by Alex Ryan
“We really aren’t supposed to tell people where former employees have gone.”
“Understood. No problem.”
“Like I said, you really might want to check out the Tacoma Public Library.” The waitress gave a wink.
The food sat on the table before him. There was toast. Butter. Jam. Rex pretty much devoured everything in sight. In retrospect, he really hadn’t eaten all that much in the past several weeks running between California and Mexico. Don’t catch up too much.
There was very little ambiguity about the waitress’ message. It was a big, two story block of a building with an older look to it. He walked through the detector gates inside the door, and methodically browsed the library from front to back, and then the upstairs. And there she was, working a reference desk. Rex nonchalantly meandered through the rows of bookshelves, looking at the various sections. Fiction. Historical. Photography. Rex loved looking at photography journals. He almost forgot about the 35mm single lens reflex camera he had left behind. It was probably the most valuable piece of property that he kept at the barracks. And then there were the pictures. The shots around Fort Lewis. Photos of various places where the unit mobilized on training missions. It was a shame he couldn’t bring it with him to Grenada. A few guys bought small instamatics that they could stash for the trip. He thumbed through a few of the large, hardcover photo journals and pulled one out that looked particularly interesting, and took a seat on the table by the reference desk.
Carol looked over at him, squinting slightly, as if she had just a hint of recognition. He smiled. She went back to filing some cards. The real question was, what would be the fallout for his recognition? She knew his face, she knew he was in the service from his haircut, but she didn’t know his name. She didn’t know he was a Ranger. He could have been supply. Hell, he could have been Air Force. But then again, the haircut. Yeah, right. Of course, to Carol, they’re all one and the same anyway, so why sweat it? Plus, what would be the probability that she would run in to one of his former buddies and say, ‘hey, I saw your friend the other day...’ Not too likely, and getting less likely by the day. Particularly now that she works at the library.
In high school, Rex had no confidence with girls. A lot had changed, and in a relatively short few years. He was literally a different person. Right now, he just needed to figure out a reason to open up a dialogue. She almost looked like she was ready to, but she didn’t. That didn’t mean he couldn’t.
But there was a bigger issue to examine here. He didn’t come all the way to Seattle just for Carol. If Lewis were not an issue, he probably wouldn’t have come here at all. No real reason to be. Simon was, and rightly so, angry with him for engaging in relationships with So-Young in Korea (how the hell did he find out, anyway?) and Kirsten Maples. You need an outlet? We have a lab full of cups. Grab as many as you need. The one thing that both of those women were, and this girl, Carol, was not, was a link to his past. Sure, Carol recognizes his face from his pre-Rex days, but that’s the extent of it. Simon surely wouldn’t hold him to strict chastity for the rest of his natural life. Besides... Rex, get a grip on yourself! What are you thinking? What are you trying to rationalize? The reality of the situation was that he started getting ahead of himself. Way ahead of himself. Carol represents temporary companionship that makes the down time less dull for the real mission. The problem is, if you aren’t careful, these things can turn in to ticking time bombs. And sometimes even if you are careful.
Rex strolled over to the counter and looked at Carol. “You used to work at Dillon’s, didn’t you?”
“I thought you looked familiar. You were one of the soldiers, weren’t you?” Carol asked.
“Yeah. You used to wait on everybody there. Everybody but me.”
“Silly, we have assigned sections. You guys never sat in my section.”
“Well, okay, that makes sense. I guess uh, I’ll... anyway, I’m Rex.”
She hesitated, as if a thought came to her mind. “Laura.”
“Right. See you. I’ll let you get back to work.”
What the hell, Rex thought. Laura? Somebody isn’t telling the truth. That didn’t go well. No matter. Rex returned to the desk and intently studied the photographs. They were old, black and white World War II pictures taken by a famous photojournalist. The history was fascinating, and history through photos is so much more telling. What time was it? Mid-morning? About lunchtime? Rex wasn’t the slightest bit hungry.
