My kind of raising the bar did not involve watching the razing of my bar.
Joy had inevitably begged her way onto the carriage bearing Pablo to us. The two of them now sat together in one of the plush leather armchairs in the Officer’s Club, listening to the music waft up from downstairs, their heads leaned together as though their minds were left and right stereo speakers playing the same song.
Downstairs, the crowd was rocking out to the band scorching it up onstage. The old tube amps they used were stalwartly smashing out the sound, the weed-mead and beer were flowing, people were dancing, and no one had a clue that I was about to have a man in my basement prison kidnapped into pirate slavery.
Robbo had done a good job of hiding his confederates. I had no idea which of the generally well-dressed, decently-groomed folks in the crowd were his crimps. I decided to wait until very near to midnight to release Harold into the crowd.
When I unlocked him from the basement and told him he was free to go, he definitely didn’t believe me. I maybe sold it too hard, telling him no hard feelings, and hey, to go have a drink at the bar on me. I was keeping his painting, but thanks for the heads-up on the creepy creatures in the sea, whatever the horrific hell he’d meant by that.
Everything seemed to be working as well as possible for this crazy situation. Until Harold spotted Manny.
Manny had done a good job of discreetly dancing in the crowd while keeping his eye on Harold, but like I said, the kid was sharp. He stood out. And for reasons I didn’t understand at that exact moment, Harold decided to chase him.
Manny knew we had to keep Harold trapped. He also knew he couldn’t send him through the shanghai tunnel first. The deal had been for Pablo to preclude him. So Manny did the only other thing he could think of, which actually had seemed like a decent idea for about thirty seconds.
He chased him upstairs to the Officer’s Club.
And that’s where all hell broke loose.
***
Chapter Seven – Expulsion
In all the old dystopia stories, there’d be zombies everywhere, or mutant marauders or whatever, but we never used to figure that after the end of things, for the most part, we’d actually all be pretty chill. But I was a fool to think an inexplicable pact to be reasonable somehow just flourished organically out of the still-irradiated soil. I thought we’d recognized the value of safety, and the safety of value, but everyone’s definitions of both of those things vary too vastly.
Upstairs, Harold immediately began yelling that he should kill Manny for what he’d done. Harold had been the first one to draw, as it were, having wrenched one of the old officers’ sabers off the wall. Manny calmly drew his own weapon, but didn’t counter Harold’s ranting.
I demanded that Joy take Pablo downstairs into the ex-kitchen where the basement tunnel trapdoor was, but told her not to go into the tunnels. When I turned back after ensuring the two were gone, Manny and Harold were taking swings at each other. It wasn’t pretty, nor was it cool. I yelled repeatedly at both of them to stop.
As both huffed for breath, weapons still at the ready, Harold growled, “You fucking traitor. You sold me the fuck out.”
“You owed me, maricon,” Manny growled. “You owed me big-time. You chose your punishment. You did what you wanted to.”
The blades clashed again. Harold got clipped fairly badly on his non-dominant shoulder, the blood seeping into his dark peacoat. He turned to me, bereft.
“I didn’t forge the painting,” he huffed loudly at me. “HE did! HE forced me to try to pass it off on you!”
And though I saw rage and sadness on Manny’s face as he looked at me imploringly, I suddenly realized this was the truth.
***
“MARICON!” Manny curses again, rushing Harold vehemently. Harold uses this outburst to carefully sidestep him and swipe the saber severely through Manny’s midsection. In horror, Manny drops to the ground, his tight T-shirt revealing a nigh-vivisectional slash across his belly.
Harold withdraws. “Tell her,” he screams, “Tell her the truth!”
