by Alan Glynn
I feel like a jerk for having expected anything different. At the same time, I hope what I’ve just told her goes some way towards explaining why I’ve been so moody and difficult these past three weeks. Or at least moodier and more difficult than usual. Not to mention distant and unavailable. I know it’s been hard on her, there’s been a lot of tension. We had sex the night I got back, but not since. I don’t particularly care right now (which has to indicate something), but I know for sure that Kate does. She’s had to put up with a lot of things from me in our time, but withholding has never been one of them. Sex means something as far as she’s concerned, it’s a form of communication, it’s a language. And when we’re not talking, we’re not talking.
She squeezes my hand again now. ‘Danny. My God. Why didn’t you tell me about this?’ I try to formulate an answer, but before I can get a word out, she’s shaking her head. ‘You know what, don’t answer that. It’s a stupid question. Anyway, you did tell me. You told me just now. And it can’t have been easy.’ She runs a hand through her hair. ‘Jesus.’
She goes silent for a bit, staring into space, and I can see what she’s doing, what she can’t help doing – visualising it, a human skull being bashed in with something like a solid block of ice, the repeated blows, the cracking of bone, the crunching sounds, the blood, the tissue . . .
‘Kate, please . . . don’t.’
She gets up, comes around to where I’m sitting, and we embrace, tightly, taking in each other’s tension, neutralising it. This is a relief, and a step forward – but I know we’re not done yet. There are still unanswered questions, things to be explained. There is still this letter from Gideon Logistics.
Kate pulls away, flicks her hair back and adjusts her glasses. Then, as if on cue, she points at the letter. ‘So I still don’t get it. I don’t get what they’re up to. You were a witness to this murder, right, this double murder. Presumably they’re going to need you for that, to testify. Why are they threatening you?’
I take a deep breath. ‘I don’t really know, but I think it’s because, okay, yes, I was a witness to what happened, but . . . maybe that’s the problem.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This riot went unreported, Kate, completely, did you read anything about it, hear any mention of it online? Anywhere? No. Which means it didn’t happen, which means no one is getting charged.’
‘What?’
I look at a granola box on the shelf behind Kate, focus on it as I speak. ‘They emptied the place out. They removed the bodies. They cleaned up. The next morning it was as if nothing had happened. So I went and asked around, asked where the bodies were being kept, what the arrangements were, who was going to inform the families. Then I asked about the two security guys, the ones who did it. And you know what? I was met with a brick fucking wall. About all of it. They told me to go back to work. To mind my own business.’
‘I don’t—’ Kate throws her hands up. ‘This is unbelievable. What did you do?’
Here comes the hard part.
‘I stood there like an idiot for ten minutes and then went back to work.’
‘What?’
‘Kate, this is a military base. In a war zone. Mortar shells are going off. There’s artillery fire. Meanwhile, I work in the kitchen.’
This elicits an elaborate gesture of incredulity. ‘So?’
‘I was powerless. There were no authorities I could go to, because I was already talking to them. You want a definition of powerless, that’s it right there.’ I look at her now. ‘So tell me, what was I supposed to do? What was my next move?’
She shrugs. ‘I . . . but—’
‘What I did . . .’ I pause here for a second to catch my breath. ‘What I did, and without delay, was go and speak to some of the line cooks, some of the servers and cleaners. I was expecting real anger, and plans for . . . I don’t know, a fucking armed rebellion or something, but what I got instead, weirdly, was another wall of silence. They were too scared to speak, because already, within hours, the intimidation had kicked in, the checking of papers, talk of visa irregularities, breaches of contract, fines, deportation, this, that, whatever. Then, after a couple of days, word came through that there was going to be a huge Gideon shake-up anyway, that a thousand people at Sharista and a second base nearby were being let go. It was a numbers thing and had to do with this pending DoD case. Supposedly. But anyone connected to Sajit and the other two? Sent off back to wherever. That meant me as well, and God knows know who else. It was a clean sweep.’
Kate just stares at me.
I stare back.
