Читать книгу Very Mercenary - Rayo Casablanca - Страница 8

1.

The Serologist’s face has a strange geometry.

Like it was shattered, the way good china shatters, and glued back into place. Thing is, the pieces just don’t fit quite right. There’s something off about the nose. Something unsettling about the way the eyes don’t line up, the way the right one droops like it’s fallen asleep on the cheek below. It’s the scars, white spiderwebs and red rivulets, running across his skin like the drag marks on freshly tilled farmland.

And the Serologist, hidden beneath the gristle and scar tissue, uses his face like a weapon. He leers and he mugs. Giving each and every broken angle its share of the spotlight. It’s a performance, what this man does. It’s a Kabuki dance from hell.

“The thing you need to know about me is that I don’t know when to stop,” he says to Olivier Geome, who is tied to a bed frame. “Nothing new, really. Problem I had since I was just a kid. Back then it was schoolwork. I’d do my share and more. Read ahead in the textbooks, go to the library on weekends and research this and that. It’s basically an addiction. Simple Psych 101 stuff.”

Olivier is hardly listening. This is because he’s missing his ears. They are sitting in a teacup on a desk beside the bed. This is all happening around eight in the morning in Olivier’s small apartment, a place on West 8^th that he’s had for about fifteen years. It’s in a quiet building, the neighbors are all elderly and the place is rent controlled. He never expected to be in this position, in this much pain, in his own place. Sure, it’s small and it’s dusty and the furniture is cheap. But it’s Olivier’s retreat, his own private slice of peace and quiet. Here he can get away, shower and pray. This is his place and the thought that he’s being brutalized here, that thought alone makes him so very sick.

“You know, it’s funny how this always goes the same way. Time and time again. Sad, really. You boil my life down and it’s just repetition. You ever see that movie Groundhog Day?” the Serologist asks.

Right now, Olivier’s head is throbbing, drowning out everything, and he’s really no good at reading lips. So he nods.

“Clever movie but it cuts a bit close to the bone for me. I’m stuck in this repeating pattern. Just me catching people unawares and then torturing them until I get the information I want and then it’s the same old ‘body disposal’ story.”

This terrible-faced man in a shabby suit is crouched next to Olivier’s bed. He’s sitting there beside the night table, his face all craters and mountains from the angle of the desk lamp, and he’s holding a long, serrated knife. The knife glints like something far beneath the surface of the water.

Olivier asks, “What did I do? What do you want?”

The Serologist closes his eyes, swallows. After a moment, maybe a heartbeat, he says, “To be honest, I worry that if I don’t work every day, then I’ll get rusty. I think that’s a very legit concern. Don’t you?”

Olivier groans. He stares out at the Serologist with his bloodshot right eye. The left is swollen shut.

Olivier asks, “Why me?”

“I couldn’t find anyone else,” the Serologist chuckles. “Like I said before, this thing is a compulsion with me. You know what I tell all our clients, I tell them that once they hire me, once I’m on the scent, so to speak, I can’t be shut off. I’m in ’til the end.”

“But I’m your partner.”

“And you’re an even guy, Olivier. I’ve worked with all sorts. I can’t even begin to tell you how many times I’ve been disappointed. You know, they complain a lot about customer service in these post-9/11 days. There’s the woman at the grocery store that doesn’t bother looking you in the eye. The punk at the gas station who can’t break a twenty because he can’t figure out the change. Irritating stuff, really. I think I’ve actually been blessed with good help. You are one of the best. Most devoted for sure.”

Olivier only catches some of that. He whispers, “Why are you doing this, then?”

“It doesn’t make any sense, does it?” The Serologist nods, pats Olivier’s shoulder.

“No,” Olivier mumbles. His lips are numb and his teeth are shrapnel.

The Serologist pauses for a second. That one second of silence is like an eye of a hurricane. For the first time in what seems like a lifetime, Olivier’s muscles relax. He sighs and a long shiver runs up his spine. He thinks about crying but worries that it will just make the wounds on his eyes sting. So he closes his eyes and waits. He prays.

