Triptych

by David Castlewitz

  Jamerson pedaled to the park. He entered on a narrow graveled path bordered on both sides by thick trees and tall bushes. Wooden benches lined the edge of the path. The woman alighted. She adjusted the thin strap of one of her sandals, the leather having left a mark where it dug into the back of her ankle. She moved towards a bench, but then stepped around it and into the shadows and seclusion offered by the surrounding foliage.

  When Jamerson joined her, she took hold of his wrist, her soft grip slipping on his sweaty skin, and kissed him. She held him with her other hand at the small of his back. When she parted, she scrunched her thin lips and frowned. Perspiration stains spotted the woman's gray gown, especially the voluminous sleeves. Startled by the sudden show of affection, Jamerson stood mute and a bit frightened. Giggling at his back caused him to half turn. He looked and understood what the woman had tried to do. To any casual onlooker, they were just another couple seeking privacy for a tryst.

  "And to think," the woman whispered, the distaste that had been on her lips replaced by a smile, "you don't even know my name."

  "You know mine."

  She walked away, deeper into the shadows cast by the forest growth. From where he now stood when he joined her, Jamerson thought the park extended for miles, though he knew otherwise, having ridden around it in the past. The thick woodland hideaway was mere illusion. It enclosed them and protected them, but it wasn't as dense as it seemed. Just a small patch of trees and bushes at the edge of the beach.

  "Do you know Jake Stern?" the woman asked.

  "I know who he is. I saw him at the Promenade once. Old guy."

  "Do you know what this is?"

  Jamerson studied the square sheet of plastic in the woman's open palm. She flipped it over to reveal a loose elastic ring. She flipped it back to the shiny side. The plastic sat in the middle of her palm, surrounded by the fleshy pad of her thumb and the contours of her skin where her fingers met her hand.

  "You only have this one. So you'll have only one chance. Which is all you'd get anyway." The woman gave Jamerson the small square of plastic. "Put your middle finger through the elastic ring. Hold it in place."

  "I don't know what you -- "

  "Listen to me." She held up a finger to silence him. "You slap the shiny side, the side with the glob of stuff in the center, against Jake Stern's body. His jacket. Or the top of his bald head. Whatever."

  "How do I do that?"

  "Get close to him. You slap him hard enough to break the seal. The nanobots do the rest. Do you understand?"

  Jamerson looked at the plastic square in his hand.

  "Do I have to explain it in detail?" the woman asked, a note of exasperation in her voice.

  "I get it," Jamerson said. He pictured himself running up to the old man, slapping him on the back, and then getting dragged off by Stern's bodyguards.

  "Do it as soon as you can."

  A homing beacon, Jamerson realized as he looked at the plastic square. "Why do you need a homing beacon?"

  The woman smiled. She looked up, her soft hazel eyes brightening. "So you know what this thing is. I didn't tell you it was a homer."

  Jamerson didn't react. The tiny nano-machines released by the sudden breaking of the gooey seal in the middle of the shiny side of the plastic square would drive through Stern's clothing, then through his skin and into the blood stream. They'd gather, as programmed, and reassemble into a long-range homing device, the kind used to identify a moving target when it mingled with a crowd.

  "You hit him in the Promenade, you'll take out a lot of innocents," Jamerson said.

  "We know. We'll wait for the homer to move onto the road back to where he smuggles himself in and out of the city. No innocents there. Okay? Don't feel guilty."

  Jamerson put the inert piece of cardboard into the change purse he wore around his middle. The woman started to walk away.

  "Where are you going?" He reached for her.

  She continued walking, but looked back over her shoulder and said, "There's a flag station up the road. I'll find my own way back."

  Chapter Twelve

  Glad-handing, Crisp called it when Potter first saw Stern shaking hands, slapping backs, exchanging smiles and kind words with the people at his repair shop in the city. The place was a focal point where crowds converged to greet the old man, young techie-types looked for a day's work repairing old appliances, and Stern acted the role of Favored Uncle. Now, here on the Outside, in the Promenade, Stern continued the act, greeting people he knew, holding quick conversations with everyone, especially strangers, always ready to confirm his ties to the community. He acted the part Potter normally thought reserved for politicians in Chicago-proper.

