Soldier Boy

by Glen Carter

  Bolt leaned forward. His skin tingled, and the hair straightened on the back of his neck. Then the strangest thing happened.

  11

  Bolt moved at a brisk clip, dodging random spatters of sidewalk vomit and the drunks spilling from casinos. They stumbled off, hooting at the dawn and trailing the occasional hooker like cheap carnie prizes.

  Bolt wore jeans and sandals with a plain cotton shirt that clung to his muscled torso. The morning newscast was still bothering him. The way he’d felt when he saw that man coming off the plane. He pushed it aside.

  It took him ten minutes to get to where he needed to be, and for a moment he stood there, feeling the rush of cool air spilling onto the sidewalk. After scanning the entrance, he stepped into the hotel lobby.

  The check-in desk was swamped with a charter. The horde was making a lot of noise. Someone was pumping an accordion, which was naturally a good reason to kick up heels. The flight crew walked in wearing Aer Lingus uniforms. Bolt pulled his ball cap low and waited, and after a few minutes, he swaggered behind a gaggle of those weary Irish bastards toward a row of slots. The ringing was magical as they pumped in fistfuls of bills and began slapping the play buttons. Bolt moved closer to one of the players just as a handful of coins dropped into his tray.

  “Always maximize your bet,” Bolt said. “Bigger payout.”

  The Irishman looked at him with suspicion and said something Bolt didn’t understand. On the next spin, more coins clattered to the tray, and the man whooped and gave Bolt a wink.

  “Stay where you’re at, laddie,” he said. “You’re good luck.”

  If only you knew.

  Bolt stuck around for a while. Giving the guy a smile now and then and the occasional pat on the back. The security cameras watched it all, and Bolt knew that, tucked away somewhere, a security tech was half asleep in front of a wall of monitors. After thirty minutes, Bolt broke away from his little band of new friends and wandered farther in the casino. A coffee was offered, which Bolt accepted with a smile. There were dozens of slot machines, little soldiers of light and sound with their distinctive electronic voices. Bolt walked slowly past them, like a general inspecting his troops, stopping now and then to address one of his squaddies. He reached an aisle of slots near a bank of baccarat and blackjack tables. For a moment he feigned interest in the card games. Then he casually glanced up at the digital counters above the progressive machines. The numbers were advancing in a blur.

  Bolt walked over and touched one of the machines. He did the same for three others. On the fifth machine, he listened carefully, and, smiling to himself, he laid a finger on the handle. He walked away then and repeated the process at another group of slots. After inspecting a handful of machines, he picked one. He then walked back to the little Irishman.

  “How’s it goin’, Seamus?”

  “Cursed machine’s gone cold,” Seamus said.

  “Too bad. Maybe time to move to another machine.”

  Seamus looked doubtful.

  “Throwing good money after bad,” said Bolt. “Try the progressives.”

  Seamus’s eyes widened at a beckoning seven-figure payout.

  “Go on, ya fool,” the guy next to him said. “Your machine’s cold as a witch’s tit.”

  Seamus gave Bolt a double nod, swept empty his tray, and they both made their way to the big money. Bolt pulled back a chair, and the little Irishman was pumping in bills before sitting.

  “Remember, Seamus,” Bolt said in a conspiratorial voice. “Maximize your bet.”

  Seamus nodded vigorously. He slapped the play button and yelled something that sounded like a Celtic battle cry.

  Bolt left him, knowing precisely what was about to happen. He swallowed a mouthful of coffee and sat at the second slot he’d picked a moment ago. Slowly, he removed his wallet and plucked out a five-dollar bill, which he fed into the machine. He looked over at Seamus in time to see the little man leap into the air. Bells suddenly erupted, and lights flashed. Seamus dropped to his knees as the Irish charged over.

  Bolt took another mouthful of coffee and casually pulled the handle on his machine. The slot spun and whirred, and after a couple of seconds a large golden pineapple dropped. Then, a few seconds later, another golden pineapple plopped in. Bolt checked the chaos swallowing the lucky Irishman. He smiled to himself, and then, a third golden fruit dropped. The machine went silent. Then lit up.

  Ten minutes later, the cashier offered to cut him a cheque. Bolt told her no thanks. On his way out, he stopped to watch the fuss over Seamus. He wished his new friend all the best. Seamus looked at him quizzically and then hugged Bolt so hard it hurt.

  Seamus was about three hundred grand to the good. Bolt’s machine paid out seventeen hundred and sixty-two dollars. He had all of it in his pocket, in hundred-dollar bills and change. Karma wasn’t a bitch at all when you played nice, with a good deed here and there. That’s the way he felt about it. Bolt adjusted the brim of his ball cap and stepped into the morning’s sun.

  Luck of the Irish, he thought.

  12

  Twenty minutes later, Bolt reached the homeless shelter. It was going to be a great morning, and when he walked into the cafeteria, he was greeted by the reason.

  “Hello, Samuel. It’s my birthday.”

  “Yes, it is. How old are you today?”

  “Four plus one, silly.”

