“Ey yo Countryman!”
Riley’s neighbor Henry ‘Ford’ Floyd popped out up from underneath the hood of his truck. He was a skinny middle-aged man with a farmer’s tan, and a perpetually sunburned bald head. The peeling skin looked like tufts of curly hair. He had a spark plug in his mouth and a timing chain slung around his shoulders.
“Howdy Fordie.” Riley nodded. “Another late night stroke of genius?”
“Pure inspiration pardner. I dunno where it comes from.” He noticed blood all over Riley’s chin. His shirt was torn from Longhorn dragging him onto the sidewalk.“Who we killing, Countryman?”
“No one ever, brother. I took care of it. You keep working on the Mark 27. Or whatever Mark you’re up to.”
“Calling this one Mark 69!” Fordie hollered with a toothy grin.
“Hope I live to see Mark 420.” Riley sauntered down his neighborhood whistling tunes from Conan the Barbarian. His feet knew all the cracks in the sidewalk. The feather was still in his hair.
He heard boys roughhousing in his Dad’s friend’s backyard. The jeering and cursing were getting out of hand. He turned the corner and saw two kids making a real show of fighting one another, shoving and slapping half heartedly while nine other boys egged them on. Riley stood at his full 6’6” with his arms crossed. They broke up the fight as soon as they noticed him, saving the little pugilists from further embarrassment.
“Did Michael put you guys up to this?” Michael threw his arms out, appalled. Riley’s little brother played with Michael when they were younger. He was a rumor spreader who got his kicks pitting other boys against each other. To their credit, none of them snitched. Seeing good kids act out worried Riley about his siblings. He told the boys go home, then hurried along himself.
The Countryman residence’s wear and tear made it more welcoming. It looked homey and lived-in, like a pair of trusty old boots or a beloved stuffed animal with matted fur and one of its button-eyes hanging on by a loose thread. The family jalopy was in the driveway. The twins’ rusty tricycle was in the yard. It was his once. Leo’s after that. It was a sore spot for their sister Dakota, the only one who never got a turn.
The front door opened into the living room. There was a couch with sunken cushions, nicotine stained curtains, and a window boarded up with moldy cardboard that Riley put a baseball through when he was seven. They had a boxy old TV on the floor that didn’t get cable, a DVD player beside it, and a bunch of DVDs from the library scattered around. The stained carpet was cratered with indentations from old furniture. Dad wasn’t in his chair. Riley didn’t hear him at the kitchen table either, where he usually poured over paperwork.
He took a long step over the mountain of shoes by the front door. They were countless, in various states of wear and tear—worn backs from being kicked off, dirty and frayed laces, holes in the soles, soles coming off, scuffs, tears, floppy tongues. Some of them were taped together and no one knew which pair belonged to who. Hand-me-downs from siblings and neighbors, none of them fit anyone. They had their jobs. They served the Countryman family and multiplied. They couldn’t afford to throw any away.
It was suspiciously quiet. Suddenly, there was an avalanche of outerwear. A young man burst out from beneath the many jackets and sweaters hanging on the wall. Riley stepped out of the way, grabbed him by the arm, then slammed him onto the doormat. Sneakers flew everywhere.
It didn’t make the house noticeably messier.
“Get good, Leo,” Riley said, as his brother laughed hysterically. “Heard you at the last second.”
“FUCK dude I have been hanging there for HOURS. My fingers are BLISTERED and I am SWEATING but it was WORTH IT. I almost got your ass. I will be the older brother one day.” Leo was all smiles. He understood the fun in losing. He needed braces. Riley was sad he’d never get them.
Riley offered him his hand. Leo took it—the fool—and as soon as he was on his feet Riley pulled him into a grapple. Leo anticipated this and positioned himself to resist it. Riley acknowledged with a nod. They gave each other a stern look and yelled,
“VIGILANCE. ALWAYS.”
A firm handshake, and the ritual was complete.
“Where is everyone?” Riley asked.
“I dunno, I’ve been under coats.”
“’Vigilance Always, Leo!’ You’re second oldest. I bet Sitting Dog is with the twins, or else he would’ve tried to tackle me too. But in a nice way, you fuck.”
“Oh yeah it’s a wild night! Oh no aaahhh spooky wind! Its a stupidstition dude, everyone is fine. Saw you had a wild night with the Alfalfa Street Longhorn though.”
“Why does everyone else know who that is?” Riley said, walking past the walk-in closet Dakota took over. Everything they used to store in bulk, like soap and cans, was taking up their whole kitchen counter so that she could have ‘privacy.’ He thought it was a lot of trouble just so she could listen to music in the dark.
“Longhorn’s a LEGEND dude! He rules! Poets write verse of his Mighty Charge.” Leo held his hands on the side of his head like horns. “You were dancing around him like a matador. Real Bugs Bunny, spirit of the trickster shit. Where’d you find a red cape?”
“It was someone’s rug. We uh, ran through a lot of houses. Listen—he and I worked things out, that’s the important thing. His wife left him this morning. We sung breakup songs together, and a whole crowd joined us. We were all singing and crying and healing. It was magical.”
“Riley Charisma,” Leo said.
“And then his wife came back!”
“Yeah, she always does,” Leo said. “Don’t you know anything?”
