by Sarah Black
“Not trying to cause a problem here,” John said, his voice mild.
“Okay, think of it this way,” Kim said. “You’ve got me, you’ve got Billy, you’ve got Juan, you’ve got Abdullah. Sitting on the street with a cup for change. I’m Korean and Abdullah is Arab. You would think we would get a different response than Juan, who looks Hispanic, or Billy, who looks like Miss America, right? Because they belong here, and we don’t.”
“Billy looks like Miss America?”
“Blond and blue. It’s short-cut slang, Uncle J. Okay, so is racism alive and well in America among people my age? That’s the question I was exploring. Is racism really an extension of tribal culture, tribal identity? And we had some interesting anomalies.”
“Wait a minute. You didn’t really use Juan in this, did you?”
Kim shook his head. “I was just illustrating the premise. So one of the strange things noted was what Abdullah told you about the Bach.”
“When you were playing, you got more hostile responses?” Abdullah nodded. “What were you doing when you weren’t playing?”
“Just sitting there, I guess, holding the cello.”
“Did you make eye contact? Smile?”
“Well, sure.” Abdullah thought about this a moment. “Sometimes. I didn’t always smile. I tried to look desperate or lost.”
“And you weren’t making eye contact when you played?” John looked at Kim. “Maybe you better study how homeless people behave on the street. Or better yet, why don’t you just take some pictures for your MFA show and leave Abdullah and Billy alone? Aren’t you already addressing social issues with your kid pictures?”
Kim sat down, pulled the lemon curd over and scooped a spoonful onto an English muffin. “Let me review the film. I wanted to have a loop film playing during the exhibit.”
“Abdullah, you want some eggs?”
He shook his head, reached out and took the second English muffin off Kim’s plate. “I’m just gonna eat this lemon curd with a spoon. Is this homemade? Man, it is awesome!”
“Billy made it.” Miss America’s cheeks turned a pretty rose pink. “He’s the best cook in the house.” Billy had a cup of rose-hip-and-hibiscus tea with honey in front of him. “Billy, what was your experience with Kim’s art project?”
“It was interesting,” Billy admitted. John ignored the hand signals Kim was giving Billy across the table. “I got more offers than actual change. I mean, I guess I looked like I was trolling for johns. Did you know you can get fifty bucks for a blow job? I always thought it was twenty.” He shrugged. “It’s the economy, I guess. But I was surprised.”
John forced himself to put the frying pan down on the stove. He had been very tempted, just for a moment, to hit Kim across the back of the head with it.
Gabriel came into the kitchen, stopped, and took the temperature of the room. He bent over and kissed Kim on the top of the head, as he seemed to be the most likely culprit. “You fixing eggs, boss? I could eat a couple.”
“I never left him alone, Uncle John. And as soon as I saw what was happening, we stopped. Okay? I’m not an idiot.”
“It was kind of interesting,” Billy said again. “The way some people worked so hard not to see me. The other thing I thought was interesting was the way people would bring me food. It wasn’t food I would have picked, but they wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to use their dollars for beer or something, so they would give me a carton of orange juice or a ready-made sandwich, like tuna fish. And how many people just don’t like tuna fish? But it was like, if I was hungry enough, I should be grateful they were giving me food. What would it be like to be really, really hungry, and you hate tuna fish, and somebody hands you a tuna fish sandwich?”
“People were always bringing me coffee,” Abdullah said. “Nobody asked me if I wanted it black or with cream and sugar. They just fixed an extra one like their own and brought it to me. I thought it was a nice gesture, sort of, though sometimes I got this weird look, like people wanted me to congratulate them for being so clever. I actually thought it was more about control than anything. They wanted to make sure I knew they were in control of our interaction. It was a linear interaction, one way, from them to me. They got to choose how it would go. But the real problem was I had to leave my spot to go to the bathroom and I had to take the cello with, and it’s really pretty awkward to lug around. You had to stand in line at the Safeway customer courtesy counter to get the code for the bathroom. So three cups of coffee and a long line to get lottery tickets, and I’m carrying the cello… man. I was about ready to kiss it off and go home and take a nap with the AC turned up high.”