‘I tried again,’ I continue after a bit. ‘Couple of times. Once at the base, before shipping out, but all I got was, “What are you talking about? We don’t know what you’re talking about.” And then at the airport, at Kandahar. There was a congressman, in the departure lounge, Jack Gwynne, a New Jersey guy, I recognised him from a thing I saw once on TV. He was with a delegation, I think, and had quite an entourage, aides and personal assistants and shit, but I just walked right up and started talking to him.’ I pause here, remembering the incident. ‘I talked for maybe twenty seconds, really fast, trying to get it out, with him just looking at me, before I realised, damn, he’s not listening to a word I’m saying, all he’s doing is waiting for one of his fucking aides to come and rescue him, because I’m that guy, I’m the nutjob, the deranged person that people like him have to put up with all the time, but that he can’t be rude to in case I have a vote. Well, one of his aides, big guy in an Italian suit, did rescue him, and was subsequently very rude to me. This was five minutes later in the men’s room, when he had me pinned against a wall. “Pull something like that again, cocksucker,” he told me, “and my Christ, the fucking shit that will rain down on you.”’
Kate flinches. ‘Oh my God, Danny.’
‘I know. And all this guy was referring to was me talking to his stupid boss without an appointment. It was insane. Anyway, fifteen hours later and I’m back in JFK.’
‘But . . . Danny . . .’
She doesn’t know where to begin is my guess. ‘Yeah?’
I guessed wrong.
‘We can’t let these bastards get away with this. We have to do something, we have to fight them.’
‘Jesus . . . fight them with what?’
‘I don’t know, how about,’ she waves a speculative hand in the air, ‘how about with everything we’ve got.’
‘Come on, Kate, we’re not in Zuccotti Park now.’
She glares at me. ‘I’m a little confused here, Danny, you don’t think this is awful, what you saw, what these people are doing?’
‘Of course I do. But—’
‘But what?’
‘I’m not in a position to do anything about it. I can’t prove it happened, there’s no record of it, no evidence, and even if there was, how would I get access to that? Gideon has closed ranks.’ I point at the letter on the table. ‘And it’s pretty clear they’re now on the attack as well. This is a massive corporation, Kate, with massive financial resources.’
‘All the more reason why they shouldn’t be allowed to get away with this.’
‘Yeah, but,’ – it’s hard not to bang my fist on the table here – ‘shouldn’t be allowed how?’
Kate gets up, stands at the window looking out. There’s nothing to see except the back of another apartment building – other windows, other lives.
‘This shit’s been in my head since it happened, Kate, every single day. I’ve replayed it a thousand times, rearranged it. I have versions where I intervene, versions where it still plays out but afterwards I’m listened to, versions where what you want to happen happens. They’re not real, though. What’s real is that I’m actually powerless to do anything.’
She turns around. ‘But the law, Danny—’
‘The law? The law is what shuts it all down. Let’s say I go to someone with these accusations, the cops, a media outlet even. Fine. But they’re going to bring in legal counsel
, and believe me, ten minutes of that and we’re done. Sajit? Sajit who? I don’t know the guy’s full name, don’t know anything about him. End of story. Say it goes further, though. How long you think before Gideon comes out with claims that I’m unstable, that I have a history of so-called mental problems?’ I pick the letter up again from the table. ‘This is the law. I mean, look, GO-1C? You know what that is? Prohibited activities for military personnel within a US Central Command zone. But it also applies to civilian contractors. And that’s me. So participating in a fucking riot? Which I guarantee is how they’ll frame it? I wouldn’t stand a chance. The law is all on their side, Kate.’ I shake the letter. ‘And this is a pre-emptive strike.’
‘What . . . you mean you could face charges?’
‘In theory.’
‘Jesus.’
‘If they push it. If I push them. Which is probably what this is really about.’
‘Well . . . couldn’t . . .’
I wait, but she caves in, sits down again. She puts her head in her hands and sighs. ‘This is fucking horrible, Danny.’
‘I know.’
I look at the open laptop in front of her, the notebook beside it, her neat handwriting, the coffee mug. I shouldn’t have come back and disturbed her. I should have just let her be.