Riley saw the twins, Virginia and West Virginia, in the backyard standing side by side. They were posing with one arm pointing towards the sky and the other parallel to the ground. They were completely still. They were five.
Sitting Dog, a large black mutt, was watching them intently. He looked at Riley, then at the twins, then back to Riley, lowering his ears as if to say, “what do I do about this?”
Riley pet him. “Good boy. Let me handle it from here. Hey! Why aren’t you little Oompa-Loompas in bed?”
“We’re playing Satellite,” Virginia said matter-of-factly. As if it were obvious.
“Oh, of course. My bad. What kinds of frequencies you picking up?”
“Well, there was a man who was very mad,” West Virginia began, “and a woman who was very, very sad.” Virginia tilted his head and shushed her.
“Alright well, can you send messages back?” Riley asked.
The twins lit up, then commiserated with an elaborate series of facial gestures only they understood. Riley waited. He preferred how he and Leo communicated. With their fists. Like men.
“We can try,” West Virginia said, eventually.
“Tell them to calm down and keep their chins up. Things get better.”
“What about Daddy?” Virginia said. West Virginia shushed him.
“The… situation surrounding him will get better,” Riley said. “He’s got us, after all.”
The twins stopped responding to him, seemingly absorbed in being satellites. Which didn’t talk, they realized. At least not how people do. Riley asked Sitting Dog to hold it down outside for a little longer. The loyal vassal borfed his assent, always willing to serve his family.
“Can’t wait for them to develop personalities in a couple years, so I can relate to them,” Riley said inside.
“Yeah itsa big age gap anyway bro check it out I was working on the project while you were at work and I came up with some dope designs and yo look at how BUFFthis dude is,” Leo rattled on, holding his sketchbook out to Riley. “I was insanely productive dude. I just kept having great ideas and I think I got better at drawing anatomy. Then I had the coat hanger idea and I kinda stopped. Anyway dude check these out. They’re sick.”
“I know they are bro, but hold on.” Riley knocked on their parents’ door.
Tamaqua ‘Tom’ Countryman was propped up on his orthopedic pillow. He winced when he rolled over to look at Riley. “Sorry,” he said, for laying down. “I managed to fill out some forms.” He grimaced in pain as he reached towards the paperwork beside him.
“Ey take it easy Dad. Oh,” he pulled an envelope from his pocket, “I also got this.” He tossed it with the other papers, trying to be low key to avoid the usual song and dance.
It didn’t work.
“Oh, Riley, No. It’s my job to provide for this family. This is your money.”
“Ah come on, you been providing for me for twenty years. Grown men pay rent.” Riley had been bringing money home since he was sixteen.
“No, no.” He put up a hand. “You should save. Get ready to start your own family.”
“Already got one,” Riley said. A single tear came to Tom’s eye. “Ah come on Dad, you look like someone just littered. I’d rather work a double every day of my life than deal with your paperwork.”
There was a fat stack of documents he needed to fill out and mail for disability benefits. Dates, pay rates, work history, expenses, and dependents. He had to list what groceries they bought, with receipts, and the names of all his kids’ teachers. Had to be 100% accurate down to seconds and decimals, and submitted every week at the same time. One mistake or one millisecond late meant your family didn’t eat that week. Then he had to do it all again for food stamps and healthcare. Requirements changed frequently with no communication. Once they were denied benefits because he forgot to dot an i. Their tribal status complicated things further. Years ago Tom tried to supersede tribal regulations, getting himself in trouble with the state and the reservation. Now everything was harder.
There were also sweepstakes applications. Every bag, flashlight, mug, or tool set he won was another thing they didn’t have to buy. Every object in their home had some company’s logo on.
“The middle-men and bureaucrats need to line their pockets,” Dad said bitterly.
“The spirits aren’t with us,” Riley said. This seemed to calm his Dad. It was Native American for win some, lose some. It was practicing acceptance. Tom picked it up in AA.
“Where’s Mom?” Riley asked. Tom looked guilty and ashamed—which meant she was still at work. “Wild Night. She’ll have some crazy stories from the hospital. Nina’s in her hole?”
Dad sighed. “I heard her come home, so I assume? Don’t know where else she’d be.” Tom wished she could have a proper bedroom. Riley wished she’d stop hiding from the rest of the family. None of the other siblings had privacy. Tom noticed Riley getting angry and waved his hand. “She’s 15. It’ll pass.”
Riley stomped over to her closet door. “Come out from under your rock. Maybe say hello? Maybe check on your injured father, see if he needs anything?” Tom winced to hear his infirmity acknowledged. Riley waited for a sarcastic comment. When it didn’t come he gestured to Leo, who was making some final touches on his latest sketches.
“She home?” Riley asked.
Leo shrugged. “I mean I assumed.”
“Dude… did anyone fucking check?”
Ellis stared out the window, fully lost in the view.
It was his first time in a city. It wasn’t like pictures he’d seen of New York or Chicago. There was only one skyscraper, an ominous jet-black eyesore with two ‘arms’ that jut out from either side in an affront to gravity and good taste, making it look like a cactus. It was surrounded by medium-sized buildings, all black against the setting sun. Lifeless obelisks. He gazed at the smallest buildings, with lights on—with people in them. The little one or two story buildings sprawled infinitely into the horizon. They were shades of red, brown, and tan. Colors that are boring, but warm.