The Serologist leans over and whispers in what’s left of Olivier’s left ear. Really, it’s just a clotted hole. He says, “How long have we worked together?”

“Seven years,” Olivier says. “In one capacity or another.”

The Serologist sits back up. He sighs and pulls a switchblade from his breast pocket and cuts the ties on Olivier’s hands. Cuts the ties on Olivier’s legs. Smiles and says, “Sorry about that, Olivier. I think I tied these pretty tight.”

Olivier says nothing. He rubs his wrists where the ties were. The skin there is cut and bruised; it’s mottled purple and gray. Olivier wonders if he’ll ever regain feeling in his fingers and toes. At least the few toes he has remaining.

The Serologist stands up, stretches and says, “Well, I guess I’ll dispose of these.” He picks up the teacup with Olivier’s ears and he reaches under the bed and pulls out a bedpan that has, as far as Olivier can tell, a toe, a finger, and some ruddy congealed mass that has a clump of curly hair smack on the top of it. Olivier has no idea where on his body it’s from but he’s worried. The Serologist walks over to the kitchen. He stands in front of the sink and pours the contents of the bedpan and the teacup in. He turns on the water and runs the disposal for a few seconds. Then walks back over to the bed.

“How long have I been here?” the Serologist asks.

Olivier leans over and checks the alarm clock on the floor. The pain in his lower back is immediate and unrelenting but he pushes through it, worried that the Serologist could always get crazy again. He’d rather worry about the physical therapy later. The clock says ten PM. Olivier lies back and sighs and says, “Two and a half hours.”

“My, how the time flies,” the Serologist replies. He walks to the bathroom and returns with a damp towel. He sits next to Olivier on the blood-drenched bed and wraps the towel around Olivier’s head. There is a buzzing sound in the Serologist’s pants. He pulls a cell phone out. “I thought you might call me.”

The Serologist leaves the apartment and steps out into the hall. He leaves the door open and watches Olivier as he nods and paces, the phone glued to his ear.

Olivier pulls himself up from his bed. He stumbles over to the couch. It’s only about ten feet away but the brief walk is so agonizing that when he reaches the couch he promptly passes out. He regains consciousness thirty seconds later and the pain has subsided. He looks out at the hallway and doesn’t see the Serologist.

He waits a few breaths and then Olivier digs his hands under the pillows of the couch and pulls out a half-filled bottle of Percocet. It takes him over two minutes to open the bottle. His fingers are blue and rigid. When he does, he throws about five tablets into his mouth and chews them gingerly. Careful not to break any of his remaining teeth.

Then he digs back under the cushions on the couch and finds the remote.

He turns on ESPN and closes his eyes and falls asleep.

He is awakened a few minutes later.

“Olivier, we’ve got a gig.” The Serologist shakes Olivier’s shoulders. “Come on, out of your stupor. We’re needed.”

“Just leave me here,” Olivier moans.

“No, no. I need you to drive. You can wait in the car if you like.”

“Am I still bleeding?”

The towel wrapped around Olivier’s head is red. Red and wet. The Serologist looks at it and shakes his head. “You’ll be just fine,” he says. “This won’t take long at all.”

Half an hour later and Olivier pulls his ’85 Sentra up in front of an apartment building on East 71^st.

The doorman looks at Olivier sitting in the car, his face bloodied and bruised, and narrows his brow. “He’s okay,” the Serologist says and hands the doorman a fifty. The doorman shrugs and opens the door for the Serologist.

When the elevator doors open on the twelfth floor the Serologist sees there is only one apartment. The front door is open and he walks in. A butler, wearing a name tag that reads Marcus, takes his coat and leads him to an expansive and underlit kitchen. There are three pit bulls lounging on the floor, two of them breathing heavily through strings of drool.

“You like dogs?” Kip Tiller asks when the Serologist walks in. He’s sitting on a stool at the kitchen table, smoking a joint and rolling the smoke around in his mouth and then letting it slip out slowly. Letting it curl in the air like cream in coffee. He’s old, old enough to be the Serologist’s father, but he’s got a young mouth and a gray ponytail. It fits with his pin-striped suit and reeks of money.

