The Inner Circle (Man of Wax Trilogy)

by Robert Swartwood

  “We all know the risks. Why—you’re not backing out, are you?”

  “No, I’m not bailing. You know I would never do that. But I just ... I wanted to tell you something.”

  “Shoot.”

  The Kid opened his mouth ... but then closed it.

  “Are you going to make me guess?”

  He was standing only a few feet away now, and still he hadn’t looked me in the eye.

  “Kid, what’s wrong?”

  “I ...”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m gay.”

  I was quiet for a beat, then said, “Kid, I’m flattered, but—”

  “Don’t be an asshole.”

  “I rarely know what else to be anymore.”

  “I’ve never told anyone. Not even Carver. But Carver’s smart, so maybe he always suspected it, I don’t know.”

  “Why are you telling me now?”

  “Because I feel I have to tell somebody.”

  “But why now?”

  “I told you. I have that feeling something bad is going to happen tonight. And if something happens to me, or to you, or to Carver, or to any one of us, I just ... I don’t want to be that person who never comes out of the closet. I don’t want to be that stereotype. I’ve known what I am for a long time, but in my line of work, I don’t get out much. I don’t have any friends outside you and Carver and the rest of you guys, and I never ... I never once kissed anyone.”

  I let another beat of silence pass before I said, “Again, Kid, I’m flattered ...”

  He smiled. “Again, Ben, don’t be an asshole.”

  “So what do you want me to say? That I accept you how you are? You know I do.”

  “I know. But Ronny and Beverly, they’re just so religious, I feel like I can’t tell them.”

  “You should. They’re not going to think any less of you.”

  “How do you know?”

  The truth was, I didn’t. Though I thought I knew Ronny and Beverly pretty well, none of us truly ever really know ourselves, let alone the people closest to us.

  I asked, “What about your mom?”

  “What about her?”

  “Don’t you want to tell her?”

  “Give me a break. You saw how she is. It would be like talking to a wall.”

  “Still.”

  He was quiet for a moment, staring down at the floor. “Do you still have that nightmare about Michelle Delaney?”

  I said nothing. Not at first. I thought about how my nightmare had changed. No longer was I standing outside watching Michelle Delany being beaten by her boyfriend, but instead I was standing in room 7 of the Paradise Motel, while my wife and daughter were trapped in those wooden caskets. Caesar had been in that nightmare, telling me to choose—to pick one to live, to pick one to die—and tonight I might very well come face to face with the son of a bitch. The irony was not lost on me. But still, as hard as it had been to first tell someone about that initial nightmare, it had become impossible for me to tell anyone about this most recent one. Not even Maya, who I had wanted to tell countless times.

  “Ben?”

  “Sometimes,” I said softly. I cleared my throat. “Why?”

  “Because I have a nightmare of my own. It’s about when my brother died. I watch him fall, I run back to the house, tell my dad and all that stuff, but this time when I come back inside I tell my mom, I just confess to her, and you know what she says to me? She says it should have been me. That I should have fallen and broken my neck. That I’m a waste and will never do anything with my life. That I’m nothing.”

  Silence then, except for the faint traffic noises beyond the warehouse walls.

  “You know that’s not true,” I said.

  “Isn’t it? What have I really ever done with my life? I mostly hide behind a computer screen. I’ve never touched a gun before. Even if I did, I don’t know if I would be able to bring myself to fire it. If and when the shit hits the fan tonight, I don’t ... I don’t think I’ll be any help.”

  “You will be.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  The Kid nodded, chewing his lip. “Speaking of which, I should let you get back to it. I need to recheck my equipment anyhow.”

  We stood there then for a long moment, neither one of us saying anything.

  I asked, “Is this the part where we hug?”

  He smiled again. “Fuck you, Ben.”

  He turned and left through the door.

  Maya stepped back inside a moment later. “Everything okay?”

  I nodded.

  She came up and wrapped her arms around me tight. Into my shoulder she murmured, “I love you.”

  I kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled like apple blossoms.

  “I love you too.”

  “We’re all going to make it out of this alive tonight, aren’t we?”

  “You know we are.”

  She said nothing and kept her head against my shoulder for another minute. Then she sighed, stepped back, and pointed at the contact lenses and solution on the makeshift desk.

  “Try it again.”

  60

  At five minutes after ten that evening, I stood under an overpass near East Harlem. Graffiti—or was it urban art?—decorated practically every available space of concrete. The smell of trash was nauseating. I was pretty sure someone had recently died under this overpass, or if they hadn’t someone was bound to very soon. Suffice it to say, it was the kind of place a white guy wearing a one-thousand-dollar suit probably shouldn’t be at that time of night.

  But I wasn’t nervous. Not with a Glock 27 in my waistband. It was subcompact, only nine rounds, a typical backup pistol. It wasn’t my first choice of weapon, not going where I was going, but it wasn’t like I had much choice. Besides, I wasn’t even sure if they would wand me at the door, or make me walk through a metal detector. Those were possibilities, but I didn’t think so. Those in the Inner Circle commanded a certain kind of respect and dignity that wasn’t easily taken away by standard security measures. I can’t imagine any of them were ever bothered by the TSA at the airport. Not when they were no doubt taking their own private jets to whatever locale called their names.