He engrossed himself in the book primarily to redirect his own frustration. His attention was so focused he failed to see the presence beside him.
“Hey,” Carol said.
Rex was startled. “Hi.”
“Just so you know, my name is Carol, not Laura.”
“You look a lot more like a Carol than you do a Laura. Why would you say your name is Laura?”
“I guess I’m a little spooked about my ex. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t some sort of stalker or something. You just look... I don’t know, so different. You were so clean cut, and now...”
“It’s a façade, I’m not normally like this.”
“Obviously you aren’t military anymore, what are you doing back here?”
Damn good question. Crap. Try to stick with the truth as much as you can. “You would laugh if I told you.”
“I have a good sense of humor.”
“A couple of guys framed a buddy of mine for a crime he didn’t commit. I’m trying to help him clear his name.”
“A detective, eh?”
“Well, let’s say I’m in training.”
Baby steps. Whiskey Joe’s was a genuine, whoop-it-up country bar. Line dancing. They had a damn mechanical bull, for god’s sake. Rex traded the grunge look for the neutral ‘could be country’ look with jeans and a solid flannel shirt that would work about as well in the country bar as it would in the coffee house. And a ball cap. Truthfully, Rex didn’t care for headgear, hated ball caps in particular, and thumbed his nose at those that wore headgear indoors, a practice strictly forbidden in the military unless you were under arms. And he wasn’t under arms. He didn’t even attempt to walk in with the Sig Sauer stashed away. They were searching people at the door. He needed the hat though, for cover. A cowboy hat would have probably been slightly less conspicuous inside this place, but outside of this place, forget it.
At least the beer was cold. Rex hadn’t eaten anything since that massive breakfast, so he ordered a basket of onion rings to nibble on as he watched the scenery from a table fashioned out of a barrel standing on its end. He couldn’t help but notice another man, similarly dressed, also wearing a baseball cap drawn low, occupying the barrel next to him. He looked like he might even be a soldier. A Ranger even. The hair was short enough. He was kind of youngish looking. He had an officer look to him.
These two guys always traveled together, like they were butt buddies or something. There they were, at the door. Mueller and Starr, wearing white cowboy hats, boots, and the gaudiest looking massive buckles you could get to stick on a wide strip of leather, resembling something in between a ship’s bell and a Chinese gong. All that was missing was the holsters and the pistols. And then from nowhere -maybe he was already here- Top Wilson appeared. They said Top was known to hang with these guys. They took three seats at the bar, almost as if they had a standing reservation for those particular seats. People moved for them.
A waitress came around to Rex. “Another beer?”
“Yeah, and I’d like to get one of those brisket sandwiches too.” Rex replied.
It occurred to Rex that he didn’t actually know what he was looking for. He could see them talking. He doubted they would be talking about much that he cared about in public like this. But who knows, get some beer in them. He would just have to hope that something would come to him.
He wasn’t sure at first, but now it seemed apparent that the man sitting alone at the barrel was paying attention to the trio of men as well. He waved the waitress off the last two
times. Rex took another position, a table out on the floor, behind Starr, Mueller, and Top Wilson but in a place where he could also observe the man at the barrel, who was starting to catch more and more of his interest.
Young GIs were making introductions and occasionally whispering in Mueller’s ear. Mueller would whisper back. One was from the unit, the rest he didn’t recognize. At some point, maybe forty five minutes later, both Mueller and Starr went outside. The man at the barrel got up, and left behind them. Top Wilson remained at his seat.
One thing was clear. Top Wilson was focused on that man as well, and watched him as he went through the door. Then he shook his head, as if to discount his presence. It looked like a reaction born out of paranoia.
Rex himself made his way through the crowd, and walked outside. He couldn’t see the man sitting on the barrel, but in far corner of the lot, he could see both Starr and Mueller by a car, engaging some young GIs in what appeared to be some sort of transaction; barring gay sex for money, it was very possibly a drug deal.