The Serologist nods. “Sure.”

“You like pit bulls?”

“Haven’t known many. Shot a few.”

Kip shakes his head dramatically. “See, that’s a fucking shame. These are beautiful dogs and ill-treated by society. I can’t tell you how many of these pups I’ve personally rescued. I have a shelter, you know, out on Long Island. Rehabilitate mistreated pit bulls. They are the most misunderstood of all animals. Hell, sharks have a better reputation.”

“The ones I’ve met, ones I’ve shot, were pretty nasty.”

“’Cause someone made ’em that way. Dogs are not inherently bad. They are loving creatures and pit bulls have massive hearts. Love families. Love children. Honestly, they are the best dogs you can own. It is disgusting the way they’ve been smeared. All these breeders, these baiters…Don’t get me started.”

“Okay.”

“You’ve seen the ransom video, right?”

The Serologist takes a seat and shakes his head. The machine hum of two silver refrigerators is white noise. And the kitchen is white, all white. They look odd, these men like two crows, perched on stools in that shadowed room.

“How could you miss that?” Kip asks, stunned. “It’s been on every fucking news station for the past forty-eight hours. They took her Saturday and the video’s all over the news by Tuesday morning. Unbefuckinglievable.”

“I don’t have a television set. I like to go to the movies.”

“Well, let me be the first to describe it to you. It’s about three minutes long and looks for all the world like a God damned Islamic beheading tape. These faggots in animal costumes holding my daughter between them. It’s only at the end of this atrocity that they mention, in voice-over no less, that they want fifty million dollars.”

The Serologist groans. He asks, “Do they identify themselves?”

“They call themselves the RPA. Revolutionary Patients’ Army.”

“Interesting.”

“I have it on good authority that these people are a bunch of whack jobs who were busted out of a mental asylum ten months ago. Police won’t say that. Not yet. But my sources tell me it’s true.”

“Busted out by whom?”

Kip Tiller smiles. He says, “Their therapist.”

“That’s something new.”

“Tell me about it.” Kip takes another long drag of his joint.

“It won’t be hard to find these people. These guys, more than others, are bound to slip up. That’s what crazy is.”

“The pay will be as expected.”

The Serologist leans in. “We’ve worked together for a while now, but not in this capacity. Do you know who I am?”

“The man who gets things done.”

“Right. It’s like a Pandora’s box, calling me. Once I’m here, there’s no going back.”

Kip rolls another joint. “You can do this? This is a bit different than usual.”

“Of course.”

“Right.” Kip lights the new joint and drags on it. “And when you find her? The people that took her?”

“What do you want to happen?” The eyes shrouded in the Serologist’s cracked-pudding face sparkle with some electric current.

“Just that they suffer. Suffer unbearably and that you film it. I want to see it.”

The Serologist chuckles. “I’m open to anything, Mr. Tiller. And I’d be lying if I told you that I didn’t have my own little ‘film’ collection.”

“Good. That they suffer, that’s the most important piece.”

“No worries. This won’t come out perfect. What I mean to say is that a situation like this one, it never ends nicely. Things like this, well, they don’t come out in the wash.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“No. Of course you know that. I just want to make sure it’s clear. Crystal. Because when I come back here for the rest of my money I want to get it. No excuses.”

Kip is annoyed. He says, “You just get her. Get her and you get your money.”

The Serologist nods. He stands to leave and Kip says, “I’ve got to be honest with you, these people scare me. Scare me something good. Who knows what they are capable of or what they want? What they’ve already done to her?”

The Serologist smiles. “Do you think I scare easy?”

Kip laughs and laughs and laughs at that.

The Serologist leaves the table and goes out the way he came in. Kip Tiller does not stand. He says nothing as he cashes his joint and closes his eyes. One of the pit bulls farts and Kip chuckles.

2.

