Face Blind

by Len Melvin

  “Nah, Beaux was running late tonight and Maddie was mad so it didn’t seem like such a good idea.”

  “Maddie?”

  “Her mom.”

  “I see.” Malouf took a sip from his beer. “Pretty crowded tonight.”

  “Yep.” Mae Helen returned with another beer and Bobby took it with an exaggerated smile.

  “Anything else, your Majesty?” Mae Helen gave a better-not-ask-for-anything look as she executed a sarcastic, half-dip to Bobby before she turned to another customer.

  “Is she late very often?”

  Bobby raised his beer to his lips. “First time I can remember.”

  “I see,” Malouf said again. One of his men tapped him on the shoulder. Malouf glanced up at him and then surveyed the crowded restaurant. “Find somewhere to sit. I’ll be there in a while.”

  The man turned away without speaking and joined the others.

  “You boys are in here a lot lately.”

  “The food’s good and we’re staying at the hotel next door.” Bobby grunted and raised his newspaper. Malouf took a swallow of beer. “Didn’t think those things were around anymore.”

  Bobby spread the newspaper out, studying the bottom of one of the pages. “Comes out once a month and cost like ten dollars but I like the crossword puzzles. And the obituaries,” he added.

  “What does that sign mean?” Malouf gestured with his beer to the sign below the TV.

  “The ‘No Holos’? Mae Helen got tired of trying to wait on someone who was always under one of those goddamn hoods playing games or doing whatever they’re doing under there. Finally she got Maddie to just ban it. Let them holo at home if they want.”

  “Holo?” Malouf asked.

  Bobby leaned back in his seat and peered at Malouf over the top of his glasses. “Holograms. Haven’t you seen them on these goddamned iPhone XXs? They’re everywhere and freakin’ annoying.”

  “Oh, okay,” Malouf said. Beaux walked by with a tray of drinks, drawing his attention. She stopped beside a table, the tray held high, teetering, as she removed one glass at a time. She circled, making sure each drink was dispensed to the right person. She put the tray by her side, leaned over and put her hand on the shoulder of the man at the head of the table. She said something to him and he erupted in laughter. He turned, whispered something behind his hand and laughed again, a red bulbous face etched in mirth. She clapped him on the back and turned back toward the kitchen.

  “Hey,” Malouf called to her. “Not being friendly tonight?”

  She stopped next to him. “Sorry. Busy. It’s a Friday night.”

  “I thought you might like to play some chess sometime.” Malouf motioned to the chess board that sat on the bar next to Bobby.

  “Sure. Sometime. Not tonight, though. It’s too busy.” A small trickle of perspiration tracked down the side of Beaux’s face. “I’ve been behind all night.”

  “Yeah, I heard you were late.”

  Beaux fixed Bobby with a surly look. “Yeah, I was busy.”

  “I see.” Malouf mused. “That happens a lot?”

  “No, not really. Hey, you’re not as blue tonight.” Beaux changed the subject.

  “The medicine is wearing off.”

  “Right. If you say so.” Beaux rolled her eyes. “Got to go.” She called over her shoulder.

  Malouf stood and picked up his bottle of beer from the bar. “I’m going to get something to eat.”

  Bobby grunted, his eyes never leaving the newspaper.

  Beaux came back through the kitchen door, a tray full of plates balanced on one hand, and headed for a table close to the bar. She passed the plates out, still joking with the customers, then returned to her spot next to Bobby.

  She wiped her brow with her sleeve as she surveyed the restaurant. Every table was full but the waiting line was gone. A steady buzz of conversations competed with the hum of the sound system so that a constant, unintelligible garble of noise filled the room.

  Malouf sat at the table with his companions, seemingly ignoring them as he surveyed the room. A waitress put a menu on their table and Malouf ran a finger down the selections.

  Beaux pulled out her iPhone XX, pointed it at their table and hit the ‘action’ button. She sat it on the bar next to Bobby as it began a series of whirring sounds. “Don’t touch that,” she said. Bobby looked up from the crossword puzzle, glanced at the phone and nodded. She checked the iPhone display, saw Malouf’s table and set it on ‘continuous imagery’. “Don’t touch that,” she said again to Bobby who didn’t even look up. She heard her mother calling her but she stayed next to the bar as the iPhone secured images. She hit the stop button, glanced at Malouf’s table, saw that her actions were unnoticed and slipped the iPhone XX back into her pocket. She turned and went to the kitchen as her mother called again.