  Pressed into service as one of Stern's bodyguards, but not dressed like them in a lightweight suit that lent an aura of respectability, Potter kept close enough to Stern to act if need be, far enough away to get an overall view of the crowd.

  Crisp had ridden out with Stern that morning. A messenger alerted Potter, who took the advance warning as an implied order to be at the Promenade. The old man always set up "shop" at a favored ground-level restaurant on the edge of the park. It offered old-fashioned tables -- rickety for the most part -- set on embedded flagstone. An awning served as a roof to block the worst of the scorching sun or, in other weather, to protect patrons from light rain showers.

  According to Crisp, the old man expected trouble. He had a couple of miscreants to deal with and he didn't know for certain that there were more than just two. But he didn't want to leave the city with a virtual army - two dozen or more guards; he preferred to have just the usual four men, and then to rely on "undercovers" like Potter and a couple of others Crisp enlisted for the day.

  Potter tried to pick out the other undercover guards. He assumed they were as shabby looking as himself. A lot of the people crowding the old man fit that description, but a few seemed well-dressed in comparison, as though they'd put on their best clothes to impress Stern for one reason or another.

  When he thought he'd been driven too far back by the mob, Potter elbowed and wrenched his way to the front of the pack. Stern pulled away from his admirers and mounted the top step of a four-wheeler, its electric engine squealing, the gears not meshing but still spinning. He tapped the driver on the shoulder and the motor stopped. A faint burning odor stabbed the air. Stern held his hands at shoulder level. His guards flanked him, two on a side.

  The old man spoke. "I'm looking for a hundred workmen. Of all types."

  The crowd buzzed, someone yelled what sounded like a cheer, but no one repeated it, and the buzzing grew into a rumbling roar. Stern did nothing to quell the disturbance. He kept his hands up, continued to smile, as though he enjoyed the reaction he got to his announcement.

  #

  Jamerson watched. Waited. This could be his opportunity to strike.

  He couldn't wedge his way through the crowd, but stood far back on the periphery, on the steps of a building near the street where Stern had briefly mingled with the crowd. Now the old man had returned to stand beside his driver. His security team looked ready for trouble.

  Jamerson wondered how he'd get closer. Every day, rumors abounded about Stern's next visit. Every afternoon, Jamerson pedaled along the main thoroughfare across from Grant's Promenade, his "Not-in-Service" flag flying because he wasn't authorized to pick up fares south of the river and he'd already been caught twice violating that clause in his permit. After two weeks of this, his income suffered. He worked until nightfall, which came earlier each day as the summer waned. August and its numbing heat ended, replaced by the threat of an early winter, which quickly disappeared after a few days when the weather warmed again.

  The workmen Stern alluded to had to be for the seawall that needed repair and the additions to existing walls. A rise in the lake's water level meant higher waves, the threat of flooding at the fringes of Grant's Promenade, and a loss to Stern if the park suffered from the coming storms. Barges in the lake were already at work on th
e seawalls around Lakeshore Towers, where Jamerson used to live, the Water Works, and the fisheries at Belmont Harbor. The city took care of the infrastructure it valued. Only Stern mended the vulnerable parts Outside.

  Which, Jamerson surmised, made him a danger that someone in the government wanted eliminated. Too many people owed their livelihoods to the old man. Too many of the underground institutions, such as this Promenade, relied on Stern and his organization. If he wanted to, Stern could be mayor of the city-proper. If he wanted to, Stern could create a new city Outside, a city independent of Chicago.

  How long did they think this old man would live? Jamerson let loose a wry laugh as he watched Stern's four-wheeler slowly plow through the crowd, which parted to make way for him. The guards jogged to keep up. People cheered. A few raised banners praising Stern. A few seemed to protest the old man, but Rounders appeared and hustled the dissenters away, as though they'd contaminate everyone else.

