pocket? You can’t smell it, so he obviously doesn’t even smoke it. He wears that beret—”
“What color is that?” Tom asked.
“Uh, purple?”
“Naw. It’s freakin’ raspberry,” Tom said, with a snort.
Babe laughed. “He wears a raspberry beret and drives a little European convertible with the top down in the winter. Plus, he’s a militant liberal.”
Tom shook his head. “It’s going to end badly, isn’t it?”
Babe nodded. “Yep.”
Babe watched Millie return from lunch through the glass wall of his office. Her long, brown hair was suffering the effects of the ride in the convertible. She took off her coat and her first attempt to hang it from the coat rack failed. She stared down at the rumpled coat momentarily and then bent to retrieve it from the floor. The ferocity of her second and final attempt at hanging the coat meant that the mood over lunch had not improved. Babe looked at his watch, and though he knew the Schroeders would hold his reservation at Momma’s, he and Tom needed to leave now. Babe winced as he opened the door.
“Millie, you’re back. How was the rodent food?”
“Perfectly tasteless. You boys enjoy your cardiac burgers.”
Ten
Klaus Schroeder greeted Babe and Tom from half way across the restaurant, where he was replacing Jordan’s empty beer bottle with a full one.
“Mr. Babe. Mr. Tom. Welcome, welcome my friends. Frieda! Come and see who has come back to see us.”
Frieda Schroeder crashed through the swinging half doors with her elbows. She burst into a smile as she began to pull off her rubber gloves.
“What a sight for these old eyes. Babe and Tom—so long you have been away, boys. I am right in the middle of forty pounds of hamburger or I would give you both a squeeze.”
“Frieda, we wouldn’t dream of getting in the way of a batch of Momma’s burger meat. It’s great to see you,” Babe said.
“Ditto, Momma Frieda.” Tom said. “My stomach is screaming at me that we’ve been away much too long.”
Babe was a regular at Momma’s since his university days. The last few weeks were his longest absence from the restaurant since that time. He had been absent since before the funeral. Klaus, Frieda, and their two sons closed the restaurant early that day, and had attended.
Babe had brought Jill to Momma’s a few times, mostly on nights of New England Patriot games. He was happy to take her out when she was feeling well, although the raucous crowds at Momma’s Sofa during games usually wore her down so that they had to leave early.
Babe was only one of Momma’s patrons that thought of the place as a second home, and the Schroeders as a second family. It was a part of Boston that Babe loved—family owned businesses that had a soul, where you knew and did business with your neighbors, not just faceless chains and corporations.
Babe was responsible for the name of Momma’s Sofa. He received a card
and a check from his mother and step-father for his birthday just prior to the Grand Opening of the newest Momma’s Cafe and Sports Bar. Babe used part of the money to buy a Grand Opening gift for the Schroeders—a large, comfortable leather sofa. He spent hours visiting with the Schroeder family in their office, where the older couple spent most of their time. He could never get over the fact that there was not one really comfortable place to sit.
A week after the opening of the new location, the nondescript sign outside of Momma’s Cafe was replaced by a large neon sign. Momma’s Cafe had been re-christened.
Momma’s Sofa.
Momma’s Sofa was one of the most unique establishments in the city. Owned and operated by Klaus and Frieda Schroeder since 1989, the business moved one city block into a larger building in 1997. The final move came in 2001—into a building more than three times the size.
Mommas began as a lunch-only business. The popularity of Momma’s burgers spread like a wildfire. Local customers, the media, and even celebrities not only went to great lengths to garner a coveted lunch table, but the clamor for the recipe to her burgers became a quest. The recipes for the meat and the sauce were so guarded that Momma Frieda prepared all of it herself and never shared the recipes with another living soul.
The Schroeders arrived every morning at six. Frieda prepared the days’ meat, sauce and other ingredients. Klaus prepared for opening while he monitored the surveillance cameras. These were installed after multiple hi-tech attempts had been made to steal Frieda’s recipes.
In the year prior to Momma’s last move, a regular customer petitioned Klaus to let him bring his television to the restaurant that evening. It was opening day for the Red Sox at Fenway Park and he couldn’t get tickets. He explained that his wife had scheduled an Avon party that night at their house. The man offered Klaus a hundred dollars. Frieda saw the look on Klaus’s face and smiled. The Schroeder’s television had died a fiery death two nights before.