It’s near nine and Laser Mechanic is lying awake pissed off at Lulu’s heavy breathing.

It is clear that Lulu is not a ninja.

She doesn’t have the breathing down at all. She’s huffing and puffing in the bed beside him like a tractor engine. He’s sure people across the street can hear her. Let alone the neighbors in apartment 5D.

Laser’s lying on his back, wide awake and controlling his breathing. Slowly letting the air pass through his nostrils without a hint of whisper or vibration. If Lulu were conscious she’d have to put a hand on his chest or her ear to his nose to even tell he was alive. He is that ninja.

It started out as a commando thing. When he was ten and lived in Elizabeth, Laser loved imagining himself as an undercover, household commando. Probably it was related to him first seeing Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Commando. He saw it at Andy Clifton’s place during a sleepover and even though he was appalled by the brutality of it, he loved the control Schwarzenegger had. The muscles didn’t impress him as much as the stoicism. The cold exterior. Those narrowed eyes. Schwarzenegger was a finely tuned machine. The one-liners—“Don’t disturb my friend, he’s dead tired”—weren’t funny to Laser; they were just calculated, perfected. Like math. He convinced his parents to take him to the Army Surplus store and get him some camouflage pants and war paint. He didn’t want a gun. The thrill of being a commando wasn’t about violence; it was about control.

Laser started lifting weights. Ten years old, eighty pounds, and he’s bench-pressing one hundred fifty pounds in the mildewed basement with a single lightbulb swaying overhead. That’s when the asthma first became pronounced. It had been there during bouts of flu and even with mild colds. Been there when it rained for days on end. When he went over to Todd Brixton’s house and lay on the comforter where the cats slept. Between lifts Laser would tug on his albuterol inhaler like it was a nipple. If anything the disease only made him push harder. If anything it was a sign that there was weakness in him, another hurdle to overcome.

Warriors don’t have asthma, he would tell himself.

Laser overheard his parents talking about him at night. Mom, Rochelle, the librarian at the local elementary school, who had been a peace activist in college though she never actually marched on anything anywhere, and Dad, Geoff, a chemical engineer at a pesticide company, avoided any and all confrontation. Individually they were sweet, inspiring. Together they were meek, parsimonious. In Laser’s mind the human equivalent of broccoli. This was before the divorce. Back when his dad thought of his mother as a partner. A mate. This was before Shira.

His dad: “Just don’t get it. What’s the appeal of all that? No one military in the family. We’ve never talked about war outside of damning it.”

Mom, whispering: “He’s a boy. Isn’t this what boys do?”

“Sure. But he doesn’t do anything. He doesn’t patrol the house. He doesn’t even want a gun. I can’t think of any kid I’ve ever known who wanted to play soldier without a gun.”

“He doesn’t like guns.”

“I know. I know. That’s what worries me.”

Mom, scoffing: “If he was into guns that would worry me more.”

“Do you think he’s too sensitive?”

“What’s that mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why say it, then? Sensitive is good. Women like sensitive men.”

“He’s ten. He’s not looking for women.”

Mom, shifting: “Do you think the boys at school are teasing him? Bullies? Maybe he’s getting into fights. He wants to bulk up.”

“No. He would have said something.”

“Maybe this is just something an only child does.”

“Maybe.”

“He never seems bored, though. I think this is coming from outside.”

“I never worried it was us.”

“You never would.”

And neither of them did get it. It wasn’t about bullies or looking tough. It wasn’t about war or violence. It was about power. It was about control. Laser, when he talked to himself about it, decided it was akin to meditation. It was training his body for perfection, prepping it for the rigors of the outside world. He wasn’t sure why he felt this was important. There were, to be honest, no imminent threats. For Laser Mechanic steeling himself was, at its basest, all about expression.

It was his first true stab at art.

Laser would control his breathing over dinner with annoying relatives. At sleepovers with friends. At Grandma’s. He would camp out behind the large potted fern in his mother’s living room and use his cheap telescope to spy on his babysitter while she yapped on the kitchen phone with Hilda, the cute Austrian exchange student.