She looked at the file photo retrieved from the Department of Defense computer database. Thank god it wasn’t some kind of mug shot or booking shot. No, it was a portrait of the young Ranger, proudly standing with the American flag behind him, beret tucked under his elbow, intense eyes staring into the camera, almost as if they stared through the camera and directly in to the viewer’s eyes. She didn’t actually have a picture of Rex; she never thought to take one. She tucked it back into her purse, wondering if she was really doing the right thing.
The downtown DC restaurant on the rooftop of the high rise hotel was a stark contrast to the dingy, dirty, rustic but authentic Mexican restaurants at which she had been eating for the last couple weeks. Or was it three, or four? Something like that. Time flew. The floor was warm, plush carpet. You could probably eat off that carpet if you wanted to, although the soup wouldn’t be recommended. A jazz ensemble played slow bass rifts and subdued piano melody. You could probably take the bass track and piano track separately, shift it out of phase slightly, and have different music for the entire night. That’s probably what they did. The bass player looked like he wanted to be there. The piano player looked like he wanted to be there. But neither looked like they wanted to be there with each other. It sounded like it too.
The Agency never actually forbade dating, but it was made clear that national security was serious business, and you simply don’t talk shop while you’re out with somebody. The best advice, frankly, is to keep your occupation to yourself. You just work for the government as an administrative civil servant. Well, not really, a sworn agent isn’t a ‘civil servant,’ but it’s a close enough descriptor. Maples wasn’t exactly what one would term a secret agent, but most people assume anything associated with the CIA is just that.
When she was growing up, there was a stigma associated with dating services. Usually, the dregs that couldn’t be successful in any other venue turn to dating services. Now they are starting to become more commonplace, and they are even starting to track people using computer databases. They all claim that their members are winners and that they are careful to weed out the dregs. The biggest protection, to either side, is to ensure that membership is pricey enough to keep the players and the lounge lizards out. But even players and lounge lizards can have money.
He looked like the photograph in the folder with the rest of his profile. No, she didn’t bring the blue folder with her. That would be tacky. But it was clear someone doctored it up. Photo editing. They do that kind of thing for actors, particularly aging actors. They said they would do it for her photo but they didn’t need to, she looked like her photo and both looked pretty damned good. There was something just a little bit off on his suit. It wasn’t ill fitting. It wasn’t wrinkled. Something just didn’t quite fit in with the rest of the immaculate suits parading around the exclusive restaurant. Maybe it was the pattern. It was just a little bit on the flashy side. Not gaudy, but vibrant, and not necessarily in a positive way.
“You must be Kirsten?” The man said with a smile.
“Ron?” She replied.
He took a seat. “Been here long?” Ron asked.
“Not long. What’s forty five minutes?”
“Sorry. I ran in to a little traffic. Order some drinks?” Ron turned around and snapped his fingers at a passing waiter.
“Sure. I’ll have a shot of vodka.”
“Whoa! Aggressive. I like it. Waiter, two shots of vodka.”
“Sir, would you like well, or a specific brand?” The waiter asked.
“Well is fine,” Ron replied.
“Stoly for me, please” Kirsten replied.
“Um, yeah, make that two Stolys,” Ron replied. “So... Kirsten, what do you do?”
“For a living, you mean? I’m just an analyst for the government. Boring desk job. Not much to talk about really.”
“What kind of stuff do you analyze?”
“Just, you know, data, and stuff like that. How about yourself?”
“Well,” Ron said in a hushed voice, straightening his tie, and looking to his left and right as if to see if anyone was in earshot. “I uh, work for the government too. But I’m not really, uh, supposed to talk about it.”
“Wow. How exciting. What department do you work for?” Kirsten deliberately phrased the question in a rhetoric tone of voice as she downed the shot of vodka placed on the table in front of her. “Another please?”
“You need to keep it on the hush hush, but let’s just say, it begins with a consonant and ends with two vowels. Yeah.”