  “That makes five.”

  “Five. Five. Five,” Susie Ralph squealed, jumping and spinning. A blur of blonde ringlets and white lace. She wore a crown, which she struggled to keep on her head. She had beautiful blue eyes and a smile so wide it nearly broke Bolt’s heart.

  “Did you see the funny clowns, Sammy?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And the balloons and the cake. You can have some if you like.”

  “I love cake. And clowns, too,” Samuel replied.

  “I love you, Samuel.”

  By the time he gathered the words, she was gone.

  Everyone was gathered around a metal table in the centre of the big room. There was a huge cake, trays of cookies, and colourful jugs of refreshments. In one corner of the room a clown was twisting and squeezing balloons while the children squealed. Susie was in the middle of them, her crown replaced by a red and yellow balloon hat. The adults were all laughing, except for the sadly disturbed. They kept to themselves in their nests of rags. A broken-down blues guy blew happy birthday on his saxophone, which seemed like a large gold nugget lodged in his beard.

  Susie’s mom took a seat next to Bolt. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “She’ll never forget this. Thank you, Samuel.”

  Bobbi Ralph was a recovering alcoholic. She kept her beautiful little daughter clean and happy, though the streets were a hard place to raise a child, and Bobbi’s face showed every bedraggled mile.

  “She’s a jewel,” Bolt said. “I’m happy to do it.” With that, Bolt reached into his pocket and palmed some bills into Bobbi’s hand. “Buy her a nice present.”

  Bobbi hugged him, and with his heart swelling, they parted. Bolt then went to a side door, just as a van was pulling into the parking lot. He beamed as the doors flung open and a handful of men tumbled out, wearing white and red uniforms and swinging brass instruments. It would be worth every penny, just to see the delight on Susie’s face.

  The horns came to life and the march began, when suddenly the parking lot was a swarm of large black SUVs. They screeched to a stop, and with military precision, men in black suits leapt to the pavement.

  The horns died, and that’s when Bolt angrily realized the party was over.

  * * * * *

  The Republican candidate for President of the United States was outside his comfort zone. He moved through the crowd, shaking as few hands as he could, though the smell was making him sick and what
he really wanted was not to touch anything, especially the rabble of unwashed, worthless human beings. He wouldn’t retch, because you didn’t win elections that way. The photograph William Rutter had in mind, top of the fold in newspapers across the country, would be entirely different.

  The Evergreen Mission shelter was a squat, sprawling building located in a rundown neighbourhood of pawnshops and peeler joints. The place didn’t draw too many crackheads and unmedicated schizophrenics, which made it a five-star choice.

  Stoffer had placed the call.

  “We don’t ordinarily get involved in politics,” the director had told him. “And today isn’t a good day. One of our clients has a little girl who’s having a birthday . . .”

  “Whose food and shelter depends on the generosity of others,” Stoffer had pointed out. “And the commitment of Congress to fully fund the social programs that keep your little operation going.”

  “Eleven o’clock will be fine.”

  The Secret Service had no time for an advance team, or even to sweep the building. The candidate was at risk, the lead agent warned, but Stoffer had told him to do his bloody job.

  The director stared sourly at the mob taking over her homeless shelter. They were early. Party spoilers. Clients were being pushed out of the way while they set up. A podium and microphone were put in place. Stoffer whispered something in the director’s ear and handed her a sheaf of papers. Cameras flashed, and reporters jockeyed for position while Secret Service agents planted themselves strategically around the room.

  The crowd was not too big and not too small, which Stoffer was happy about. The room was hushed as the director stepped to the microphone. A smile magically appeared on her face. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she began. “What a wonderful day for wonderful surprises.” Forcing Stoffer’s well-crafted words, the introduction took only a moment or so. Then Senator Rutter appeared from a back room and strode to the podium. Cameras were focused while he smiled and waited for applause that didn’t come. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “The people who run Evergreen Mission have asked me to come here today to see what America has become. And I have done so. I choose to be here because you need to know that I care. That I understand the frustration, the hopelessness, that comes from being left behind. You have been left behind. That is what America has become.”

  A murmur rose from the crowd. Heads nodded, and reporters scribbled into notebooks.

  Rutter looked directly into the eyes of a dirtied, unkempt man in a broken-down wheelchair. He wore a tattered uniform with a chest full of medals. “You fought for your country. But what you’re wondering now, sir, and rightly so, is why your country won’t fight for you.”

  The soldier squinted through tufts of overgrown brows. He nodded as a hand squeezed his shoulder.

  Rutter allowed the moment to play. “I promise you now,” he continued, with each word carefully measured, “I will fight for you.”

  The room was uncomfortably silent. Hardened faces stared. Then the legless soldier clapped a pair of gnarled hands, and cameras zoomed in. He waved weakly, a trembling lip in a face of granite.