Ellis was so consumed thinking about all those people that he didn’t notice the preacher going off again at full volume, with a tiny self-satisfied grin. He thought Ellis was pretending to ignore him.
The sound of the brakes snapped Ellis out of his head. The train made an abrupt stop and he cringed as his CDs and cassettes clattered onto the floor.
People shot up, joining the crowd already at the door. Ellis sensed a great and infectious urgency. He knew there was gonna be a stampede the second the doors opened. He didn’t expect anyone to help the grumpy weirdo who took up two seats with his junk, especially after he made a scene. That was the down side of making himself scary.
The doors opened. He waited for the inevitable distressing sound of a jewel case cracking. The crowd cleared and he was alone with the preacher and a teenage girl with a black wolf cut she obviously did herself. Both of them were gathering Ellis’ stuff.
She reminded him of Tara. Ellis imagined this new girl crying about her hair, cutting it off in a manic fit. It would look so good, it would fix everything. Suddenly regret, mourning. Self-hatred for being stupid and self-pity for not having money for a stylist. Everyone else gets to look pretty.
She looked bewildered by Ellis’ CDs. He had eccentric taste, to put it nicely. A pop culture illiterate who grew up without TV or internet access, he lacked context for things and was only dimly aware of genre. His collection ranged from decidedly uncool pop music, some of which was for children, to independent punk bands and obscure prog-rock groups of which he was the only living fan.
He noticed they were wearing the same T-Shirt. It was black, with a graphic of a face bisected vertically. One side was a skull, the other was a Cheshire-cat style grin. It was Ellis’ favorite shirt, evidenced by the wear and tear. And the odor. The logo was fading, so he didn’t wash it unless he hadto. And he had to.
This was his chance. He felt excitement and nerves swell in his chest. He almost stepped on one of his own CDs as he approached her. “Hey,” none of his excitement reached his face. “You know this band?”
“Nope. Just happen to have their shirt.”
“Can you name any of their songs?” She gave him an incredulous look, shoved him his things, then disappeared into the rapidly thinning crowd. “Wait what did I do?” He actually just happened to have their shirt. Took it from a thrift store because it looked like a logo a cool band would have. There weren’t any record stores in Okonkwo and he couldn’t find anything by googling, ‘skull smile logo band,’ on the library computer.
“You are guileless,” the preacher said.
“Forgot about you,” Ellis snapped out of his grief and confusion. “Put my shit down.”
The preacher raised an elegant eyebrow at Ellis. “Are you serious?”
“You’re not. You’re just trying to look like the bigger man.”
The preacher stood erect and moved close to Ellis, as if to demonstrate that he was, in fact, bigger. “Do you hate the word of the lord so much that you’d spite yourself?”
“No opinion on the lord, but I don’t like you. You’re not supposed to be loud on the train. And you called me the devil!”
“I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to the Devil speaking through you.”
“Who was speaking through you? The fucking… annoying demon?” Ellis was not good with words. He considered that a virtue.
“I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt, and assume that was also the Devil talking.” He smiled condescendingly. “No creature of God is this graceless.”
“DOOR CLOSING,” came over the speakers, and they rushed through the doors, each carrying half of Ellis’ stuff.
“I said put it down,” Ellis commanded. He placed it in a neat pile at Ellis’ feet.
“Peace be with you,” he nodded and walked away.
“Yeah, maybe now that you’re gone,” Ellis called out.
He got no satisfaction from having the last word. He stayed mad while he fixated on his things counted everything six times, then looked up and noticed his surroundings. The station platform was a gray slab of cracked concrete. None of the streetlights worked except for one that was bent, leaning over the train tracks and swaying in the wind. The caution tape around its base was old and worn.
There were a bunch of homeless people sitting together in a big pile, like a single organism in the dim light that coughed and shuffled lethargically. That’s why everyone climbed over each other to disperse. People couldn’t stand seeing the homeless. It was a grim reminder of the edge they were on. Ellis wasn’t afraid to confront the moral nightmare. It made him feel superior to the people who ran.
The nearby businesses had LED signs that shone dimly through layers of dust and car exhaust. There was a gun store, a fried liver ‘n gizzard joint, a military recruitment center, a non-denominational Christian church sharing a building with a cowboy-themed bar, a phone repair place, and a tax agency. There were a lot of shuttered buildings. The sidewalk was littered with broken old A-frames with faint, illegible remnants from chalk-markers. The phone place was called CRACKS KILL—THE GLASS MASTERS. A man in a racist Native American mascot costume was sitting on the curb in front of Trail of Taxes accounting. Open 24 hours. He caught Ellis looking at him and weakly held up his sign. Ellis gave him a little wave. He didn’t look like the kind of person who did taxes. He wasn’t sure if the government knew he existed.
He could still see that humongous cactus in the distance. It was blacker than the night sky. He was always dimly aware of it, like he could see it no matter which direction he faced.
One of the homeless women scratched at an angry, wet scab covering her whole cheek. Ellis began ruminating on its color and texture. He imagined it on his arms, inside his mouth, and on his genitals. Her asking him for a hug. Crying, needy for affection and attention and desperately self-conscious.