Then ninjas came into vogue. At least in Laser’s mind.

It was an ad in the back of some ratty old comic book that got him tuned in. Ninjas. Throwing stars. Nunchucks. The whole deal was white hot. But he never sent away for any of the ninja training manuals advertised. Laser decided to train himself.

It began with itches.

Whenever he’d get an itch he’d hold as still as possible and not scratch. And not scratching made them come alive. He’d let the itch burrow under his skin. Rustle every sensitive hair and nerve fiber as it moved. After a few minutes he’d be sweating but kept his breathing calm. Relaxed. Laser’d think about other things, maybe sex, maybe smoking a bowl with Jeffrey Cancer out behind the school shed. Eventually his skin would turn numb. Cold. And the itch would retreat and his mind would be focused. That was more than commando style. That was ninja.

Then came the breathing.

Laser could stand behind the other potted fern in his mother’s bedroom for hours ignoring and conquering an itch but if he was breathing like a cow it wasn’t going to matter. Mastering breathing control was a necessity. It was critical. But the training was hard. Laser had to really develop his lungs. Swimming was the best for that. Laser learned to hold his breath for longer and longer periods of time. He’d even hang upside down in the deep end of the pool, legs over the tiled edge, arms crossed. Laser would close his eyes in this position, letting the water noises fill his ears, drifting up and down with the swimming pool tide and making like a nautical bat.

Then began land-based training, which was all about regimen. Land-based training was relatively easy. Laser’d find a secure and quiet spot, maybe behind the couch in the basement, maybe under his bed, and he’d just lie back and breathe. Focus on something, like water damage on the ceiling or the fine fur that hung from the bottom of the bed. Lose himself in the water damage or the fur. Memorize the lines, the shapes, the shadows, even the mildewy scent if he could pick it up. Once he was focused, reining in the breathing was a snap. He could make it so shallow, so subtle, that you couldn’t hear a thing. Almost ninja perfection.

Who knew what it would lead to? Laser’s parents certainly didn’t.

They were actually surprised when he dropped out of high school and went to Japan. There, he taught English in Osaka and trained with Masaaki Nishina, forty-second linear grandmaster of the Yon-po Hiden Ryu, “The School of the Four Secrets.” The headmaster had only opened the school to Westerners a few years before he arrived and Laser was the last student accepted that year. Master Nishina liked Laser’s conditioning. Training was not like it’s portrayed in kung fu films. Laser was not trained to catch flies with chopsticks or break bricks with his big toe or fast for two weeks. Mostly it was meditation. It was spiritual refinement. Laser spent six months at the school before picking up a sword. They didn’t believe he had asthma. Actually, they didn’t believe the disease existed. Master Nishina said, “It’s your American constitution.” While Laser nodded in agreement his chest ached every night and later, when he wasn’t supervised as closely, he snuck albuterol into his room and would puff on it in secret. He told himself this was okay because changing his constitution was nearly impossible and he was satisfied with that one sliver of inbred failure. Didn’t Master Nishina also say “the perfect man is like an urn with a hairline crack”?

Eventually Laser mastered the eighteen disciplines of ninjutsu. He was a seventh dan shidoshi in Yon-po Hiden Bujinkan Ninpo. When someone would ask him what the hell that meant, exactly, he’d respond: “It means I have complete control over my senses. That I can kill with my mind. It pretty much means there are maybe fifteen people in the entire world who can sneak up on me.”

But Lulu?

No way she could get away with a sneak attack. She could never hide from a team of marauding assassins either. She’d be dead meat. Laser isn’t exactly sure why but it pisses him off enough that he decides to get up.

Laser stands in front of his bedroom mirror naked and posing.

He’s disappointed in what he sees. Long gone are the fatless days of muscular perfection. Now, Laser’s had to assimilate to American norms. He’s lost some of his edge. He’s gone flabby at the boundaries. Laser studies his muscles like he can measure them with his eyes. The mirror is full length so his whole body is there and there are parts he’s ignoring. Mainly it’s his gut. The immature beer belly that’s just made an appearance in the last two months. He sucks it in and sticks it out. Neither makes him happy. He groans and gets dressed. Pulls open the curtains and lets in the diffuse Newark light.