“I’m so sorry, Reli,” Manny gasps, his eyes rolling uncontrollably with the pain. “I just wanted to see if my art was good enough. I thought I could get it past you.” He coughs, and a sickening slippery sound follows. “I thought The Admiral would give me Admission if he saw what I could do,” he wheezes. “I thought he could have me redo any of the old paintings that got lost, so we could have them. So we could all have them.” A macabre moan escapes his rapidly-paling lips. “I begged Santi to let me look at all the other copies, so I could get it perfect. I told him keep it secret, it was a gift for a girl. Don’t be mad at him. I was so close. So close.”
I have no idea what to say, but I know I need to say something fast. The glow is fading from Manny’s dying form.
“It was beautiful, Manny,” I say, smoothing his now-mussed Elvis hairdo into its proper iconic arrangement. “It was beautiful. If Santi hadn’t tricked Harold with the lefty salute, I would have thought your painting was genuine. It was perfect, Manny. It was perfect.”
His radiant smile appears once more as the rest of the light leaves his body.
The pirates who didn’t look at all like pirates are standing in the doorway, swords drawn from sheaths hanging astride their nice khakis. Harold stares at them, clearly too unstable to take on more contenders.
“Captain Arturo says you’re coming with us,” one of them snarls.
Harold’s eyes go horrifically wide as he lets out a feral scream.
“NO! YOU’RE WRONG! THERE’S BEASTS IN THE SEA! DEMONS! NO! YOU CAN’T TAKE ME!”
The pirates approach, very much intending to ignore the rantings of this crazy man.
A man so crazy that, as the Robbo’s nattily-attired raiders draw near, he lifts the saber and stabs himself through the stomach, seppuku-style.
As he collapses, he murmurs softly, but still defiantly, “Not the sea.”
The pleasant-looking pirates survey the carnage for a second, sternly warn me against following them, and dash back downstairs.
***
I wait all of twenty seconds before giving chase. The music downstairs has drowned out the mayhem above. I dash to the back of the main bar and through the swinging doors.
There’s no one in the kitchen.
Not Rudy, not Robbo’s raiders, not Joy, not Pablo, not anyone.
There’s only one small, shiny object sitting on the closed trapdoor.
A drachma, tails up.
***
When I run up the stairs, taking them two at a time to my rooftop observation deck, I can just make out the dark outline of Robbo’s black freighter pulling out of the its dock in the harbor.
***
Chapter Eight – Rocking The Renaissance
My autopilot reaction is to dash back down to the docks, but I don’t want to chance the tunnels in case the pirates have left traps or other terrors in their wake. I shove through the whole goddamned romance-celebrating crowd at the front of the bar, running straight into Tony Toast, who’s dancing with some other girl. I don’t even pause to ponder if I care. Hauling ass on foot down the snowy street, I dash haphazardly into Las Diablas, where Li is laughing and pouring shots for some scruffy-looking men and their attendant floozies at the bar.
“Have you seen anyone?” I gasp. “Joy? Rudy? Pablo?”
“No,” she says cautiously, then confidently, “Something’s wrong.”
“Yeah,” I wheeze. “I lost…” I was going to name who, then realize I’ve already explained myself.
“I’ll tell you if I see any of them,” Li replies reasonably. “By the way, I think Tony Toast wanted to hang out with you tonight, he was looking for you…”
“I’ll spank him later. Thanks.” I dash outside and toward the docks once more.
The U.S.S. Pot Yacht is dark, but it’s still there. The crew’s all off, partying in town, and the dockmasters all know I’m not a threat to security. I jump aboard.
The whirring of small generator engines and hydrobubblers tells me that they left him all the grow rigs though, which seems nice, although they probably now intend on finding him again after the next harvest.
Well, what the hell else do you expect from pirates?
The first thing I do when I remove the gag is ask where Joy is. Rudy coughs and nods at his sleeping quarters, and sure enough, there she is. Also unharmed but similarly bound, the pirates at least let her sit on the bed.
I remove her gag and ask if she’s okay. She’s missing a few of her nicer diamond bracelets. Goddamn fucking pirates.
