On Broken Wings

by Francis Porretto

  "I'm surprised you didn't kick him in the balls."

  She elbowed open the door to the stairwell and nudged him into it. "I wasn't sure he had any."

  ***

  Christine stood and watched Svenson as he packed his personal oddments. It was like watching a film run at half or quarter speed. His every movement screamed with pain.

  "Is it that bad?"

  He nodded without turning toward her. "I've done a lot of my best work here."

  "You'll find another job."

  He said nothing.

  "You will, Rolf. If I could get in here, somebody with your experience will be able to sign on with any firm he likes."

  "It's not that, Chris. But thanks for trying."

  She groped for words, any words that might have some healing power, and found none.

  Arkham beat us. We thought we had him by the short and curlies, and he slipped the hold and took us out with one shot.

  We didn't fight dirty enough. We didn't sink low enough. You can't beat someone like that at his own game, unless you're just as foul as he is.

  "Chris?"

  She turned to find Dick Orloff standing behind her, looking rumpled and bewildered.

  "Hi, Dick. I guess you've heard."

  "Yeah." He jammed his hands into his pockets. "Just what did you do to Terry Arkham?"

  She snorted. "No more than he deserved for trying to fuck us over. Hey, we didn't let him, though, did we?"

  Orloff grinned. "No, you certainly didn't. Chris, if I cash in every marker I've got, I can get you back in here. Make it as if it never happened, I think. And the company needs you something fierce. Think about it?"

  "Thanks, Dick, but I don't want this job any more. Unless," she glanced in Svenson's direction, "you could get him back in as well."

  The Director of Software Engineering shook his head.

  "I can't do it. Arkham wanted his scalp, and right now, since that demo, what Arkham wants, he gets. By the way, did you find out why he torpedoed the simulator?"

  "I don't have a clue. Unless this is the windup he wanted, and damned if I can see that. He didn't think we could do any of the things we've done these past two weeks. Oh, here." She extracted a disk cartridge from her purse and handed it to Orloff. "There's our evidence against Arkham, in case anyone ever decides to care. The file names are all self-explanatory."

  Orloff nodded and slipped it into his breast pocket. Christine stuck out her hand, and the executive took it.

  "You did your best, Dick. Mostly, the past six months have been a ball for me. None of the bad stuff was your fault. Just let it all go. We might meet up again."

  "I hope so, Chris. Hey, Rolf," he called past her, "Are you gonna say goodbye, or just sleepwalk right out of here?"

  Svenson turned from his packing and clasped Orloff's hand.

  "G'bye, Dick. What is it Roger's always saying? Keep 'em loose and swinging. I'm sure we'll be in touch."

  Orloff shook, and nodded, and walked away.

  ***

  Christine had nothing to retrieve from her cubicle. She'd never brought anything personal to work to leave there, and on Morrison's advice she hadn't brought Boomer that day.

  When Rolf had finished packing, she shouldered one of his boxes as he hefted the other. The two of them threaded the cubicle maze toward the building exit for the last time.

  "Hey, guys, wait a minute!"

  They set their burdens down as Roger Morrison came puffing up behind them.

  "So this is it, eh? Did Dick catch you yet?"

  "Yeah, Roger," Rolf said. "You're our last goodbye."

  Morrison looked down, abashed. "I tried, Rolf. Honest. I pulled every string I thought I had hold of. They all went limp on me. Arkham must have Holloway's first born locked in a closet or something."

  Svenson grinned. "Thanks, Roger, I'm sure you gave it your best shot."

  "Of course the real hell of it is losing this hot babe over here." The AAR project director grinned at Christine. "Keeping her around was certainly worth tolerating your ugly puss. They should have known better, but they never do."

  Christine giggled. "You plan to grow up any century soon, Roger?"

  "Never, cutie. Promise you'll look after this clown for me? Make sure he doesn't pitch himself in front of a truck?"

  She nodded. "Count on it."

  Morrison offered his hand to Christine. She slid past it, wrapped her arms around him and kissed him firmly.