  Stern's driver turned left onto a ramp leading into an indoor garage. When the four-wheeler went inside, the crowd dispersed, except for a knot standing near the first floor doorway. Jamerson decided, his best course of action would be to wait. Wait and see. Watch for Stern, who had to come out of that building eventually.

  #

  Barrington stood in that small crowd, clutching the printed invitation he'd been given. He'd applied for an audience with Stern. Twice he was refused. Then, without reapplying, he found a messenger looking for him at the racing concessions, a folded invite in one hand, his other hand palm-up in anticipation of a tip.

  Barrington didn't share this news with Hawks. Lately, he spoke as little as possible to his partner. The man refused to stop skimming the daily take. Barrington suspected he'd started under-reporting the revenue even more than before. Hawks headed into dangerous territory and Barrington wanted no part of it.

  He clutched the invitation. He mentally practiced what he'd say, how he'd say it. Someone jostled him. He ignored everyone, ignored all of the men and women with similar invitations in their hands. How many people did Stern expect to see this afternoon? Would he work through the night? Usually, Stern spent a couple of hours in his office, enjoyed a repast at his favorite restaurant, and then strolled through the Promenade. He often stopped to chat at the various concessions. Come early evening, he'd retire for the night.

  Sometimes, not everyone invited to meet with Stern got to do so. Barrington often witnessed the disappointed petitioners at sunset, some of them cursing the old man because they'd need to reapply for an invite to a meeting. Some tried to speak to him as he strolled the park. A few were lucky enough to exchange a few words.

  What Barrington wanted to say couldn't be said within earshot of others. He needed a private meeting. Which he'd get. The old man knew him, had helped him buy the racing concession, remembered him from an earlier time when Barrington was just one more tech-savvy kid working at the repair shop in the city. Barrington thought he had the clout to get a private interview and, then, enough influence to get away with stealing from the old man.

  Head down, mind roiling with ideas of what he'd say when he had the chance, Barrington followed the guard's instructions. He walked into the antechamber. He moved to the end of the long wooden bench in the corridor. He sat. Others joined him, some looking as dour as he felt; others, euphoric. Once the bench filled, everyone seated side-by-side, someone opened the office door and called out a name.

  Barrington waited for his turn. He'd thought, since he was first into the antechamber, that he'd be called first. Then he feared he'd be last because he sat at the far end of the polished wooden bench. But, Stern or his administrators, had different ideas about who was called first, who got called last. Like everything else Outside, Stern stayed in control. That included the order by which he met with petitioners.

  The office door opened. Everyone on the bench looked up, expectant, some nervous and some calm. Barrington didn't know what showed on his face. Inside, he trembled, afraid of what might happen if he faltered when the time came to speak. He felt empty. Disassociated from himself.

  The guard called out his name. Barrington stood. Everyone on the bench sank back into "wait" mode. Barrington walked to the open door and then into the office, where he found Stern sitting behind a large table, two guards on either side, a hawk-faced man in a rumpled suit at a smaller table and a familiar, bulldog-looking man in a tattered pair of pants, his wrinkled white shirt open at the collar.

  Stern folded his arms across his thick chest. Tuffs of white hair stood out around the base of his neck. His flabby skin rubbed at the frayed shirt collar. Up close, the old man looked worn and tired, his eyes not sparkling and his face not breaking into a smile. Just a wrinkled guy who'd been too long in the business of running things, Barrington told himself. The thought gave him strength.

  "I found a problem, Mr. Stern. A big one. So I wanted to -- "

  "I remember you," Stern said in a gravely voice, choking off what else Barrington had to say. "You worked for me in the city. At the shop."

  Barrington nodded.

  "Of course," Stern continued. He made a small smile with his thin lips. It somehow lightened the mood, Barrington thought, and marveled at how that smile spread across the old man's wide face, from his large bulbous nose to the sagging skin at his jowls.

  Barrington waited. Of course... what? He hung on the old man's phrase.

  "That shop," Stern said. "That's what started everything."

  "Yes."

  "Yes," Stern said. "You worked for me at my shop. I helped you buy out those brothers and helped you turn a trifling racing attraction into something bigger. Isn't that right?"