“I gave them to Pablo,” she quickly explains, sensing my ire. “To remember me, since I said I couldn’t go with them.”
“They ASKED if you wanted to go with them? Like, politely?”
“Yeah.”
Just as I’m pondering calling her out on this outrageous lie, Rudy staggers to his feet and stumbles in.
“It’s true,” he confirms. “They asked if she wanted to go learn how to be a real pirate instead of a fakeass, excuse me, fakebutt like me, because look how dumb I was to get robbed like this. They said to be careful who she trusted. She said she trusted you, and no smelly pirates could tell her not to.”
I shake my head. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. Then she asked if Pablo could stay, because they were friends and she liked his music. They laughed their ass… their rear ends off at that.” Rudy sighs and rubs his neck. “Then they blindfolded me and knocked me out.”
“What happened then?” I ask Joy.
“Pablo said he wanted to stay too,” Joy sniffled. “He said he liked it here, and that all the people were really nice, and the piano in the school was really nice, and that I was his best friend yet. He said he’d jump off the boat if they tried to take him away. But now he’s not here.” She’s still sniffling, trying not to cry, but a trickle of tears is exposed in her melting mascara. “And you’re gonna be mad at me.”
“No, sweetie, no. I’m not mad at you.”
“You’re gonna be,” Joy repeats. “Robbo’s raiders made me open up the sub-basement when they ran out through the tunnels with us. There were only two of them with us, but they forced me to bring them a bunch of stuff. They were scared to go inside, because they thought there were traps. I gave them a lot of stuff, Reli.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“There’s one okay thing, though,” Joy said.
There is NO okay part of this situation, except the fact you’re still alive, I wanted to scream at her, but bit my tongue. I cross my arms and raise my eyebrows, awaiting her reply.
“I only opened the room with all the fakes in it. I gave them a bunch of those. Sorry, but I had to give them the good ones. But they’re just a bunch of smelly pirates. At least with the good fakes, they probably won’t know the difference. Even if they did dress up and pretend to be nice.”
***
Officer Rick is waiting at the top of the trapdoor when we get back from the boat, via the tunnels this time. I hadn’t wanted to enlist him in the search for Rudy and Joy, but of course he’d gotten suspicious when Li told him how worried I’d been.
I take him upstairs to survey the crime scene while Rudy takes Joy and the musicians back to campus. Santi knows something’s wrong, but I wait until the last guests are gone before explaining the story to him. I don’t mention anything about how I know he let Manny use all the forgeries for references. He doesn’t need any of this trouble on his mind.
I just really hate hurting peoples’ feelings. It used to serve me so well in the service industry. Guess that, like so many other things, needs updating.
Earlier today, I thought I’d be pretty mad if I wasn’t falling asleep next to Rudy, but now I just want to crash.
The value of not doing anything at all is sometimes inestimably important.
***
The next morning, in The Admiral’s office, I’m explaining everything. Well, explaining what I can. I still have a LOT of questions.
“Why can’t we pursue Robbo? I don’t care he threatened us, he also took half of this quarter’s harvest! Can’t Rudy retaliate somehow?”
“Even if I did know the answer to that, telling you would be a tremendous security breach. You’re on Robbo’s raiders’ radar too, now. Don’t make yourself more of a target.”
I genuinely wonder how the hell Robbo got away with all that loot in such a short time.
It dawns on me, in the same place that dawn still always breaks in the US.
“Rudy’s helping him, isn’t he? Are they convoying to Maine? Robbo with the product in a better-armed boat, and Rudy ready to pick up more supplies?” I go for broke. “He was gone all morning yesterday. Planning, repacking probably. They tied him up to make it look good, so he won’t lose face in town or with me, and now he’ll give the appearance of a mission north while Robbo goes south, but they’ll re-meet somewhere else. Since, if the Chinese are coming, we can’t openly support pirates, but we need them to do all the shit we’re not up for. And you can’t tell me, because if I let it slip, every pirate and privateer left will be gunning for both of them as traitors!” I yell my astonished accusations with authority, although I know I’m probably not getting answers anyway. But I want to see the Admiral’s reaction. I’ve bartended long enough to know how easily people will let secrets slip if they secretly want them to be known.