What if Dallas didn’t show? He looked at the addicts—he wouldn’t be the first person that scumbag put outside. Wouldn’t be the first time he had to sleep outside either. Sometimes his Mom would tell him to spend the night at a friends’ house and he had to pretend he had any. Well, any with homes he was welcome in.
He noticed a drug deal in a nearby parking lot. He knew better than to look. The wind was incessant. It wasn’t cold, but it felt weird on his skin and it made him antsy. What if that was Dallas selling drugs? What if he was still a gangster and this was all an elaborate ruse to press Ellis into a gang? He tried to covertly look at the men. What if they saw? What if they thought he was a cop? What if the scab woman tried to kiss someone, and collapsed into hysterics when they refused, incapable of understanding why no one loved her? He kept glancing over at her. Seeing her grounded Ellis in reality. His thoughts were worse.
“You shouldn’t stareat people,” came a gruff voice.
The man was average height with a thickly muscled upper body and a bit of a hunch. He wore a tight white t-shirt, gray sweatpants, socks with sandals, and a black choker.
Ellis kept quiet and glared at him.
“I’d be careful about making that face, kid. You don’t look tough, you look petulant and self-pitying. Kinda like my kid when we make her eat broccoli. Might scare some people, but it’ll piss off the wrong guy.” The man got in Ellis’ face, and Ellis noticed he wasn’t wearing a choker—it was a neck tattoo. Black text around his throat that read:
I’mthe wrong guy.
Ellis dropped his box on Lester’s foot and threw a punch. Lester swung his elbow in the way of Ellis’ jab and he felt his knuckles explode. Ellis swung with his other arm and Lester let it connect to make a point.
“Quick to violence and weak as shit. You’re definitely Dallas’ brother.”
Ellis stepped back. “Are you his enemy?”
“Yeah,” Lester said.
“I barely know the guy. Haven’t seen him in a decade. Your beef has nothing to do with me.”
“That’s not how this works. I beat up his brother, it’s an insult. Word gets around. He’s an image-obsessed narcissist. He’d retaliate quick—emotional and sloppy.”
“I see,” Ellis rubbed his knuckles. “Fuck that. If you don’t like someone go after them. Don’t hurt people who have nothing to do with it.”
“I didn’t ask you shit,” Lester said.
“I didn’t ask you shit.” Ellis looked around for stuff to throw. Bricks, loose concrete, broken glass, that’s how he dealt with stronger guys. Every trash heap was a secret weapons cache.
“You drop something? I don’t have all night kid.” He did, though.
“Hold on.” Ellis abandoned his luggage and dashed to the homeless people.
One man was still awake and upright. “You gonna fuck that guy up?”
“Yes.” Ellis said, holding out a five-dollar bill. “Do you have a used needle? Even a broken one?”
“Pfft shit man, yeah.” He fished through his pockets on the many jackets he was wearing. Ellis kept glancing at Lester. “Fucking EMT punk narcan’d me yesterday.”
“Were you overdosing?”
“Yes motherfucker it ruled. I was fine! The shit’s in my system still, so I can’t get high. What else am I supposed to do out here?”
“Drink?”
“No way dude. I’m ten months sober.”
“Oh. Congrats dude,” Ellis said. The guy gave him a broken needle with a bent tip for five dollars. He had the phrase scumbag written on his knuckles. Ellis trotted back to his luggage, holding the needle out in front of him. He held it out to show Lester.
“Kid what the fuck are you doing.”
“You can probably kick my ass, but if you try, I will stab you with this needle. It’s used. Could be infected, probably isn’t, but at the very least you’re gonna wanna to get tested. Is it worth the hospital bill? The long line at the clinic? The anxiety, the sleepless nights?”
“Put that down kid,” Lester said. This was escalating and his face was getting hot. “Dallas is busy, so I’m picking you up for him.”
“But you’re his enemy,” Ellis said.
“We’re both too tired for that. Let’s go.”
“You threatened me.”
“Welcome to Sincoke.”
“Those people were very nice,” Ellis pointed to the homeless. They waved at him, lethargically. He felt buyer’s remorse about the needle. “Listen, I don’t know who the fuck you are and I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Lester stifled a curse. He heard America in his mind. Blowing up isn’t ‘letting off steam,’ it’s indulgent and addictive. He thought about calling Dallas but he remembered the piece of crap was on a stakeout. Then he remembered his phone bricked. He did not stifle that curse. He fished around in his pocket for his business card. His pockets were full of torn-up receipts. His fingers were always restless.
“Here, kid.” He tried to toss the card to Ellis but the wind blew it onto the tracks. Lester groaned and jumped down to retrieve it, but it blew away every time he got close to it.
“Shut up!” He pointed at Ellis, who hadn’t said anything. “Just wait a fucking minute.”
“What if the train comes?”
“I’ll jump in front of it,” Lester growled. He finally got the card and leapt onto the platform. He was red in the face and a little light-headed. He stomped over to Ellis, who held his needle defensively, and held the card out forcefully.
Avia Investigative Detective Services
Lester Guerra
“Your name is Lester?”
“Your brother’s business is called AIDS but you make a smart comment aboutmy name?”