“Why didn’t you?” John could tell the worry had turned his voice a bit acidic. “That would have been the prudent thing to do.”
“Because it was for Kim,” Abdullah said. “And I’m in love with Kim.”
“WHERE are you going?”
Gabriel turned down Carlisle, away from the airport. “The Whataburger drive-through. They’re not going to feed us on the plane, and I’m hungry. I know you are too.”
“I couldn’t eat eggs after all that drama. I mean, did Kim have to climb into his lap with both of us standing right there?”
“It was very sweet, John. I was getting these mother-of-the-bride feelings in my stomach, watching them, with Billy quietly weeping in the corner….”
“You are so full of shit.”
Gabriel laughed. “Keep your fingers crossed we can leave the country. They might be fighting again if we give them a couple of days.”
“I’ve got more than my fingers crossed. I’m begging for a nasty little regional conflict, the threat of war, a nuclear armament that’s gone missing, some damn thing to keep me from going psychotic with boredom.”
Gabriel looked at him. “Is it that bad?”
John studied the traffic out the window, not sure how to explain himself. The last month with Gabriel, living together as lovers, it was the best time in his life. But his working life had never been so dull, and he felt like he was watching his IQ floating away with every day that passed, like dandelion fluff in the breeze. He reached out, took Gabriel’s hand and tucked it up against his thigh. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”
“Who gets to be Sydney Carton, you or me?”
“I love you. And yeah, it’s been that bad.”
“So do something about it, John. It’s not like you to just suffer.”
“I always liked writing but that was my relaxation, you know? The way I wound down at the end of a busy day. It doesn’t seem enough for a full-time job. But I wanted to be around, for the kids, for me and you.”
“You’re a good guy, always taking care of things. But I don’t need a little wifey. Enough already. Let’s go kick some ass and jump into the middle of a war. And then maybe we’ll start feeling like you and me again.”
“I’ve been trying to keep the waters smooth in our little pond,” John admitted. “But I don’t think we need problem solving at the moment. What we need is some time away from the kids. Some alone time. We need a date.”
“A date?” Gabriel was grinning. “We haven’t been on a date since 1986!”
“There you go. I’m thinking a nice merlot, a nice little jazz club, a girl with a sweet voice, some prime aged beef. And conversation. Let’s talk.” John brought Gabriel’s palm up to his mouth. “Let’s talk about you and me. Not about the past. I want to talk about the future. I want to tell you all the things I love about you. All the ways you turn me on. I want you to tell me all the secrets you’ve been hiding in your heart.”
Gabriel turned into the Whataburger parking lot, put the truck in park and turned off the engine. Then he reached over, grabbed a handful of new lemon-yellow shirt and kissed him, a deep sweaty soul kiss that had John’s head spinning. “You can’t imagine how long I’ve dreamed of pulling you into my arms, moving to music, touching like lovers, like the rest of the world can do. I love you.” The stars were spinning
in Gabriel’s dark eyes. “You want a blow job or a breakfast burrito?”
A couple of teenaged boys, flying their colors, walked past Gabriel’s truck, eyeing the rims. Gabriel had the bucket seat reclined, and John had Gabriel’s trousers unsnapped and unzipped, his hand full of heat and damp curly hair, the delicious scent of burnt sugar that came off Gabriel’s skin making his knees tremble. Gabriel waved a hand toward the boys, seemed unable to speak. John shook his head. “They’re just teenagers, Gabriel. Lock the doors. Who gives a fuck what they see?”
“I have to work in this town! Don’t you know every-fucking-body has a camera on their cell phone?” Gabriel was laughing now, put his hand on the back of John’s neck, then caught his breath when John made contact, skin to hungry mouth. “Oh, God, you’re killing me. One more minute. Okay, two minutes. Jesus, what has gotten into you? You’re acting out every adolescent fantasy I ever had. Put you on the cover of Out, you’re ready to get fucked on the hood of my pickup truck!”