‘Look, Kate,’ I say, ‘losing my last pay cheque is bad enough, but if I get tied up in legal shit with these people, I’ll never get out from under it. And if I get charged? There’s no telling where that goes, and no fucking end to the collateral consequences either – if I ever need to take out a mortgage, or look for certain kinds of work, or, I don’t know, apply for stuff . . .’ I pause, feeling anxious about everything now, even the pronouns I’m using. ‘So, maybe . . .’
She looks up. ‘Yeah?’
‘So maybe what I have to do is make contact here, and . . . let them know I’m not a threat.’
There it is. Capitulation, surrender, the exact opposite of what Kate was proposing two minutes ago.
But I’ve said it, and now it’s out in the open.
I lay the letter on the table and smooth the edges flat with my hand. ‘There’s a phone number,’ I say. ‘They have offices on Third Avenue. I could call them. I might not get through to anyone who’ll talk to me, but it’s worth a shot.’
Kate is struggling. I can see it. She wants to be sympathetic, to be reasonable, but she can’t quite get there – can’t quite get with the capitulation and the surrender. And I don’t blame her. I was never in Zuccotti Park, but she actually was, and although that’s a long time ago now, and she’s been through a lot since, the experience of being down there left its mark. To a certain degree, it still informs the way she thinks.
So it’s hardly a surprise if she finds this shit hard to take.
I get my phone out and stand up. I take the letter from the table. ‘Okay,’ I say, not looking at her. ‘I’ll do it in the bedroom.’
3
I sit on the side of the bed, my side, facing the window, phone in one hand, letter in the other. I stall for a bit, thinking there might be a way out of this, then just enter the number really fast. I get through to someone who puts me on hold for five minutes. Is this a display of indifference on their part, I wonder, contempt for the client, or have I set an alarm bell ringing? Do I stew in irritation or paranoia? I don’t know, but either way, it’s a long five minutes.
I look around, a tinny ‘Windmills of Your Mind’ ringing in my ear. The bedroom, like our whole apartment, is oppressive. What little space remains, when you discount the bed itself, is cluttered with shoes, clothes and books. There’s also a strong scent in the room, a mix of candles, perfume, soap and stray lingerie. When I moved in over a year ago, living here was supposed to be temporary. I had a lease in Williamsburg that was nearly up and the timing seemed right. I didn’t have much stuff with me, and, besides, before we knew it we’d be getting our shit together and moving on to a bigger apartment.
‘Sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘Um, okay . . . this afternoon at four. Mr Galansky will see you then. Do you have the address?’
‘Yes, I do, and I’d—’
But that’s it, she’s gone. No have a nice day, no thank you for calling, no fuck you, loser.
Whatever.
So who is this Mr Galansky? I study the letter again. It was signed by Abe Porter, Assistant to the Vice President of Legal Affairs and the person I’d asked to speak to before I was put on hold. I google Galansky on my phone and find out that he’s the actual Vice President of Legal Affairs. Which could mean I’m moving up in the world.
Or about to leave it.
My first interview with Gideon Logistics was in a building downtown, and although they had a suite of offices on the third floor, the rest of the building seemed to be virtually deserted. Subsequent interviews and orientation sessions took place in a remote and very basic facility in Pennsylvania. Their corporate HQ on Third Avenue was never really on my radar. But now, out of the blue, I’m headed there for a sit-down with – I look at my phone again – with Arthur P. Galansky?
Holy fuck.
So, irritation or paranoia? There’s no contest. Not any more.
*
By the time I come out of the bedroom Kate’s ambivalence has evaporated. She’s able to speak again, able to express both outrage at what I told her and a keen desire for me to be free of any fallout. I mention Galansky and the appointment at 4 p.m. She doesn’t think it’s a good idea.
Nodding at her laptop, I tell her I’m going to go outside to clear my head for a bit, give her a chance to get back to her coding thing. She looks at me, eyebrows raised, about to object it seems, but in a flash I’m out the door and down the stairs.