  “Someone is recording us.” one of the men murmured. In his hands, his iPhone emitted a low pinging sound. He tilted it and swiveled it in his hands to scan the room. The pinging got louder as he pointed it in the direction of the bar.

  “The recording stopped,” the man said, and the iPhone became silent.

  “Was it her?” Malouf nodded in Beaux’s direction as she pushed open the kitchen door.

  “Not sure, but it came from that direction.”

  “It’s not from that camera over the door, is it?” Malouf asked.

  “No. It’s set to ignore normal video. Otherwise it’d be going off all the time. He set the phone down on the table. “It was an iPhone and it was filming us.”

  Beaux pushed back through the kitchen door carrying a tray of plates. “We’re going to have to keep our eyes on her.”

  “The young girl?”

  Malouf sipped from his beer as he watched Beaux place plates on a table. “Yeah.”

  “She doesn’t look like she is a problem.”

  “She’s smart.” Malouf said. “She could fuck everything up. All the work and preparation we’ve put in,” he turned a thumb downward, “could go down the drain easily.”

  “What do you want to do about her?” one of the men asked.

  Malouf finished his beer with a deep swallow. He wiped a hand across his mouth and watched Beaux move across the room to another table. “Let me think about it,” he said in a low tone of voice, a hand half over his mouth.

  “What?” asked one of the men, moving forward in his seat.

  “Nothing.” Malouf straightened. The men stared back at him in silence. “Don’t worry about it. If it comes down to it and our mission is in jeopardy, I’ll take care of her.” Malouf pointed to one of the men. “You just make sure you know how to wear that goddamn gold cloak.”

  Chapter Five

  The meeting was lasting longer than was scheduled. It was supposed to have been an in-and-out-gathering, as the Boss wanted to play a round of golf, but Nancy, the Chief of Staff, kept urging the Boss for more time. The day was beautiful, the air crisp and surprisingly delightful after a fortnight of awful weather. The grounds would be soggy and difficult to traverse but they would all be in golf carts anyway. And ‘cart path only’ wasn’t for the Boss. He didn’t care if their carts tore the whole course up. They would also be playing in the middle because when you cheated like the Boss did, that’s where you played from. There would be no searching for errant shots in swampy woods or playing muddy lies. And a day on the links would be preferable to the mind-numbing routine of providing protection among the tedious day-to-day, uneventful, endless meetings.

  Simon stood, his back to the wall and watched the participants ease in and out of the Roosevelt Room. There was a conference table in the center of the room and the Boss sat facing the door with his back to Simon, entertaining a contingent of his High Command as they spoke about the need to diffuse the rebellion in Northern California, or NoCal, as the Boss referred to it. There had been trouble there for a while and the Boss wanted it eradicated.

  “Let’s schedule a meeting with all of the Rebel leaders. Tell them we want to
negotiate a peace. Then we’ll hit them with a Hypersonic missile. At fifteen times the speed of sound, they’ll be dead before they can hear a sonic boom.”

  “They may suspect something like that after what you did to the Iranian leaders.”

  “We’ll send the Secretary of State to negotiate with them. They won’t think we would hypersonic them with him there.”

  “But he’ll be killed also, Sir.”

  “Look, it would be his most significant achievement so far.” The matter-of-fact manner in which the Boss spoke of disposing one of his top cabinet members gave Simon a chill. The Boss held out both hands, palms up in explanation and smiled. “Besides, he’s been Secretary of State for almost a year. It’s time for some new blood.”

  “Yes, Sir.” The general cast a knowing glance at the other generals in the room and then back at the Boss. “Anything else, Sir?”

  “No,” the Boss flicked a hand toward the door indicating dismissal. “That will be all.”

  The generals stood to leave and the Boss turned to Nancy. “Are we through?” he asked, his voice rising in impatience.

  Nancy put a hand on his shoulder, brushed a piece of lint from his jacket and leaned toward him. “Just a few more?” she implored.