“Yeah my father used to work for the FAA. Retired from there. Good benefits.” Kirsten replied.
Ron looked down, and counted on his fingers. “Oh. Well. It begins with a C. and ends with an A.”
“Oh, you don’t say. How amazing. I’ll bet the middle letter is I. It is, isn’t it?”
“Smart girl, you can really figure things out quickly. Remember, mum is the word.”
“You can trust me. I won’t let your secret out. What’s your job like? I’ll bet you chase enemy agents around and bust them. That must be exciting.”
“Well, it’s all in a day’s work. One day you could be in Paris, the next day you could be in Cairo, and the following you could be in Moscow, shadowing the head of the KGB himself.”
“How exciting. You ready to order? I really like the lamb shanks here.”
“Oh, right. Yes, let me take a look at the menu.”
The waiter came back around, this time with a double shot of Stoly. “I thought you might need this,” he whispered to Kirsten, with his hand shielding his mouth. “Sir, can I help you with the menu?”
“Yeah, where are the prices?”
The waiter exchanged a pained glance with Kirsten. “Sir, if...”
“Never mind. You know what, this is a special occasion. Let’s order up.”
“I’ll have the lamb shanks. Medium rare.”
“Excellent choice, madam. And for you sir?”
“I’m looking.”
“Might I suggest the house special le boeuf haché served between deux tranches de pain, accompanied by patates frites?”
“Excellent,” Ron agreed. “I order that myself whenever I’m Paris.”
“Excuse me, I need to use the ladies room,” Kirsten said.
“No problem. I’ll watch your purse.” Ron replied.
“Actually, I kind of need it. Feminine issues, you know. Hint hint.”
“Ooooh, gotcha.” Hmm. Picked a bad night, Ron thought to himself.
She passed by the waiter. “Can you point me to the nearest phone?”
“Over there madam, on the opposite side of the wall from the restrooms.”
“And would you mind terribly much if the kitchen staff boxed up my order to go?”
“It will be waiting for you downstairs with the concierge.”
“Thank you so much.”
She dialed the number on the card. Cupid’s Warriors claimed round the cl
ock customer service. Finally, the phone was answered.
“Cupid’s Warriors. We take the worry out of being your warrior!” The girl giggled.
“Yes, this is Kirsten Maples. You people set me up on a date with Ronald Tiegbaum?”
“Hold on, let me go find the file. Oh here it is, right on top actually. So, how may I help you?”
“What does this guy do for a living?” Um, let’s see... businessman. Pre-owned automotive industry.”
“He’s a used car salesman?”
“Mmm... yes. I’m assuming, negative commentary?”
“To say the least. No woman should be subjected to that man’s bullshit ever again!”
“Sorry about your bad experience ma’am. We will make a note.”
Ron looked at his watch. The waiter approached, and put a covered plate on the table in front of him, and pulled the metal dome off. He stared blankly at his meal.
“Is everything okay sir?”
“Uh... just bring me the bill.”
“Not necessary sir, the lady already settled the bill.”
“Oh. Really. Then, could I get a bag for my hamburger and fries?”
“Right here sir.” The bag was still warm. It was, in fact, the same bag the burger and fries arrived in.
There was a temporary lull in the music, as the PA system sounded. “Paging Ronald Tiegbaum. Agent Ronald Tiegbaum. There is call for you at the front desk from a Mr. Casey.”
Intense laughter roared across the restaurant from the semi-inebriated crowd.
This time, it was a large, color photo book of artistic architectural scenes. They were striking images all taken with large-format cameras. Carol came over to the table and sat down. “Can’t keep away from this place, can you?” she asked.
“Just enjoying the scenery.” Rex replied as he pointed to the picture.
“Yeah, like every time I bend over.”
“Am I that obvious?”
“Mm hmm.”
“What do you like to do after work?” Rex asked.
“Okay, cut the bullshit. You want to take me out, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’m open. Whatever you would like to do. Preferably a place where we can talk, and I can find out where you’re coming from.”