It was all John could do not to howl like a dog.
THE plane ride was comfortable, with Painter’s first class seats. They got off the plane at Dulles, and Gabriel grabbed their suit bag and carryall from the overhead bin. John picked up the briefcase, slid the long strap over his chest. It wasn’t a briefcase anymore, Kim had told him. It was a messenger bag. The message, John thought, was that he was turning into a pretentious twit or his kids were dressing him. Either option felt uncomfortable but possibly true. “Hey, boss. Ranger at 1300.”
John looked to the one o’clock position, saw the young man waiting for them. He must be one of Painter’s guys, with a profile like a cliff, hair buzz-cut so short John couldn’t tell what color it was. He was holding a sign with “General Mitchel and Mr. Sanchez” printed on the front. John stopped in front of him, and the man looked down. When he turned his head, John could see the scarring on the right side of his forehead. It looked about a year old, maybe eighteen months. If he was working for Painter, he must have been discharged already. He didn’t look too happy to be picking up old generals and their boyfriend-lawyers at the airport.
“I’m John Mitchel.” John held out his hand.
The man hesitated for a moment, surprise sliding over his face. “General Mitchel, I’m Sam Brightman.” John came to his shoulder, but the man’s handshake was gentle. “Sir,” he said, shaking hands with Gabriel and taking the suit bag from him. “General Painter asked me to bring you to the hotel. He’s going to meet you in your suite later this evening for a briefing, if that will work for you. He got you a room in Crystal City.”
“That’s fine,” John said. “Have you been assigned to be my aide for this op?”
Brightman glanced at Gabriel, then back at John. “Sir, I was ordered to do everything you wanted me to do, up to and including sucking your dick if so desired.” His jaw was like a rock.
Gabriel sighed, staring through the glass at a departing plane. “Can David Painter possibly be a bigger shit? I don’t think General Mitchel will be needing any blow jobs, Brightman. But we will need a decent briefing, intel, secure coms. You a Ranger?”
“Not anymore,” Brightman said, and now all the humor was gone from his face. Then he looked at both of them. “I guess now I’m General Mitchel’s aide.”
“Excellent,” John said. “I’m retired. You’re welcome to call me John.” Brightman reared back, shaking his head no before John finished speaking. It seemed like the blow job had gone down better than first names. The man was definitely a Ranger. “We have a suite? Set up a couple of secure work stations, Brightman. Are we going into Tunisia?”
He hesitated. “Sir, I’m not authorized to say anything until General Painter sees you tonight.”
“Okay,” John said. “No problem. But after that meeting, you’ll be working for me, understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
In the back of a black Lincoln, Gabriel turned and looked at him, a question on his face. “We need an aide,” John said.
“Do we want to do some due diligence first?”
John studied Brightman’s rock-like neck in the driver’s seat. “I think we’ll be good.”
Gabriel smiled, turned back around. “Yes, sir.”
Chapter 7
THEY checked into the Embassy Suites. Their room had a well-appointed bedroom with a king-size bed, and a sitting area with a small dining table and couch. Gabriel studied the arrangements, then pulled the table closer to the wall. “Brightman, we can work here, give General Mitchel the desk. I need to fax a contract over to Painter.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You don’t have to call me sir. I’m retired, too.”
“I know who you are, sir. Everybody knew the Horse-Lord. I wish I had seen you in combat. Some of the older guys used to talk about it, being pinned down by enemy fire, and here come the Horse-Lords over the horizon, and you’ve got your thumb on the button.”
“Those days are long gone, Brightman.” John thought Gabriel looked pleased, though. Gabriel handed him a copy of a contract from his briefcase. “Sign this.” Messenger bag, John reminded himself, not briefcase.
John looked down, read the document in his hand. Felt his mouth fall open. “Really?”
Gabriel had his arms crossed over his chest. “Yes, absolutely.”