  “Okay,” he said, as he placed a hand on the small of her back. “But let’s make it quick.” He twisted in his seat to address Simon. “What’s the weather like out there?”

  “Good, Sir.” Simon took a half-step forward in deference and then moved back against the wall. The Boss straightened his tie and turned back to the next group of people that were being ushered in. There were no windows in the room- - only a false skylight that cast a bland illumination into the room that was decorated in a cream color with blue trim.

  The Boss had learned that before it was the Roosevelt Room, it had been referred to as the Fish Room, for all of the mounted fish that had been hung on the walls by past presidents. He had summarily removed the profile portrait of Theodore Roosevelt and all of the cast bronze head sculptures of notable past presidents and had replaced them with golf memorabilia. Now, he called it the Golf Room. His golf bag, festooned with twenty clubs, stood against the south wall where a portrait of Teddy Roosevelt on a horse used to sit. The wall now held photos of famous golfers, pictures of well-known courses, scorecards from championship rounds, various trophies, and hand-written letters to the Boss from past golf champions. On the east wall, pictures of the Boss, swinging a club or posing with other golfers, hung in tight rows, one on top of another in a half circle around the fireplace that stood in the center of the wall. Against the north wall stood a full-size statue of the Boss in a golf after-swing, staring out at the flight of the ball. The statue was thinner and the swing more athletic and stylish than that of the aging, portly President but if anyone thought that, it went unsaid.

  Simon hid a yawn behind a hand and checked his watch. A man stood across the table from the Boss telling him about how important the protection of wetlands were to the environment and the future prosperity of the country. Simon stifled a smirk. Like the Boss cares about the environment or future prosperity. The man spread a map across the table and tapped various points with a marker as he spoke. The others in the group huddled behind him as he alternately explained his concerns and cajoled the Boss, his voice rising in emphasis. He finished his presentation, then straightened, his expression hopeful as he waited for the Boss’s response. The Boss stood and leaned over the map as if interested. Simon hid a smile by turning his head and feigning a cough. The Boss didn’t give a fuck about wetlands.

  The Boss asked a question and Simon knew he didn’t care about the answer. Still, the man raised the marker again and launched into another rapid-fire assessment of the situation, his voice becoming louder with the urgency of his argument.

  As the group leaned over the table in discussion, the door behind them opened slightly, but no one entered. That’s odd, Simon thought. He took a quick step to the side so that the group of men didn’t block his view. Through the crease of the open door, someone pushed a briefcase along the floor, situating it against the wall and then withdrew and the door eased shut.

  Shit.

  Simon sprinted the short distance to the Boss. “Down,” he screamed. He jumped on the Boss’s shoulders, forcing the large man to the floor with his weight.

  “What the—?” the Boss turned, looking wild-eyed from his awkward position on the floor. “What the fuck?”

  “Stay down!” Simon yelled. He put a hand in the Boss’s face and forced him to lay flat. Simon stood and faced the men who had not moved and were staring at him, perplexed looks on their faces.

  “Run!” Simon screamed. He grabbed the table, yanked it up with both hands and pushed it over onto its side, the table now between him and the Boss and the briefcase. With one hand Simon restrained the Boss while his other arm lay along the top of the overturned table. Beneath him the Boss glared up at him in a mixture of bewilderment and anger. Across the room the group of men hadn’t moved. Simon dropped his head behind the table.

  The moment he did an ear-shattering explosion ripped through the room knocking the table onto Simon and the Boss. Simon lay on top of the Boss, a searing heat spreading through his exposed arm, a dim realization of body parts lying all around them. He faded into unconsciousness, a dreamy sweatiness, uncomfortable and in pain.

  ◆◆◆

  Simon sat up in bed, his body bathed in sweat, his good hand massaging the bad one. His breathing was heavy as he surveyed the room, the event roiling over in his memory again. He put a hand to his forehead.

  “Damn,” he muttered. “Damn,” he repeated, still massaging his bad arm.

  “Again?” Christina rolled over in bed.

  “Yeah.”

  “Which nightmare was it? Her or the explosion?”

  “The explosion.”

  She sat up, put an arm around his shoulder and pulled him to her. She hugged him, then kissed him. “It’s okay. Alright?”