  "Whoo! Remember my age, cutie. I might not survive two of those. Rolf," Morrison turned to the team leader, "call on me for anything. I know I haven't been much good to you in the past."

  Svenson took Morrison's hand in both of his own.

  "Roger, you're the best boss I ever had. I can't imagine why you'd think I felt otherwise."

  The project director's face filled with surprise as they shouldered their boxes and continued on.

  ***

  Christine helped Rolf load his boxes into the back of his old Ford, then stopped him before he could slide into the driver's seat. "Do something for me, Rolf?"

  His brow furrowed. "Anything, Chris. Name it."

  "Come back home with me, keep me company for a while? I don't want to be alone."

  The request appeared to confuse him.

  Don't say no, Rolf. I don't want to drag you.

  "Well, okay, sure. Should I follow you?"

  "Yeah." Her voice became husky. "It's not far. Stay close behind and I'll try not to lose you." She slipped into her little Chrysler, pulled out and headed home, driving more slowly than usual. Every few seconds she checked for him in her rear-view mirror. He stayed right behind her.

  When they had both pulled into the driveway at 633 Alexander Avenue, she leaped out of her car and went to his. He was slow to dismount.

  "This is Louis Redmond's house."

  She nodded. "Been here before?"

  His expression was blank. "A few times. Louis and I got along pretty well."

  She pulled open the door of his car and reached for his hand. He let her lead him up the walk and into her living room. Malcolm was not in evidence. Neither was Boomer.

  Malcolm must be taking him on a stroll. Good timing, guys.

  "Are you and Louis...?"

  She closed the door and turned to him. "We were, Rolf. Louis is dead. He died last October. I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you."

  His eyes went wide and filled with sorrow. He shuffled a few steps over to the sofa and collapsed onto it. "My God," he whispered. "Louis dead. How?"

  "Cancer."

  "And him so young. My God." He started to weep.

  That a man sheds tears upon learning of the passing of another good man may not be infallible proof of his own goodness, but it was confirmation enough for Christine. A seed deep within her opened and began to sprout. She squatted before him, took his head between her hands and raised it to face her.

  "Louis left you something, Rolf."

  "What?"

  "Upstairs."

  She pulled him to his feet and led him up the stairs and into her bedroom. She closed the door behind them, brought him to the bed she had shared with Louis, and sat with him upon it. He surveyed the room in some confusion, then sought her eyes again.

  "What did he leave me, Chris?"

  She hesitated, then put her hands to his tear-streaked face and pulled it toward her.

  "Me," she said, and kissed him.

  ====

  Chapter 48

  Christine woke late in the afternoon. Rolf was still asleep, snoring beside her. The room was warm and quiet. The approach of dusk had cast all but the far corner where her dresser stood into shadow.

  She slipped out from under the comforter, donned her robe and eased open the bedroom door. There were faint sounds of movement from the kitchen below. Apparently Malcolm and Boomer had returned.

  She padded down the stairs to find Malcolm at the kitchen table, a coffee mug and an open book before him, and Boomer at his
feet gnawing on a rawhide bone. The old warrior surprised her with a smile.

  "Company?"

  She nodded. "He's still asleep." She poured coffee for herself and joined him at the table. Boomer ceased to worry his bone and awarded her a drooly canine grin. She reached down and stroked his head.

  Malcolm marked his place and closed his book. "You look as if you've had an interesting day."

  She nodded. "I quit my job."

  "Really?"

  "Really." She gave him a condensed narration of the morning's events. He listened in silence.

  "That's where Louis worked, isn't it?"

  "Yup. He never told me it was a snake pit."

  "He might not have noticed, Chris. Louis had a way of letting things like that go past him." Malcolm glanced toward the stairs. "Tell me about him."

  "Well, his name is Rolf, and he's very sweet and protective, and I used to report to him, and it was because he got fired that I quit."

  "Oh? And he's the protective one?"

  She chuckled. "Cut him a little slack, Malcolm. He hardly knows me."

  "Hm. A number of Biblical puns suggest themselves, but, being a gentleman, I'll restrain myself."