  The senator waited patiently. “I have not come here empty-handed. If elected president, I pledge to you today that you will no longer be left behind. That you, too, will have your place on an American landscape of means and opportunity. These are not just empty words, the kind you’ve suffered through many times before. A William Rutter administration will have a new seat at the cabinet table. To be taken by a man or woman whose duty it will be to make sure no one is left behind. Together, we will walk a new path, drawing on the bounty and wealth of the United States of America. I invite you to walk with me on this bold journey toward what is owed each and every one of you.”

  The applause was explosive. A couple of men jumped from their chairs and hugged. At the back of the room, a saxophone came to life, then faded.

  “Over the coming weeks,” the senator said, “I will assemble a panel of stakeholders. Not politicians or bureaucrats. But people like you and the folks who have worked so hard to build the framework for places like the one where we stand today.” Rutter took the director’s hand in his and shook it. “People like Director Gonzales, whose voices have not been heard. Not been listened to. It will be their task to formulate an action plan that contains the specifics of my new homelessness and poverty initiative. Only then can the journey really begin.” The senator paused. “One day, places like this will be a distant memory, though fondly remembered for their compassion and generosity. One day, we will live in a nation where no one is left behind. Thank you, and God bless America.”

  * * * * *

  Bolt did everything he could to salvage the party. He pleaded, cajoled, and promised more cash, but the bandleader was late for another gig. He stubbed out his smoke and shrugged. Once aboard the van, he gave Bolt a look of apology and then sped away.

  Bolt walked back inside, fuming. A crush of cameras surrounded the politician and the amputee veteran. The candidate was bent low, speaking to the old soldier, a look of deep respect while the cameras closed in. They shook hands, and then the politician quickly abandoned him for another grubby soul.

  Suddenly, Bolt was on the move. He pushed his way into the crowd, through discarded party hats and broken balloons. On the margins of the room, Susie’s mom cradled her crying daughter.

  Hands reached for the candidate while Secret Service agents watched the hands. Bolt shouldered through. Two men in suits and sunglasses suddenly blocked him. Hands grabbed his arms.

  Bolt checked himself. He forced half a smile. Satisfied, both agents released their grip but stuck at his side. A moment later, he was face to face with the candidate.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  Bolt couldn’t speak. Like that morning, in front of Li’l Ray’s television, the bees were inside his head. A hundred times worse with the guy two feet away. The buzzing was so loud he barely heard the rising commotion.

  The agent’s hands were on him again, tugging.

  “Take your hands off me,” Bolt hissed.

  The agents pulled harder.

  “Goddamn hands.”

  The director stepped forward. “This is Samuel Bolt. He’s one of our volunteers.”

  “Billy Boy,” Bolt whispered, zombie-like.

  The candidate’s face went slack.

  “Shit happens. Right?” said Bolt.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Dead Marines got a hard-on for you. You bastard.”

  Rutter’s arms dropped limply to his side. He stepped back as the tan drained from his face. The agents encircled the candidate and ushered him away.

  Bolt stood stiffly, confused.

  “Samuel, are you all right?” It was the director.

  “Fine.” It was as if someone had been speaking through him, using his vocal chords but not his thoughts. Bolt got out of there as fast as he could. A couple of blocks later, he stopped. People were staring. He caught a glimpse of himself in a storefront window, grabbed the party hat off his head, and tossed it to the sidewalk. He exhaled slowly.

  The buzzing was gone, but not the inexplicable rage.

  13

  Li’l Ray looked worried. “My man needs to chill.”

  Bolt nodded. Maybe Li’l Ray was right. They were in the janitor’s room. Li’l Ray was on break.

  “I say too much shit get in your head. Dat where you at, Bolt?” Li’l Ray took a bite from his sandwich. Then a swig of orange juice. He had offered lunch, but Bolt wasn’t hungry.

  He sat quietly, staring at nothing.

  “You not using, right?”

  “No. I’m not using, Ray.”

  “’Cause dat bitch latch onto my tit, and you saw dat mess. Yo tit, too. Back in the day.”

  He’d told Li’l Ray about what happened that mornin
g at Evergreen.

  “Good thing I wasn’t there,” Li’l Ray said. “I’da fucked that guy up for ruining Susie’s party.”

  Bolt didn’t doubt it. Maybe his own anger at the party-pooper candidate had screwed up his head and caused the buzzing.

  Li’l Ray was staring. “Maybe time you got outta the tunnels and bring your bedroll to the shelter. You basically like paid staff, anyway. Only you not paid. Which remind me. How you bankroll that little girl’s birthday party?”

  Li’l Ray would never understand. Casinos got rich off stupid house odds. Bolt just made them a little less rich. The payouts were small, except for his chosen. Like the Irishman, they got the big money and the fuss; he took just enough to pay for a little girl’s unforgettable day.

  “Bolt.” Li’l Ray’s voice was confessional quiet. “How come you don’t say nothing about you?” He focused on large, callused hands. “Shit, I don’t even know where you from.”

  “I’m not from around here,” Bolt replied lamely.

  “Come on, man.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Some think you on the run from Canada. That you wanted.”

  “Never been to Canada,” he replied. “But I hear they’re really nice up there.”

  Li’l Ray laughed. “Naw, man. Just saying. People talk.”