The contract was for John’s services as mediator, to the tune of twenty thousand dollars. Plus expenses, transportation, and lodging. Plus legal fees, to be capped at fifty percent of the total fees. For one week. He reached into his messenger bag, brought out a pen, and signed the document. Gabriel took it from him, wrote across the bottom that General Mitchel wanted Brightman for his aide for the length of the op.
“I’m going down to the business center to fax this. Brightman, we’re going to need a fax machine up here. Plus a scanner and printer. See if Painter will agree to let us set up coms before he gets here, okay? Tell him I’m sending him a contract for General Mitchel’s service.”
John went to the window, looked out across the DC skyline. It looked the same, same traffic, same lights, like nothing had changed in the years since he’d worked here. He’d missed it. If he was being honest, he’d missed it a great deal, and now, standing at the window, he remembered the way he’d felt back then. Strong, capable, needed. He felt all of that right now, and he had Gabriel by his side? Standing here in a lemon-yellow silk and linen shirt picked out by an eighteen-year-old with an excellent eye for color? He could do anything. Twenty thousand for a week’s work? Hell, yes. And Painter was getting a bargain.
Brightman stepped out of the room to call General Painter and came back in with an okay to set up secure coms. “He said get you whatever you need, sir. I can show you the files on the guys taken in Tunisia. Everything’s on paper for security. He’s sending them over by secure courier.”
Gabriel came back into the room, loosened his tie. He unpacked their suits and hung everything in the closet, then unpacked the carry-on. Brightman excused himself, said he would get the gear they needed. Gabriel shook his head. “Just tell them at the desk what we need, have them send it up, and we’ll get secure sat phones tomorrow. If you go out now you’ll be stuck on the beltway until morning.”
When Brightman left the room, Gabriel stepped over, slung his arm around John’s shoulder and reached down for a bit of neck to kiss. “He said yes and wanted to know when you’d turned into a fucking pirate.”
“Why did you only get ten thousand?” John asked.
“I didn’t. I wrote it so my services are legal services and the fees will go back to the firm, not to me. We could use ten thousand, keep the lights on a few more months. I need to do more research. I actually think this sort of consulting is worth a lot more, and I may have given him a low-ball figure.”
“The files are all on paper for security, Gabriel. Remember when we used to put the most secure stuff on computers, so nobody in the office could look in the file cabinet?”
“Hasn’t been that long ago.”
“The Bedu, right? Somebody was fucking with the food aid over near the border?”
“Still Bedouin outside Tunis, as far as I know. I better do some catching up tonight.”
“We can put off our date night until we get back. No such thing as too much prep for an op in the middle of Arab Spring.”
“You sure?”
Gabriel nodded. “It’s kind of fun watching you. Reminds me of back in the day.”
John smiled at him. “Like back in the day, but better. Because you’re gonna be sleeping in my bed tonight, and you don’t have to slide quietly out the door when somebody comes to brief me.”
“I always hated that. I was afraid I was going to miss something critical that would get us both killed.”
“We’re better together,” John said.
General Painter didn’t send the files by secure courier. He brought them himself. John studied him. He’d put on a few pounds since he retired from the army, and his hair was a little thinner, but otherwise he looked the same as he always had. Just irritated. With his new eye for suits, John noted that General Painter was in a navy-blue crepe, three buttons, with black Rockports. Red-and-blue-striped tie with a little American flag tie tack. He handed the folders to John. “What the hell kind of shirt is that?”
John took them, shook hands. “Hello, David. My nephew picked it out.”
“So you want Brightman? You need an aide? Sure, sure, why not.” He looked at Brightman. “General Mitchel, he’s like Batman, you know? Always likes to have Robin hold his briefcase.”
The room was very still; then Gabriel stood up slowly. John looked at him, shook his head. He handed the files back to Painter. “I think we’re done.”
“Jesus, John! Too sensitive for Batman and Robin jokes? You just came out in big bright colors on the cover of Out magazine! You and the Horse-Lord, embracing over a chopper. Very sweet. Are we supposed to pretend we didn’t see it?”