  In my ear, the Kid said, “Well?”

  “Still waiting.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  I adjusted the earpiece so it fit snug. It was a small thing, even smaller than the ones we typically used, and the voice on the other end wasn’t as loud as usual.

  I said, “You can say that again.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “I was joking.”

  “This is bullshit. If she doesn’t show up in the next minute, we have to move to Plan B.”

  “And what’s Plan B again?”

  “Fuck if I know.”

  Traffic passed back and forth under the overpass. A few people walked here and there. Most ignored me. One black kid—couldn’t have been any older than ten—wearing baggy jeans and a heavy coat with a Yankee’s cap askew on his head, the lid flat, stopped beside me.

  “What you doin’?”

  “Standing here,” I said. “What you doin’?”

  “Watchin’ your white ass.”

  In my ear, the Kid groaned, “What the fuck?”

  I said to the gangsta wannabe, “My ass, for your information, is naturally pale. It’s not really white, so to speak.”

  The gangsta wannabe just stared at me.

  I said, “Can I help you with something?”

  “You under my bridge.”

  “Is that right?”

  The gangsta wannabe pointed at the concrete behind me. “That’s my tag right there.”

  I looked over my shoulder at the myriad lines and loops of colorful spray paint. “You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

  The gangsta wannabe took a deliberate step forward. “Yo, you frontin’?”

  “Did you really just ask if I’m fronting?”

  In my ear
, the Kid said, “Maybe you should ease up on the gas pedal.”

  At the same moment the Kid was speaking, the gangsta wannabe reached for something inside his coat.

  I said, “You don’t want to do that.”

  The gangsta wannabe paused a beat. Glaring back at me, considering his options. No doubt wanting to do whatever it took to drop the “wannabe” from his desired profession.

  I said, “I’ve gone through a lot of shit to be standing where I am right now, talking to you, and at this point, I am not going to let any little fucking thing stand in my way.”

  The gangsta wannabe’s hand was still halfway to his coat, frozen there. He was still watching me, probably trying to figure me out. I clearly didn’t give him the reaction he’d wanted, and this confused him.

  “Shouldn’t you be in school?” I asked.

  The hand drifted away from the coat, fell to his side. “Shit, yo, it’s Friday night.”

  “Then shouldn’t you be at home doing schoolwork or something?”

  He snorted. “Fuck homework.”

  I nodded. About the response I’d expected, to be honest.

  The gangsta wannabe said, his hard tone gone, “What you doin’ here anyway?”

  I spotted the limo coming down the block. It could have been any limo—New York City is packed with them, after all—but I knew this one was mine.

  I said, my eyes on the approaching limo, “Trying to save the world,” and stepped off the curb as the limo quietly coasted to a halt beside us. I opened the back door, placed one foot inside. “Why don’t you go home and do some schoolwork?”

  “Man, fuck that shit.” The gangsta wannabe lifted his chin at the limo. “Who’s in there?”

  “Someone who did her schoolwork,” I said, and climbed inside.

  Once the door was closed and the limo was moving again and I was settled in my seat, I said for the second time that day, “Hello, Congresswoman.”

  • • •

  WHEN I’D SEEN her last—only hours ago—she wore a blue pantsuit and a white blouse. Now she was wearing a black pantsuit and a navy blue blouse.

  She said, gazing at my suit, “You certainly clean up nice.”

  I motioned at the attaché case beside her on the seat. I’d spotted it the first second I’d slipped into the limo, and hadn’t been able to go more than five seconds without looking at it.

  “Is that it?”

  She laid a hand on the case and nodded. Her lips were pursed, like she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how to say it.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m already feeling guilty.”

  “For what?”

  “For what may happen tonight. I have a bad feeling.”

  “See,” the Kid said in my ear. “I’m not the only one.”

  I asked her, “Are you still having doubts?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  The limo glided through traffic, switching lanes, slowing for pedestrians, jostling over potholes. We were headed downtown. The overpass I’d been waiting under was out of the way, but that had been the point. Congresswoman Houser wanted to make sure she wasn’t being followed ... which, to be honest, was almost impossible to tell in a city as busy as this. Even if nobody had been following in a vehicle, that didn’t mean she wasn’t being watched by the thousands of cameras positioned around the city, or even by a drone in the sky, or even a satellite up in space. All were probabilities, and regardless of how outrageous each seemed, I wouldn’t be surprised if all of them were true.

  “You should leave,” I said.

  “I will when we get closer.”

  “No. I mean you should leave the city. Leave the state. Leave the country if you can. At least until after tonight.”

  “I’m meeting with Edward. He’s taking me to a secure location.”

  “Don’t.”

  She gave me another appraising look. “You don’t trust him?”

  “I don’t trust anyone.”

  “Even me?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Interesting,” she said. She glanced at the closed partition. “I’m assuming, then, you don’t trust the driver either?”

  Again I didn’t answer.

  “You can trust him,” she assured. “He’s one of my own staff.”