  "Gee, thanks."

  "Don't mention it. I assume we're going to be seeing a lot of him in the future?"

  She grinned. "Unless you want us to do it out in the woods."

  "God forbid. Better you should shock the dog."

  A tension she had not known she harbored melted and was gone. "Thanks for not being a tightass about this, Malcolm."

  He shrugged. "It's your house."

  "And it's your home. I want you to enjoy living here, not just endure it for my convenience. If this made you uncomfortable, I'd work out a way around it."

  "You don't have to, Chris. What are you planning to tell him?"

  "You mean, about me?"

  "No, about the Treaty of Utrecht and its influence on the Spanish succession."

  "Oh, very funny. I don't think he needs to know the gorier details about my past, do you?"

  "I concur. But what will you tell him if he asks?"

  "I'll think of something." Noises from the bedroom level indicated that Rolf had awakened and was stumbling around. "I'd better go be a good hostess."

  He nodded and went back to his book. Boomer went upstairs with her. They found Rolf struggling into his street clothes. Boomer began to nuzzle him while he was trying to put on his pants, causing him to stagger and recover awkwardly. He grinned.

  "I guess I needed a few winks." He fumbled with the buckle on his belt. "Forgive me?"

  She went to him and put her arms around him. "Don't mention it. How are you feeling now?"

  He squeezed her gently. "You have to ask?"

  Good point. He looks about twenty years younger than he did this morning.

  She pulled his head onto her shoulder and rocked against him. "Thank you, Rolf. I needed this. I've wanted you for a while, but I needed you today. Thanks for not making it difficult for me."

  He pulled back from her to study her face. "I wanted you too, Chris. You didn't know?"

  She shook her head. "I might have had a few clues, but we never talked about anything but work. I thought maybe the golden moment had come and gone."

  There was a bright sheen across his eyes. "I didn't know what I could give you. I didn't want to ask anything of you until I did know."

  "Because of Anna?"

  He nodded. A shadow flitted across his face. "It wasn't that long ago."

  I lost Louis, but he was completely mine right to the end of his life. But Rolf was a family man, and his family left him. What could be worse?

  "So, where do we go from here?"

  "Oh, that's easy. To dinner. And tonight it's my treat, okay?"

  He chuckled. "Okay. Got someplace in mind?"

  "Not yet. How about you?"

  "I understand there's a new restaurant on Cayuga Boulevard that admits patrons with dogs. Maybe you, I, and Boomer should check it out."

  She pulled him close again. "Done."

  Boomer wagged his tail.

  ***

  Rusty peered through the front windows of the abandoned house for the hundredth time that day. There was still nothing to see. From behind him, the clinks and muttered obscenities of Pete and Al's interminable, pointless penny pitching game continued.

  Mac and Carl better come back with something, or we're all gonna be off our rockers in no time.

  He had picked the house because of its isolation, at the end of a cul-de-sac a good distance from any other houses or any of the main roads. He'd figured it would be safest to have an unobtrusive hideaway, given their numbers and their enemies. As run down as the place was, it didn't figure that anyone else would challenge them for it. The others had agreed.

  They'd removed the plywood from the windows in the living room and from one tiny back window in the kitchen, so that they couldn't be approached without knowing. Mac had jury-rigged a wooden catch for the back door, to replace the one they'd forced. There was no electricity, and no oil in the tank to heat the dump with, but it was a welcome shelter from the elements even so. That first night, when the five of them spread their bedrolls on the living room floor, it had been home. Now it was their prison.

  We need action real bad. The hell with the state of the treasury. If I'm getting this squirrelly, the others have to be ready to explode.

  Something had changed in Onteora. He couldn't nail it down, but there was a stockade-like feeling to the place, as if the citizens could feel the pressure of watchful eyes. The hell of it was, he could feel it too.