“You work for my brother?”
“With. I work with your brother.”
“Dallas is a detective now?” Ellis eyed the card, then Lester, suspiciously.
“What do you need, two fucking cards?” Lester felt Ellis didn’t trust him because of how he looked. Kid should look in a mirror. Then it hit him. Dallas is a detective now, the kid said. He knew what his brother was before. Of course he was scared.
Lester relaxed his posture but couldn’t soften his permanent mean mug. “Dallas took a road trip awhile ago. Did some volunteer work, hung out with Shaolin monks or something. His personality is exactly the same, and he still breaks the law, but he’s…” Lester couldn’t believe this was coming out of his mouth, “not a bad guy anymore.”
“Shaolin monks?”
“Or whatever they’re called.”
“What was he doing with them?”
“I dunno. Blowing them. Come on. There’s a Starbucks with a safe needle deposit. Don’t want your little stunt to kill a sanitation worker.”
Ellis didn’t have any other options. And he’d never been to Starbucks. Maybe if he stared at the menu without saying anything, Lester would buy him something. The goon walked ahead of him, leaving Ellis to carry all of his boxes with his swollen hand. So probably not.
“How would you do this guy in the Soviet Union?” Dallas asked Dzerassae as they walked along the road, through a neighborhood with no sidewalks.
Dzerassae was quiet. She got dismissive or cranky when she didn’t want to answer a question. She considered her words carefully when she did, and the pregnant pauses gave her words impact.
“Spare me the ancient wisdom,” Dallas grinned at her. “I don’t need a life lesson. Off the cuff. How would you ice–”
“I must translate words in my head,” she spat. Dallas held up his hands in apology. They were a conspicuous duo; Dallas in a purple three-piece suit with a pistol at his belt, grinning like an idiot because he loved stake outs. Dzerassae in her white gown, headscarf, and combat boots, with a belt across her chest strapped with knives. “Men like Zengrel are adaptive. In United States, he become investor capitalist. In Soviet Russia, he become party man.”
“They should let me run the country. Everyone would be free under my thumb! You know what I would do with guys like him?” He pulled out his gun and pointed it downward, like he was aiming at a man on his knees. Pedestrians crossed to the other side of the road.
Dzerassae swiftly disarmed him with a practiced maneuver, and hid the gun in her shawls.
Dallas rubbed his wrist. “We gotta sneak you into Z’s house. What would you cut off first with those daggers? His freaky lil’ thang?”
“I am done being part of organization that sneak into homes and kills,” she chastised him. “I try to teach you self restraint, subtlety. We need to keep low profile.”
“I fit in just fine. This is Sincoke, grandma. Ten thousand times as many guns as people.”
“You dress too extravagant.”
“Because I like color? We’re going to the rich pedophile district. Everyone is dressed like Willy Wonka. I fit right in with my style.” Dallas got quiet and introspectively. “Do I dress like a rich pedophile? Z, you know I have proletarian values.”
Dzerassae nodded sincerely. “You do not like exploitation. You value camaraderie.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to wear overalls right? I can appropriate colorful menswear. I mean, I slept in this suit. On the floor of my office. That’s salt of the Earth. Salt of the floor. I woke up next my own boot print. That should get me a pass on the ol’ calloused hand check.”
“But does fop suit help detective work? They recognizable,” Dzerassae waggled a finger.
“If they’re focused on my style, they ain’t focused on my face.” She seemed satisfied. “And what about you? You look like a Bene Gesserit.”
“Pah! No one pay attention to old lady.” Dzerassae stooped forward a little bit and put a bit of a hobble in her walk. “You see?! Like I disappear.”
Dallas raised his eyebrows in appreciation, and stared ahead as they walked. Dzerassae took his silence as him pondering the questions she posed, before disappointing her with more violent posturing. “I know you’re not a full pacifist old friend. If we broke into Z’s house—oh shit, you’re Z, he needs a new nickname—but if you had a clean shot on him you would do it right? Come ooonn.” He gestured with finger guns.
Dzerassae got quiet once again. Dallas rolled his eyes. More ancient wisdom incoming.
“In Soviet Union, like United States, places of power fill with men like him. Killing change nothing. You are not thug anymore. I am not secret police. We are detectives. We still move through shadows, but only to cast light. We stake out house. We see who go in, who go out. Use that as leverage to obtain more information on victims. We are here to save children, not kill men.”
“As long as he’s alive he’ll just keep doing it. Finding victims is great. Sure. But AIDS isn’t about hording blackmail. That would just make us the CIA.”
“You spoke to mothers,” Dzerassae said. “You promise them closure. Not revenge.”
“Just satisfy me. From a pure, irrational, emotional perspective, you would totally blow this guy’s brains out right? I need to know that warm blood runs through you,” Dallas said. “Don’t overthink this. Just be a human. How would you do it? Would you say some cool shit like, ‘this is for the people’?”
She narrowed her thin lips. “In old country, we would make public,” She said grimly.
“There’s the old leftist,” Dallas grinned evilly. “Guillotine shit. Show everyone what happens to the bourgeois that get too crazy.”
“I am not one of revolutionaries who admire violence and authoritarianism. But sometimes, it can serve a purpose. A show.”