  Barrington nodded. He'd lost control of the conversation. He wondered, how did he ever think he'd do otherwise?

  "So what do you want to tell me?" Stern asked.

  Barrington stopped himself from blurting out the words building up inside. He sensed a trap. If he said the wrong thing, Stern would pounce. Or, rather, he'd signal his henchmen and they'd pounce. And then what?

  "You already know, Mr. Stern."

  "Do I?"

  "Yeah," Barrington said, switching tactics. "Hawks has been cheating you. Me, too. Both of us."

  "He's cheating you?" Stern said, smiling again. He put his folded hands on the tabletop. Wrinkled, ancient skin that had once been taut and hard, the hands sported brown spots, deep creases where the thumbs met the palms, and pale yellow nails at the end of each finger.

  "You know he has. No doubt, you think I'm part of it."

  "No doubt, I do."

  "But I'm not," Barrington said. "That's why I'm here, Mr. Stern."

  Stern chuckled. "Of course. To turn on your partner, this Hawks fellow. Of course."

  Barrington started to speak, but stopped when Stern raised his hand, palm out in a "halt" gesture.

  "I've been aware of your duplicity, yours and Hawks. Aware for some time. My people have already investigated. You didn't start the skimming scheme. But you didn't stop it, either. In fact, my suspicion has been, and will continue to be, that you joined your partner in stealing from me. Maybe one out of ten races. Maybe two. Sometimes three. Off the top."

  Stern sat back in his swivel chair, turned left a bit, and then right, making the chair squeak. Barrington expected one or two of the old man's guards to step forward, for them to take him out of the room.

  "I came here to tell you," Barrington said, adding some muscle to his voice, refusing to be complacent. "If I did anything wrong, it wasn't intentional. I never profited from any of this." He pictured the mass of ogres he'd acquired in the past couple of months, a combination of Mylar strips and plastic tokens that added up to thousands of units. But he didn't think the old man knew about that.

  Stern sat back, hands in his lap, eyes on Barrington. Eyes that burned and penetrated.

  "What'll happen to Hawks?" Barrington asked.

  "He's gone," Stern said. "Which means ... " His voice faded. Then, "You'll have to run that con
cession on your own. Hire somebody you trust to help you."

  Barrington didn't react. Inside, he rolled the old man's words around in his mind. Gone? Dead? Banished? Exiled from exile?

  "Get out of here," Stern said. "And next time you've got something to tell me, tell me a lot sooner or I'll think you're part of the conspiracy."

  #

  Potter watched as two guards took Barrington out of the office by way of a back door, one that led to a staircase to the alley. The old man chuckled and said, "Keep your enemies closer. That's what I learned from my father."

  "There's about eleven or twelve more out there," one of the guards said.

  "Any pretty girls?" Stern quipped. "Send one of them in."

  Potter waited, wishing he could sit. His legs ached. He traded glances with Baumgarten. The hawk-faced accountant sat silent, looking diligent and important, dressed in clean clothes for the first time in weeks. But still rumpled. Still messy.

  Potter had enjoyed getting out of his rags, though he knew he looked just as wrinkled and tattered as Baumgarten. Maybe Stern didn't want them well-dressed, didn't want to destroy the disguises they'd acquired in the past few months.

  Now, Potter hoped, the project was finally at an end. He wanted to go home, back to his tiny apartment and his wife and daughter. He didn't question why Stern let Barrington go. Without even a beating. Just a warning. But he didn't care, either.

  "Keep your enemies closer," the old man had said. Potter guessed that explained everything, though he didn't know why.

  He shifted from foot to foot and watched a tall, stately woman in a loose fitting white dress enter the room, her feet bare, her hair shaved close to the scalp. She held what looked like a petition in her hand.

  Potter let his mind drift. Ginny's smile floated by, her cheeks rosy and her pointed chin more pronounced. Lydia's dark good looks interceded. Formidable, he thought. That's how he thought of her. Something she'd passed on to their daughter, Carol. And that thought made him hope he'd build a better father-daughter relationship with the girl.