I check the time, and then put my phone on silent. I have about two hours. It probably would have made sense for me to stick around, have a shower and change my clothes, even shave, but another part of me thinks, fuck it, I should go into this meeting as scruffy and dishevelled as possible. Who are these people? Legal Affairs? They’re going to walk all over me anyway, so what do I care? What difference does it make?
I hit Second Avenue and head uptown.
What I need to do is make a convincing case to this Arthur Galansky that my time at Sharista is behind me, that I’ve moved on, and that if they want to withhold my last pay cheque for some contractual reason, fine, they can knock themselves out, because what can I do about it? I signed the contract, didn’t I? And, besides, I’ve moved on. The idea being that they’ll back off and leave me the fuck alone. The thing is, I’m just as outraged as Kate is about all this, and there’s nothing I’d like more than to see Gideon Logistics exposed. But I’m not a fool. I don’t have any illusions. I know if I make trouble for them, if I start acting the loudmouth, they could – and would – crush me as quickly as they did those two guys in the walk-in freezer.
As I pass a store window, I see my reflection. It occurs to me that maybe I should smarten up a bit. No matter how reasonable I sound, if I look like a street person Arthur P. Galansky will more than likely conclude that I am a risk and can’t be relied on to play ball. I pass another window and realise that I don’t look that bad. Besides, my idea of smartened-up probably wouldn’t register with them as being all that different from how I look now. But something else occurs to me as I cross 14th. Is that what I’m proposing to do here? To play ball? It is, isn’t it? Which is why I don’t want to go back to the apartment, or look at any of the three text messages (I’m assuming from Kate) that I’ve already felt vibrating in my pocket. I don’t need to be reminded every five minutes that my response to the Gideon letter is craven and spineless. I know it is. But whose is the more lawyerly approach in all of this? Mine or Kate’s? Who’s being more pragmatic?
It occurs to me that I should probably get something to eat. The only thing I’ve had since I got up this morning is a glass of OJ, and I’m beginning to feel light-headed. After another few blocks I stop at a diner, sit in a booth
, and order a BLT. I feel better once I’ve eaten. I drag my time out with a few refills of coffee. Then I leave and take the train up to Grand Central.
The place where Gideon has its offices, the Wolper & Stone Building, is one I’ve passed many times but have never given a second glance. It’s an anonymous glass box that houses dozens of companies, and there’s a constant flow of people in and out of it. I pace the sidewalk for a while, but then just head inside and walk straight over to reception. I’m half an hour early, but I don’t care. I give my name. The guy at reception checks my ID, consults his register, and calls up.
A few minutes later I’m in an elevator on the way to the seventeenth floor. Gideon’s reception area is spacious and sleek, and, although I’m all too familiar with the company logo, I’ve never seen it in such an anodyne corporate setting before. I stand at the reception desk as the lady I spoke to on the phone earlier deals with a call and checks something on her screen. Music hums in the background, but it’s so low and subtle it might actually be some sort of brainwave entrainment.
‘May I help you?’ the receptionist says, her eyes still on the screen. After a beat, she looks at me. Her voice may be neutral, but those eyes tell a different story.
‘Danny Lynch,’ I say, ‘for Arthur Galansky. I’m a bit early.’
She consults a sheet in front of her. ‘Yes, sir. Indeed.’
In my pocket, I feel the pulse of another message alert.
‘I’ll let Mr Galansky know you’re here. Please take a seat, Mr, uh . . . Lynch.’
I move across reception to an area with some seats and a low glass table. As I’m sitting down I take out my phone. Kate’s first two messages were basically ‘Call me.’ Her third was ‘Call a lawyer’ . . . as in, I might need one, so shouldn’t I take care of that before I actually meet with anyone? She has a point – I guess, in theory – but it’s too late now. I’m here, I’m on my own, and the last thing I want to do is give these people the impression that I’m even thinking of lawyering up. The fourth message, the one that came through just a few moments ago, is longer and somewhat panicky in tone. Kate looked up Galansky too, and got a bit more detail than I did. It seems the guy is something of a legend in corporate legal circles, with an impressive record of crushing it in whistle-blower litigation cases. So basically her message – sent at 3.41 – is that I should skip this meeting . . . that I shouldn’t go near Galansky . . .