“Always the pragmatist,” Dallas said cockily. “Bread and roses and circuses.”
“I am not talking about Soviet Union. I am talking about Old Country. Village men would drag him to town square, victims and their families beat him.”
“I love that.” Dallas took a deep breath. “I want to inhale this visceral honesty and feel it course through my veins. Thank you, Z. God, Amy with all this therapy-speak and everyone with all the ‘responsibility,’ and, ‘ethics of vigilantism,’ shit. Sometimes your heart knows the path to righteousness.”
“How American.” She spat. “Hearts only know what hearts want. Not what is right.”
Ellis didn’t like Starbucks. The cafe was big enough to fit dozens of tables but they only had three. The bar counter was covered in cardboard ads so no one could sit there. It wasn’t a place for people, it was a place for laptops.
The baristas had hall monitor energy. They were assertive in an anxious, jumpy way, hiding behind the register and the espresso machines like they were castle walls. They shot pensive looks at Ellis and his boxes, like they were afraid he was moving in. Ellis clocked the supervisor, a chubby guy with a a scraggly beard and a wiry handlebar mustache, ready to spring into action and ask Ellis to buy something the second he sat down. If Ellis sat down in Antarctica, a penguin would ask him to buy something.
The supervisor switched places with the girl at the register when Lester approached.
“Code for the bathroom?” Lester said.
He started to make what Ellis called ‘policy face,’ the look of fake sympathy when someone is about to say sorry but no. Company policy. Wish I could. Nothing to be done. I don’t make the rules, I just abide by them and hold all people to them evenly. Swear to God.
Ellis could only see Lester’s back, but he sensed the threat of unruliness. Ellis was in awe. Everything about Lester projected that he was more trouble than its worth. No matter what ‘it’ was. He probably never paid four dollars for anything. He truly was the Wrong Guy.
“6969,” the supervisor said.
Lester yelled at Ellis for trying to take his boxes into the restroom. “Someone might throw it out,” Ellis said, “People throw my stuff out all the time.” Lester told him hurry up then. There were unshucked ears of corn stuffed behind the toilet. As if someone was trying to hide them. Like buried treasure.
“There was corn in there,” Ellis said said when he emerged. Lester shrugged and mouthed the words wild night. “I’ve never had Starbucks.” Ellis was making his bid. “Always wanted to try it. Have you?”
“I’m a QFS guy. Call us a ride. My phone… broke.”
“I don’t have a phone. And I don’t mind walking. Can you help me carry my stuff?”
Lester groaned through his teeth. He did some grounding exercises that America taught him. “Look, kid–”
“Ellis,” Ellis said indignantly.
Lester did grounding exercises again. “Sincoke is a car city. Everything is spread out. Lot of neighborhoods don’t have sidewalks, and public transit sucks shit. You gotta use the apps and get driven around by teachers, nurses and other people who can afford cars but not their student loans.”
“Where’s your car?”
“Look my license got revoked OK?”
Handlebars asked if he could help them with anything. The implication was: if not then get lost. Lester told him to call a cab.
“I’ve already been carrying this shit all day,” Ellis was worried he’d have to split the cost, “what’s another couple–”
“It’s not a safe night to be walking around,” Lester said. He didn’t feel like explaining wild nights, people who hadn’t experienced them never took him seriously. He knew they were real. He knew he wasn’t immune. He wanted to harass the supervisor until he was afraid to come back to work.
Ellis picked up on nervous energy from everyone around him. They were alert and apprehensive, anticipating an explosion. It reminded him of the tense silence after one of his Mom’s boyfriends slammed a door.
Dallas and Dzerassae walked towards Sincoke’s Black Cactus. Aside from the ostentatious, gravity-defying arms intended to make it look like a trident, it was no different from the other empty office buildings in Sincoke’s ghost-town of a business district.
They erected it during the tech boom that never happened, when App developers tried to make Sincoke the new Silicone Valley. It’s cheap, nothing’s regulated, and city leadership made it rain tax breaks and subsidies. But Sincoke had no talent, and talent wouldn’t move there. Some recent graduates and older engineers facing age discrimination showed up. Sincoke collected them and fed itself on their frustrated ambition and wasted ability. They all stocked shelves or drove Uber now.
Few people ever worked in the Black Cactus. It was plagued with problems. Ceilings leaked, entire floors were unfinished, and there were HVAC issues that left people coding in a black building under the hot Western sun without air conditioning. It was the focus of lurid conspiracy theories, chief among them that it was an intentional failure. Dallas and America looked into its funding. It was extremely opaque. They reckoned some real estate mogul from Texas or Seattle was making a lot of money on subsidies and write-offs.
It was a well-documented phenomenon that people experienced acute feelings of fatigue and hopelessness when they looked at it. Like staring at an eldritch abomination or being in a Walmart.
“Someone should 9/11 that thing,” Dallas said. “It’s an antennae that beams what little money this place has to already-rich leeches in nicer cities.”
“…Cyapitalism,” the old Soviet said quietly, as if embarrassed by the cliche. “What of your brother?”
“I sent Lester to escort the little prince home.” Dzerassae was quiet. “Don’t worry, I’ve got him on a leash.”