All for a good cause, he tells himself. Practically undercover.

Lulu moans.

“Sorry.” Laser shuts the curtains again. He goes out to the kitchen and has a spoonful of peanut butter and a tall glass of milk.

When he returns to the bedroom, Lulu is awake. Her bleached blond flattop sparkles in the morning light. She isn’t wearing a shirt and she’s smoking. “What day is it?” she asks. “Feels like I’ve been in here forever.”

“Tuesday,” Laser says. He sits on the end of the bed and clips his nails over a small wastebasket. Nearly every nail clipping misses the basket and spins off into the shag carpet. “Didn’t you tell me you had some ninjutsu training?”

“Huh?”

“Martial arts. You said you were a black belt.”

“Oh, right. Just said that for you.”

Laser sighs hard. Cuts another nail and shakes his head. “You have a show tomorrow?”

“Fuck yes. Big show.”

“How big?”

“I’m hoping for a hundred.”

“That is big. Any reps?”

“Haven’t heard.”

“Were there reps last show?”

“I think so.”

“That guy with the mullet and the tie?”

“I think so.”

“That’s cool.”

Lulu drops her half-smoked cigarette into a beer can by the side of the bed and gets up. She walks into the bathroom, pulling her thong down and leaving it on the floor. She leaves the bathroom door open and Laser can hear her piss splashing. He closes his eyes and groans for a second time. Tries to remember if sex with Lulu last night was enjoyable. He’s not sure but he doubts it was great.

“You have a last name?” Laser shouts.

Lulu laughs. “I didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“How many days have I been here?”

“Two. But sleeping mostly. I think you’ve been awake maybe six hours. You ate a burger yesterday. Watched that one movie about Klaus Nomi.”

“That was fucked up.”

“What’s your last name?” Laser shouts.

“I like being anonymous.”

“Seriously?”

Lulu comes out of the bathroom, grabs her underwear and sits down on the bed next to Laser and kisses him on the cheek. She says, “It’s been fun. Fun for you?”

“Sure,” he says, not looking up at her. He’s using the nail-file end of the clippers to pick something out from under his thumb. Maybe it’s a poppy seed. Maybe just a bit of fuzz.

Lulu stands up and pulls her underwear on. She digs around in Laser’s closet and grabs a T-shirt and some shorts. “I can’t remember if I came here wearing anything,” she says. “You mind if I borrow this?”

She holds up the T-shirt. It’s black and says Shinobi.

Laser looks up. “Actually, I’d rather—”

“Thanks,” Lulu says. She throws the shirt on braless and pulls on the shorts. She walks over to Laser and kisses him again, this time on the lips, and then she licks the tip of his nose. “I’ll see you tomorrow night,” she says and then she leaves.

Laser gives up on fishing the black thing out from under his nail. Decides it’s just paint or ink. He gets up and opens the shades again and lets in the light. There is light traffic outside but it’s enough for him to decide that he’ll wait to drive over to the electronics store. He grabs a manila envelope from on top of his dresser and catches himself in the mirror across the room.

He is not lean enough. He stretches and poses and is self-conscious the whole time. Turning twenty-five was something of a cold shower. Laser’s metabolism downshifted when he turned twenty and now he has to work out to stay fit, not just to remain toned. Looking in the mirror, he doesn’t see the new weight so much as he sees the stress grinding away at him. He looks haggard and sleep deprived and not nearly as energized as he thinks he needs to be. For the first time in forever he reminds himself that he has a way out. That he could chuck the manila envelope in the trash and go back to bed. Even more he could disappear. The thoughts pass quickly, sharply. He shakes his head and pinches his eyes closed. Laser is sure of this. Butterflies will not dissuade him. Stress will not sideline him. I can sleep when I’m dead, he tells himself. Laser smiles and says, whispering, “This is going to work.”