  The increased street presence from the police couldn't account for all of it. That sort of thing was supposed to make the citizens feel safer, anyway. Yet the papers were all harping on a recent, sharp increase in burglaries and street thefts. A few days ago, he'd seen a biker snatch a woman's purse from her shoulder with a cop not more than twenty feet away. The cop hadn't made even a token attempt to chase the thief. Nor had he called in a report to headquarters on his walkie-talkie. He'd merely shrugged at the irate woman and sent her on her way.

  Son of a bitch was wearing Butcher colors, too.

  All things considered, if the Butchers hadn't been here, Onteora would have been the place Rusty least wanted to be.

  As the last of the afternoon sunlight faded away, cycle engine noises from down the street announced the imminent return of Mac and Carl. Pete and Al finally gave up their penny pitching, swept up their coins and stood to greet their mates. The two scouts entered the living room a few moments later, looking pleased with themselves.

  "Got something for us?"

  Mac nodded. "Sure do, Russ. Pretty good target, too. Big new gas station at the corner of Cayuga and Helmsford. Guy does a good business, maybe two grand a day, mostly cash. But he uses a cheap tin cashbox, and Carl spotted where he leaves it."

  Rusty's eyebrows went up. "Good stuff, Carl." Carl grinned and shrugged.

  "Can we hit it tonight?"

  Mac nodded again. "Best time, Russ. He closes around seven. Get there a few minutes after, break one window, and we can be off with the box before the cops have time to respond."

  Can't be that simple. Someone else would have taken the place already. I should probably scope it myself. But we've got to do something, and what the hell? Maybe Mac really has found us a pigeon.

  Rusty grinned. "Well, with the treasury under a hundred bucks, I think maybe we've got our evening planned out for us, hey, boys?"

  His four riders grinned back in acknowledgement and undisguised eagerness.

  ***

  Christine laid money atop the check, returned her wallet to her purse and stood. Rolf stood with her. Boomer struggled to his paws, yelping once in indignation as he slid back to the waxed hardwood floor.

  "You don't like credit cards?"

  "I don't have any."

  "Why, for God's sake?"

  She shrugged. "Never seemed all that important to get o
ne."

  Plus, you need a lot of stuff I don't have to get a credit company to give you one. Like a past you can talk about.

  "Well, what now?" He buttoned his jacket and reached for her free hand.

  "How about we just stroll around the city a little? Boomer could use the exercise." So could I. For the last two weeks the muscles Louis put on me have been turning into pizza dough.

  They made their way toward the exit. She had to keep Boomer's leash short to prevent him from trying to make friends with every other dog in the establishment on their way out.

  He was good at dinner, though. I only had to tell him to stay once, and he stayed. Why do they do this stuff for us?

  "So what did you think of the restaurant?"

  Rolf shrugged. "Not bad, but not particularly good. It's a gimmick place. People won't be going there for the food, mostly."

  "Yeah." She pointed them eastward on Cayuga. Boomer moved out to the end of his leash again. "Rolf, are you okay with all of this? You were awfully quiet at dinner."

  He took her hand and squeezed it. "Chris, did you ever luck into anything before? Something so unexpected and so good that you were afraid to move or speak, in case it might break the spell or wake you up?"

  "Oh." A lump rose in her chest. "Thank you."

  His smile turned impish. "De nada, cutie."

  It was all the watering the seed of love in Christine's heart needed. Six months' loneliness dropped away from her with a clang that erased the sound of the heavy-gauge motorcycle engines approaching from the eastern end of Cayuga Boulevard.

  ***

  Once Rusty's eyes lit on Christine, he couldn't look away. He held up a hand in the biker's traditional code for stopping and pulled to the curb. The other four pulled up close behind him.

  "What's up, Russ? Cops?"

  "Naw." Rusty tried to keep his voice low and steady. "Looky there." He pointed toward Christine.

  Four mouths dropped open in shock.

  "Jesus motherfucking Christ," breathed Pete. "It's Christine."

  "That's some Goddamn big dog," muttered Al.

  Rusty didn't hear the expostulations. His thoughts had jumped into a higher gear.

  Tiny lied to us. Whatever went down at that little guy's house, it sure wasn't the way he told it.