“Lester is good man. Hard life, common story. He makes you dwell on past, like that idiot cigarette you carry. A test. Yes?”
“Its not a test. He’s committed to the work. And he’s changed.”
“Old habits are stubborn. You both always arguing, it puts us all on edge. You give old lady heart attack.”
“Good. I ain’t paying you people to relax.”
“Cyapitalism,” Dzerassae muttered again.
“He’s got that stupid code.” Dallas hated Lester’s code. “Motherfucker spent the last decade mugging people and selling drugs but it’s all good because he follows the code!” Dallas made a jerk off motion. “Oh what’s that Lester? You’d never sell drugs to a pregnant woman? Wow what a bold fucking stance! God I hate it so much, but that’s why I trust him. Consistency. And as long as he’s around me and still drawing breath, its proof I’ve changed a little.”
“So it is test,” Dzerassae said.
“For him! Because the second he steps outta line!” Dallas reached for his gun, forgetting Dzerassae confiscated it. “Hey, over here we have something called the Second Amendment, Z.” She looked at him like he was an idiot. So did a bunch of pedestrians in designer athletic gear. They tipped Dallas off that he was in the right neighborhood.
Sincoke’s wealthy neighborhoods looked uncannily uniform. When Sincoke was up and coming, speculators swarmed like piranha to ‘revitalize’ it. Grey and white veneers were slapped over the bones of old brownstones. Sheet flooring was layered on asbestos-laden linoleum. Thick paint masked crumbling plaster—also full of asbestos. New appliances were plugged into old fuse boxes that were illegal in every other state. Most of these new-seeming homes were uninhabited, because Sincokers couldn’t even afford fake nice things.
There were cameras in front of every house on Zengrel’s block. “Look like a nice man and his grouchy Mother,” Dallas said. Dzerassae guffawed and said she was too old to be his mother. They noticed ‘for sale’ signs, pristine doormats, and overstuffed mailboxes. Dzerassae felt the husk-like aura of empty homes all around.
“We pick whichever,” she said dismissively. “Why they buy homes and never use them?”
“Its for shady shit,” Dallas said. “It’s a middle-of-nowhere privatized hellscape with a criminal police force. Perfect to store your ivory collection, your exotic pets, or the people you trafficked.”
“Hmph. Private island do not have vulnerable population,” Dzerassae said with a scowl.
“I think they like doing it in populated areas, right under the noses of normal people. Transgression gets them off, waving money at boundaries until they break them. I don’t even know if Zengrel and his friends are necessarily attracted to children, I think they just like crossing taboos, and flaunting that rules don’t apply to them. That’s what power does.”
“I do not dwell on their minds. That is for comrade Amy. I stick to patterns. Data. Simple.”
“They don’t have the same problems as us, so they don’t think like us. Once you transcend human problems, you stop behaving like a human. Which is the same as not being one. That’s why you can do whatever you want to them. Like they’re fucking dogs.”
Dzerassae shot him a stone cold look. Dallas was familiar with it. I am watching you, Mr. Avia. My primary allegiance to this cause and I know 100 ways to kill or maim you. Well, he knew like, 20 ways of stopping her.
“Relax, I’d never hurt a dog. God forbid I fantasize about killing the child rapists! Oh Dallas is such a wild guy! Itchy trigger finger Dallas!”
The drive was a nightmare. Sincoke was a labyrinth of roundabouts, eight-way intersections, and sneaky exit ramps.
Fights broke out. Drivers screamed at each other until they were separated by the flow of traffic, then they’d start right where they left off when they caught up to each other. People blasting music left their vehicles to dance in the streets, flipping off everyone honking at them. A man in a $400 jeans shot a pistol at the sky. An old black man in a Gucci shirt paced up and down the breakdown lane in a trance, occasionally making a heart with his fingers, holding it above his head, then slowly rotating by the waist to send love to the swaths of angry, impatient people. Their driver—a plump thirty-something middle school teacher—hyped Lester up and they started throwing loose change at other cars.
Ellis anxiously watched the fare go up. He had intrusive thoughts about people just wanting to be home. Crying. Lonely, overwhelmed, depressed. It was getting to him. He felt a deep sense of injustice, ruminating on Lester at the train station. The teacher had a suitcase full of textbooks and tests to grade. Every time there was a loud noise, Ellis wanted to swing the suitcase at Lester’s stupid fucking head.
They got to Dallas’ apartment complex. It had three floors and was made of bricks the color of mulch. It was on little square patch of dead grass in the middle of crisscrossing roads, isolating it from the dumpy little duplexes around it.
Lester regained his composure as he stepped out of the car. “Big intersection, kid. People blow reds all the time. Careful you don’t get hit around here.”
“I’ll look both ways,” he grunted sarcastically.
“I said don’t get hit, not to be a pussy. We jaywalk here. If people see you on the crosswalk they’ll hit you to put some hair on your chest.”
“Yeah, sure. Big scary city. I’ve fought meth heads at gas stations and I’m pretty sure I’ve pissed higher than the tallest building here.”
Lester looked at Ellis for the first time since the train. “Dallas tries to protect people, so its gotta be me who tells you. I’ve been to every city in this rotten country and I’ve never been jumped on a front lawn ten feet from kids playing in a pool, and the kids don’t even react. Every city has bad neighborhoods—Sincoke’s made of ’em, and you can’t tell them apart from the good ones. So don’t look like a bitch anywhere.”