“Operation Glades is real, isn’t it? There’s another base up there, isn’t there? Is it ours?”
“Don’t ask me questions whose answers jeopardize even more lives than your own,” the Admiral snaps, then cools. “Run the bar, run it right, don’t run off, and you might find out some answers for yourself sometime. The correct way.”
I push my luck. Fuck it, I’ve shoved it uphill this far.
“Can you at least tell me if there really is a ski mountain?”
The Admiral stares at me sternly, his countenance revealing nothing.
“When I have time to focus on rebuilding recreational athletic facilities, on top of running an institution of higher education, a community collective that nurtures six thousand souls, and amassing an artistic archive unparalleled in any era of humanity, I assure you, Aurelia, you can pull the first pint in the base lodge.”
I’m almost assuaged by this, but now my mind’s humming like a generator. A distressing thought comes to light. “If Robbo’s helping Rudy and working under his letter of marque, Rudy could get hanged for piracy if they’re caught by authorities in another city…”
The Admiral, clearly finished with my malarkey, cuts me off.
“Captain Arturo’s whereabouts are presently unknown,” he clips. “Captain Brough is slated to return around St. Patrick’s Day. Perhaps by then you’ll have enough fortifications and organization secured to be able to entrust the bar to someone long enough to undertake a recovery mission of your own. Though that remains a point of strong speculation.”
That’s it. There isn’t any use arguing. All I can do is fix what I’ve allowed to go wrong.
If only more people got such a chance, ever. I still considered myself lucky.
St. Patrick’s Day it was, then. I’d be ready.
Who was I kidding. Uncle Marty was never going to let me leave. I was never getting out of Union Street, pirates or no pirates. Privateers or no privateers.
But I can be better. I can keep trying. And that’s worth all of the rebirth you can endure.
“Thanks, Uncle Marty. See ya.”
As I leave, the distinct sound of piano notes coalescing (Bach, maybe Beethoven, I dunno) seeps through the concrete walls, the music as tenacious as radioactivity, and just as luminous in the right conditions.
Humming some superb sonata, which I’m sure someday soon I’ll learn all about, I step out into the s
light swirls of snow, watching the whiteness grace the ground, each flake never knowing if it’ll end up as part of an avalanche or an oil painting, but bidden to work together all the same. The sun, though it could kill them, makes them sparkle.
In the distance, around the Ring Road perimeter of the campus, the former commander of the International Space Station is riding his bicycle to class.
And maybe, just a little bit beneath where the snow’s melted off the ground, I see some green blades of grass fighting their way upward, embraced by the dirt but reaching toward the sun.
NOBODY STARVES
Ron Goulart
The straight falling rain blurred the glass wall of the cubicle and Arlen Lembeck could not see any of the billboards that dotted this sector of Greater Los Angeles. Or maybe it was his eyesight. He'd been docked a 100 calories for missing punch-in last Tuesday and he had the feeling his new eating program was affecting his vision. He leaned back in his chair until the headrest was a half inch from the headrest of his cubicle chief and picked up the ear trumpet that fed into Secretary Central.
The quota of subliminal outdoor billboard slogans for Cubicle 97 of the Greater Los Angeles Subliminal Outdoor Bureau was twenty-five this week. Going over quota could mean ten more calories a day and a membership card in one of the new Venusian import warehouses. Lembeck didn't understand Venusian imports but Edith was still upset about the calorie cut and something like this might boost her feelings.
Though he was thirty-four and only a Class B 14, Lembeck was a good slogan man. The Cubicles 90-100 Newsletter had mentioned him twice in the last month.
“Touching,” said Burns Smollet, the cubicle chief.
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