Laser meets Gustav Richter in the lobby of a hotel in Chelsea and already the bile is coming up in his throat.

It’s always this way. Laser abhors these meetings but sees them as a necessary evil. Part of him, a very large part, wants to just fast-forward to when he doesn’t need money like this. Money from someone like Gustav. Laser swallows his pride and rage and just smiles. Gustav, older than he looks in clear plastic-framed glasses and a gray goatee, gives Laser a big, long hug. “You look fantastic. I can’t wait for you to tell me all about this latest endeavor of yours.” His Austrian accent thick as the lenses of his glasses.

Gustav escorts Laser to a table in the back of the lobby adjacent to the café. A waitress appears almost immediately. Gustav orders coffee and Laser a Bloody Mary. When the waitress leaves, Gustav, grinning wildly, rubs his hands together and says, “Tell me. I’ve already heard some rumors.”

“Really?”

“Yes. These building remodels, if they’re anything like the one you did in Passaic, are going to be massive. I’m estimating, and this is just based on stuff we’ve done together in the past, that we’ll come in about twice what you needed for the ConsumerTronics murals. Rumor has it you’ve got your eyes set on something really big. An apartment complex perhaps?”

“At least twice, Gustav.”

“Oh, you do have something good for me.”

“Better, actually. The rumors are true. We’ve been toying with an apartment building, someplace here in Newark. The vision is taking something slated for demolition or just fallen into total disrepair and creating a green living space out of it. Cody sees a hollowed-out center with a garden and spiral staircase. Rufus sees solar panels and interactive water features. I’ve been partial to seeding the place, letting nature run riot and then bombing over the overgrowth.”

Gustav nods along to every word.

“But the plan has changed. We’re doing something spectacular.”

“Yes.”

“Your first two down payments have allowed us to set up not one building but three. Cross-country. We’ve already got months put into this and over three hundred operatives. A small group of us will head West and organize, do overnights like we did in Bangor and Silver Springs. In and out and the community is transformed within hours. Take a look.” Laser pulls a sheet of paper from the manila envelope and hands it to Gustav.

Gustav reads, shakes his head. “This is incredible. This second one…”

“Boulder?”

“Yes. I can’t imagine how this will look. You said three. There are two here.”

“Last one’s a surprise.”

“Do tell.”

“The Tiller Casino in Vegas.”

“It’s certainly a nice target—bastion of everything wrong with America. I heard it was originally going to be a replica of the Taj Mahal but that got too pricey. Regardless, it’s officially the most wasteful and hideous construction site in the United States. But to get in there you’d need hundreds of people and months of preparation. Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“We’ll do the Tiller Casino. Already have several hundred people lined up to help. Uniforms have shipped.”

Gustav laughs. It’s an uncomfortable cackle. “Don’t be ridiculous, Laser. There are over fifty floors, several hundred rooms. Not to mention the fact that the building will be open by the end of the summer, mid-August at the earliest. How would that even be imaginable?”

“I’ve got a secret weapon is how.”

The drinks arrive. Laser sees himself kicking the table up and pouring his drink over Gustav’s head. He takes a deep breath instead. For his part, Gustav takes a long sip and eyes Laser over the brim of his cup.

“Secret weapon? Do tell.”

“I trust you, Gustav. You trust me with your money. I am one of the few artists working today in this arena that has as generous and understanding a benefactor. You have never questioned my methods or my art. That being said, I really need you to trust me on what I’m about to tell you.”

Gustav licks his lips in anticipation. He leans in close, eyes narrowed.

“We’re going on a rescue mission.”

Gustav nods. “Yes. And?”

“I know where Leigh Tiller is being held, and me and my crew, we’re going to rescue her tomorrow night.”

Gustav leans back, hands out, shaking. “You’re kidding, right.”

“No.”

“No, really. This is crazy.”

“It’s brilliant.”

Gustav shrugs. “Tell me how.”