  “I know.” Taking a deep breath, he rose, walked to the dresser and took a t-shirt from a drawer. He pulled the wet shirt he wore from over his head and tossed it in the corner. After he put it on, he crossed to the minibar, poured scotch into a glass and took it to the window. Through the curtains he could see the shimmering outline of the Capitol rising over the Washington skyline. A light orange tinged the eastern sky. He took a sip from the glass and then another.

  The scream of sirens sounded close by and he pulled the curtain back. “A stones-throw from the Capitol and it’s like a war zone out there,” Simon said, though he doubted Christina was listening. Metal barriers sat in the middle of the street and policemen stood around them, dressed in heavy armor. It wasn't even morning and the blast shields were already in place. “At least we’re on the inside of the shields,” he said aloud, more to himself than Christina.

  “What?” she moaned, half awake. She rolled over on her side, facing him. “What?”

  “Nothing. Go back to sleep.” Simon finished the scotch, placed the empty glass on the table and closed the curtains. “Just another day,” he said as he headed for the shower.

  Chapter Six

  Malouf dropped his forehead into his hands. What have I done?

  He straightened and motioned to the bartender. She approached, a towel swishing back and forth in the inside of a glass. She held the glass up to the light and then placed it on the bar. “Yes?”

  “Coffee with a shot of Jameson on the side.”

  “No coffee, Mister.” She shrugged as she placed the glass next to a line of glasses. “It’s New Orleans. No water pressure here. The pipes are broken again,” she said smiling, leaning with both forearms onto the bar.

  “Just the Jameson then.” Malouf put a hand to his brow again. How could I have done that? He had broken rule number one. Don’t affect things. In any way or manner. Observe, document, but never interfere or get involved. Never. No matter what. And he had done it without hesitation.


  A distant rumble of thunder sounded, and he noticed the darkening sky through the window that stretched from floor to ceiling in the bar at the Ace Hotel. How could he explain his actions? It wasn’t like he had interceded in an earth-shattering event. Some petty thug had killed a rival and was threatening to kill the rival’s girlfriend. That happened all day every day in today’s America. It probably wouldn’t even make the local news in New Orleans if it hadn’t happened in a tourist area of the French Quarter. No way his intervention could affect things. Still, who knew what consequences an individual act, even a small, random one might have? Maybe the girl, her life spared, might bear the child that led the next rebellion. Or the one who might quash the next rebellion, he thought with a shudder.

  There was a light mist of rain and people scurried on the city street, hands over their heads, hesitating under awnings or opening umbrellas. I’ll probably get away with it. His act had been insignificant in the great scheme of things but still he had violated every facet of his training in one act and with no hesitation. If the Commission found out, he would never be sent on another mission. They would cite fatigue and most likely, place him behind a desk. They weren’t allowed to interfere, no matter what. The potential ramifications were too great.

  The bartender approached with a steaming cup of coffee. “I got some for you from the Oregon Coffee House next door. They got a reverse osmosis machine that makes good coffee even when the water pressure’s bad.” She placed a shot glass on the bar next to the coffee and filled it to the brim. “Anything else, Mister?”

  “No. Thanks, though.”

  She pointed to the white bandage wrapped around his palm. “What happened to your hand?”

  “Saved a girl from getting killed and got cut in the process. No big deal.” Malouf half-laughed.

  “Oh, right.” The bartender flashed a dubious smirk and moved to another customer.

  Malouf marveled at the local accent. She sounded as if she were from Brooklyn. He had always been enamored with the New Orleans mystique. The tragedy of the City had always left him spellbound. His grandfather had spent his early years in Lafitte, some fifteen miles south of the city, before the water had come. He would sit with his corncob pipe, rocking back and forth, sipping on bourbon from a clear Mason jar and telling stories about life on the bayou. As a child, Malouf would sit mesmerized, and dream of old pirates and the swamp creatures that his grandfather had almost magically conjured. As the bourbon was consumed and the glass became lighter, his grandfather would inevitably turn to the sordid tale of the beginning of the Great City’s demise: the heedless dredging of thousands of canals through the bayou, the better and more efficient way to move men and machinery to the large oil platforms, the shrimpers who ended up casting their nets where solid ground had once been, the ever encroaching waters that had eventually forced evacuation from homes that had sheltered seven generations.