“Now you’re supportive. Big tough guy giving street wisdom. I know how to handle myself. Now is there a key or something?”
Lester looked at the building wistfully. “Can’t believe I know where he lives. If I knew a couple months ago I would have set it on fire.”
“…What?”
Ellis looked a lot like younger Dallas. Dallas the Lesser Evil, the Shepard, commanding with care. Providing with blood money, placing his iron fist gently on your shoulder. Made sure his customers’ drugs weren’t laced, until they dared to buy from someone else. His girls were shadowed wherever they went. Safer, if they didn’t mind being followed by shadows. The people under his protection felt it weighing on them, like they were caught in a cardboard baler. Everyone lived in fear of him except for Lester. The Wrong Guy.
Then Dallas convinced him to give up the life and go after ‘the real bad guys.’ Am I being lead by crook and cane? Am I one of his guys or am I his? How about his brother? The Shepard was taking in another stray. Promising to save a life, but by taking it over.
“Times change, kid.” But did they? Lester threw Ellis the keys. “And you better look tough because you punch like your brother. Bye forever.” Then he crossed the street without looking either way, miles from the crosswalk.
Ellis didn’t say goodbye. He couldn’t afford taxis out of the neighborhood often so he was anxious to see what was nearby. There was a gas station convenience store that probably had cheap food. He could live on taquitos for a couple weeks before he’d have to ask Dallas for money. Way longer if the attendant was an asshole, because then he could justify stealing. There was a tea shop. Seemed like a place people would be nice to him if he ever had a couple dollars to spare.
“Fake cameras,” Dallas said. There was one on every front door. “Zengrel’s are probably real. Part of his whole sexual blackmail honeypot thing. You were part of that world, right? Kompromat?”
Dzerassae looked at the camera on Dallas’ hip, hidden in a gun holster because Sincokers were comfortable with guns than cameras. “I never left that world.”
They walked past a yuppie couple arguing and struggling with an anxious labradoodle. It was barking at something it could see or taste on the wind. Dzerassae had experienced the supernatural in the Caucasian mountains. She knew what existed in the middle of nowheres all over the world. Doing a stakeout on a wild night was smart, because their targets would be brazen and unhinged. But she worried about Dallas. He was a good man, but wild and righteous, and energy in the air found refuge in disquiet minds.
“House right across from Zengrel looks empty,” Dallas muttered. They walked down the driveway without any hesitation. It was easy for Dallas. Just had to act like he was supposed to be there. He had a lifetime of experience breaking and entering. He used to feel like he owned the world. He still had a general disregard for rich peoples’ property.
“You or me?” Dallas pretended to look for keys. He had lots of pockets, could stall all day.
“You. It is computer lock,” Z said, grimacing at the blue LED light. She was discreetly beaming a laser pointer at it to disrupt facial recognition.
Dallas clocked a plastic rock in a potted plant, scooped it up, and removed the key. Dzerassae raised an eyebrow and muttered a compliment.
A tinny voice emanated from the electronic doorknob. “Hello?!” It demanded. The voice was old, tired, angry. A distinctly working class drawl, the voice of a man who drank beer and watched football. He wasn’t the owner.
“We were told no one would be home,” Dallas said. “You sounded a lot different over the phone.”
“I don’t believe we’ve spoken,” the man said.
“I’m not sure who I talked to. I’m here to photograph the apartment for a contest.”
“Ain’t heard nothing about that,” the voice said. “Not much in the apartment, anyway.”
“The contest is about the bones of a structure,” Dallas guessed he was the property manager; that he heard a lot of new age nonsense from his upper class striver clients. Best to try his patience and make him desperate to hang up. “Its not about spaces that are lived in, its about absence. The home as a structure, and the story that structure tells us.”
He could feel the man’s blank expression over the phone. “I wasn’t notified of this.”
Dzerassae jumped in, playing up her accent because Americans think all Europeans are art freaks. “The owner is trying to hide participation from their partner.” Dallas commended the use of ‘partner.’ Could mean anything. Plus its modern connotations were likely to exhaust him.
“Well it’s not the first thing he’s neglected to notify me about. I’ll unlock the door.” Dallas pocketed the key just in case. “The little guys don’t like strangers. I hope my client didn’t neglect to notify you to bring earplugs.”
The dim light from the streetlamps reflected in dozens of beady black eyes. Dzerassae turned on the lights, prompting a cacophony of chirps, skarks, screeches, and mimicked car noises. Exotic birds batted their wings in feathery chaos. They all had cages bigger than Dallas’ office.
“Oh. Hell. Yes!” Dallas stuck his finger right in the nearest cage.
“Can we please buy van?” Dzerassae pleaded.
“Not in a million years,” Dallas said. “That’s too conspicuous. And too easy. And look at this little guy!” A cockatoo bit the fuck out of his finger, reaching its pointed beak into his nail beds. “Ow. I love him!”
The cages were clean, with boutique silk covers hanging from hooks on the walls. This was a prized collection. Dzerassae looked around. Someone was taking care of these birds. And they might show up.