“We’ve been looking at these burnt-out apartment buildings over on Seventh Avenue. Recon missions, usual stuff for us. Last week I found her. There’s this one near where the old Christopher Columbus Homes were, it’s actually a nice 1925 building, and she’s there, in the penthouse, being kept in an empty pool. When I first found her it was around dusk. She was standing by a window and I could see her face with my binoculars. Never really thought she was that attractive, you know, from the things I’ve seen, but standing there, she was like a mirage.”

“Why not tell the police, Laser? You’re an artist, not a cowboy. To think that you could just run in there and take her is ludicrous. You have seen the television reports, these people, this RPA, they are all insane and they are armed. Why don’t you let the police handle this? You will still get some press.”

“Because there is no art in that, Gustav.”

“Where is the art in what you propose?”

“The danger. The overhauls, these remodels we’ve been doing, they’re great at making a statement and there is a certain illicit quality to the actions that makes them risky. But being arrested is the worst that can happen, and every time we’re bailed out and the press has a field day. It’s preschool. This, this is something else entirely.”

“Suicide?”

“Maybe. But it’s a calculated risk.”

“And after the rescue?”

“We do the tour. We hit the other targets and move in on the Tiller Casino. Leigh is our ticket in. With her, the red carpet will be out. Once her daddy has her back, we’ll be celebrities. And that’s when the real art begins.”

“Sounds a bit corporate, my friend.”

“Not what I’ve got up my sleeve.”

Gustav laughs. Chokes. “This is impossible, Laser. So many uncertainties.”

“Take a look at the folder.”

Gustav skims the short stack of papers inside. “Talk me through these.”

Laser reaches over the table. “Blueprints for the building and the apartment complex next door. Here, these are sketches of the people holding her. There are three of them. Two down, one upstairs with her. Essentially unarmed. And here, the times. Every move they’ve made for six days. Like clockwork. We’ve already done two practice runs. Way we’ve got this planned, we’ll be out of there with her in a matter of minutes.”

“You said they were essentially unarmed. How’s that?”

“One of them has what looks like a harpoon.”

“Odd choice.”

“These appear to be very odd people. Psychiatric patients. Schizophrenics. Rumor has it they’re doing this to spark some sort of revolution. Cops have some leads. It isn’t who they are but where.”

“This isn’t a turf war, is it?” Gustav laughs. “Revolution? I detect a theme.”

Laser shakes his head. “These people aren’t artists.”

“And the girl? How is she?”

“Drugged up. I’m guessing they’ve got her on tranqs. That’ll be the easiest part.”

“And after?”

“We go public, bring her home with cameras and fireworks.”

“Why don’t we set up another meeting, have some of my colleagues look this over? I know many people that I trust very dearly who could look over it and give you honest opinions.”

“No, Gustav. We need to move now. I saw some detectives going door to door a block over only yesterday. No, this needs to be swift. Trust me. I can do this.”

Gustav closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “What’s in this for me?”

Laser smiles. “Gustav Richter presents The Rescue of Leigh Tiller, an interactive performance by Strategic Art Defense. I can’t even begin to imagine how good that will look on the ticker at Times Square. Best of all, we film it all and we keep the rights. Video feeds, website downloads, DVDs. Frankly, it will be the most spectacular event in the last fifty years.”

“And if you fail? What then?”

“We won’t.”

“This is crazy.”

“It’s what I do, Gustav. This is everything I stand for. Come on, you’ve taken so many risks over the past four years. So many. Let’s kick this up to the next level.”

“What will you need the money for?”

“Production costs. Traveling.”

Gustav cracks his knuckles and then stands. “You’re a genius, Laser.”

Laser stands and they hug, Gustav smiling and patting Laser on the shoulder. Laser cringes the whole while. He reminds himself that it’s almost over. That this act is only another weapon in his arsenal.

“When will I hear from you?”

Laser says, “By Wednesday.”

“Excellent. I’ll have the money in your account by the end of the day. Good luck, my little savant. Be careful. Be safe. But most of all…have fun. “Gustav winks.

“No worries. These guys are so well trained they’re practically SWAT.”