  “What all does he know?”

  “He’s under the impression that you will soon be getting out, and that he’ll then take me to the Fillmore.”

  “Won’t he realize I’m not you pretty quickly?”

  “No.”

  “Won’t I be conspicuous stepping out of this thing wearing whatever is inside that case?”

  “Again, no. The driver is fine, Ben. You can trust him, just as you can trust me and Edward. I understand you’ve gone through a lot, and based on how you acted earlier this afternoon, I think you’ve built a large wall around you to keep you safe.”

  “I didn’t know you were a therapist, too.”

  “There you go again,” she said with a small smile. “Sarcasm is your defense mechanism. That’s what you hide behind.”

  I looked at the attaché case again. “Can I see it?”

  Her hand remained on the case. The diamond on her engagement ring sparkled like it was new.

  “Do you remember Sunday School as a child?”

  “Can I see it?” I asked again.

  “Please, humor me. In Sunday School they told the story about Daniel in the lions’ den. Does it ring a bell?”

  “What about it?”

  “Daniel was an official in the Persian empire under King Darius. Darius made a decree that no one was to offer prayer to any god or man except him for a period of thirty days. Daniel decided to ignore this and continued praying to God, and he was arrested and thrown into the lions’ den where he was supposed to be ravaged.”

  “But he wasn’t.”

  The congresswoman shook her head. “No, he wasn’t. He was unharmed because he kept his faith in God.”

  “Maybe he was unharmed because the lions were fasting.”

  “You’re missing the point, Ben. Tonight, you’re headed into the lions’ den. And where you’re going, there is no God or prayer to keep you safe.”

  I looked again at the attaché case. “Can I see it?”

  She was quiet for a moment, watching me. Then she took a breath, turned in her seat, tilted the case toward her, and unsnapped both clasps. She lifted the lid and tilted the case back toward me.

  I leaned forward and whispered, “Holy shit.”

  “Do you recognize it?”

  “It’s a Bauta mask.”

  In my ear, the Kid said, “I told you this was going to be some fucked up Eyes Wide Shut bullshit.”

  The congresswoman raised an eyebrow. “I’m impressed.”

  I reached out, meaning to touch the mask, but at that moment the limo drove over another pothole. This one was even bigger than the last, and the attaché case slipped from the congresswoman’s fingers. It fell awkwardly on the floor, spilling the mask and what else was inside.

  I let the mask be for the time being, and instead picked up what felt like a silky black bed sheet.

  “That’s the robe,” the congresswoman said. “The cowl is there too, as well as black gloves. You are much taller than me, but I believe the robe is a one size fits all type of thing. Though who knows, it might not quite reach the floor.”

  I set the robe and cowl and gloves aside before leaning down to pick up the mask. I held it delicately. It was light and thin and felt like it might break in my hands if I wasn’t careful.

  The congresswoman asked, “How do you know what kind of mask it is?”

  “I’ve done my research.”

  “And?”

  “The Bauta is typically known as a mask from the Carnival of Venice. Nobody really knows why and how they started wearing masks during the Carnival, but it was most likely in response to the government at the time. By wearing masks like this, nobody knew who anybody else was.
In many ways, they were all equals.”

  It struck me that I sounded much smarter than I actually am. That was because, like I told the congresswoman, I had done my research. We all had. When we found out about the Coliseum, and how every member of the Inner Circle would be present, and how all their identities would be kept secret, it was clear they would all be wearing masks. The question, then, was just what kind of mask. So we researched what we could, speculating on the different kinds, the pros and cons to each, and the Bauta had been one of the masks high up on our list, next to those two famous masks representing the division between comedy and tragedy, both symbols of those ancient Greek muses, Thalia and Melpomene.

  But the Bauta mask made a whole lot more sense.

  Naturally, it covered the entire face. Like most masks, that was its purpose. Only unlike some masks—especially those from the Carnival of Venice—it wasn’t meant to be a fashion statement. There were no decorations whatsoever. It was white and made of porcelain with two large eyeholes. The nose was almost exaggerated in its form and size. There was no mouth, but instead the mask ended with a square jawline, tilted upward. This made it possible for the wearer to talk and eat and drink without having to remove the mask. It maintained the wearer’s anonymity.

  Perfect for an occasion such as the Coliseum.

  I turned the mask over to find the strap. The inside was cushioned on the forehead and the sides.

  The congresswoman cleared her throat, trying to get my attention. She said, “When I first saw that yesterday, it gave me the creeps. It still does. Tell me, Ben, are you carrying a weapon?”

  I looked at her and held her gaze as I lied.

  “No.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise? You might need a weapon.”

  I said nothing to this. I picked up the attaché case, set it on the seat beside me, and put in first the robe and cowl and gloves, then the Bauta mask.

  The congresswoman, staring at it, shivered visibly. “I can’t imagine anyone actually wanting to wear that for fun.”

  “Is that what tonight is supposed to be, then—fun?”

  “For most, yes. For others ... I have no idea.” She glanced at her watch. “In the next several minutes the driver will let me out, and once I leave you should put everything on.”