Читать книгу Of Man and Animals - Thomas R. Hauff - Страница 10

Meeting. Meeting. Meeting. Meeting. Gotta make the Meeting. Gotta make the Meeting. Gotta make the Meeting. Meeting. Meeting Man. Meeting Man. Fourth and Lane. Fourth and Lane. Fourth and Lane. Fourth Lane. NO! NO! NO! That’s not right. Not right! Fourth AND Lane, Lane, Lane,Lane,LaneLaneLane. The alley. The alley. The alley. AND,AND,ANDANDANDANDLANE! Meeting at Fourth AND Lane! At THE alley. They may try to stop me, but I gotta make the meeting. National Security. Make the Meeting.

Bart bends lower in the booth. Why was that woman looking at me? She’s looking. Looking at me! “Who are you?! Who are you?! Who are YOU?!” She’s looking again. “It’s FBI business lady! Just watch it! F-B-I. They know. They make it their business to know!” Looker, looker, she’s a looker. Look at me! Stop looking. CIA!

Check the toast. Check the toast. Check it. Bugs. She’s looking. CIA bugs. Check the toast. “I know what you did lady. I know the CIA. I know you. F-B-I business is what it’s all about. You know it. I know it. THEY know it! I’ll eat this, but I know about the bugs. I just want you to know I know.” Spooks.

“Hey friend, is there some way I can help you?”

Who’s that! Whoisthat?! Another Looker! “I don’t need help from the CID. Or the NSA for that matter! I know about the bugs. I know you’d like to get them and follow me around, and know what I’m doing. But the FBI doesn’t.”

“I don’t know what you mean, pal. You just don’t look so good.”

“Uh-huh. The satellites. They take your thoughts. The CID,CIAFBINSA. You know. I know you know. I know who you are, who you work with, what you do.” Spook. He wants the bugs too. I know.

Bart rises to leave. Meeting at Fourth and Lane. Nine o’clock. It’s . . . (looking at the cracked watch on his wrist) . . . it’s . . . 3:07. Time. Meeting time. Time to meet.

“Sir, you owe $3.00.”

A dollar flutters to the table top. “Keep the change. I know they want it.” Bart shoves the remaining toast in his coat pocket. “I’ll keep track of this.”

“Sir, that’s not enough money.”

Enough. Bart advances on the waitress, “I know what the planes cost. The Satellites. I know. That’s dirty money. It’s more than enough for them. They want it. They can have it!!” Operative. She may not know. She looks unsure.

Bart whirls on the man rising from his chair. “You can’t have it! I’m leaving and you’re not taking it!” The man stops. Another is rounding the counter.

“Sir, is there a problem?”

“You know the problem. She’s not the problem, but this guy is!” Bart thumbs toward the man by his chair. “CIA. Or NSA. The big cheese.” Get out while the gettin’s good. Bart moves to the door. Keep your back clear. He turns and leaves. Meeting. This is risky. But the gain. The gain is worth it to keep them at bay.

Bart walks briskly down the street toward the alley. Keep your eyes down. They can’t read your mind if you keep ‘em down. That guy’s looking at me. “I could use some cash.” Yeah, spook.

“Excuse me?”

“Look, I know you, and what you do. We both know so let’s not bullshit, ok? You think you can just follow along, take whatever you want. I’m ok, and it’s not gonna hurt the government to supply some revenue. They have the planes and the satellites; they have the doctors and the pills, but those are not coming outa my pocket. All I need is some cash, ok?”

“I don’t know what you mean. I don’t have any cash for you.”

“Look. Go back and report, that I haven’t got any cash. Isn’t that enough? I have the bugs right here in my pocket. I can decipher them. I can use the data. I need the cash for business. Nothing FBI related.”

He’s backing away, trying to get by. Spook.

“I don’t have any cash for you!” He hurries by.

Bart turns and yells, “I have the bugs! I know where you are!” He turns back to the alley and walks on, clutching his ragged coat against the cold. Meeting. I hope my stuff is still there. Bugged probably.

The alley is dark, and thin. Ahhhh. Safe. They can’t see down between the buildings unless they’re right above. It’s the blind spot effect. Satellites can’t see anyway but directly down. Except the infrared ones. They can see into your head through concrete. Bart hugs the wall, staying near the metal trashcans. Interference.

The shopping cart is at the end of the alley. Still there. No spooks. Bart looks at his watch again: Almost time; it’s 3:07. He takes the cart, and moves down the alley to the next street. Crosses. Keep to the alleys. I wish the meeting were in the subway. It’s safer. The planes can’t detect you there. It’s the FBI.

“Hey Bart!”

Don’t look. Just keep on walking. Bart moves to the opposite side of the alley and continues on with his head down. “I’m not listening. You can’t make me listen.” Just keep walking.

“Bart! It’s John. Want a drink?” John raises the bottle to Bart.

“I don’t need that. I have some in my coat right now. I just got them at the diner down the street. They all know about it.” Stay cool. He knows I have them. They can try to track me with them. But I’ve deciphered the code. I know the number of the beast. One!

“Ok Bart. Ok. Just asking. Maybe another time.”

Head down, still walking: “Ok. We’ll have a drink. Talk about the old days. They can hear some of that. The CIA knows all about it.” He was awful close. It may be hit or miss. Checking his watch: It’s 3:07! Hurry.

He comes to the end of the alley. A broad street. Check the sky. It looks clear. He removes the cell phone hidden in his duffel. The fools! To have dropped this!

Holding the phone to his ear he says the code word: “Failsafe!” Ahh, 15 minutes of un-monitored time. What one can do with a day free from the spooks.

Bart rolls his cart behind the dumpster. He places the duffel near the front. The bottles are in back. The cardboard goes on top. Still holding the phone to his ear, he walks out across the street. The car squeals to a stop inches from his legs. Bart strides on, head down, phone pressed hard to his ear. “FAILSAFE! FAILSAFE! FAILSAFE!” They cannot touch me now!

“Sonafa bitch! You asshole! What’s wrong with you!”

I can get it now. Then they can’t track me at all.

Bart enters the alley on the opposite side of the street. The man is leaning against the wall of the building in the shadows. His minion is out on the sidewalk. Spook. He can search, but he doesn’t know about the phone. Failsafe.

“What do you want, man?”

“We had a deal.” Bart holds out $50 dollars. The minion takes his hand and quickly lowers it, glancing up and down the street.

“What’s wrong with you shithead?! You wanna get busted?” He doesn’t know about the phone.

“I have the phone. They won’t know.” He again raises the money. The subordinate hauls him into the dark alley with the man. Then he says, “This asshole says he has some money. We got a deal with him?”

The man smiles.

CIA? FBI? No, he sees the phone. He knows it’s no use.

“Yeah, we have a deal.” He walks a ways down the alley and moves a bag of trash. He opens a trunk lying under it and pulls a .38 special out. “This is what he requested.” He saunters back with the gun. It’s a worthless piece of garbage.

Bart holds the $50 dollars up again. But he clutches it tightly. “I need the bullets too.”

“For fifty bucks?”—with a crafty grin. You gotta be kidding man. You’re getting a deal on this anyway.” The gun is old and dirty. It won’t fire.

“I know about the whole deal. I know you. You may be an operative, but you’re out of touch now!” He taps the phone at his ear.

The man looks at his minion. They smile at one another. The subordinate circles his finger around his temple, giggling. Probably a sign they know. Outa range now cowboy!

The man smiles again. “You gotta come up with more than that pal. I said $50, but this piece is worth at least $80. And shells will be $5 bucks more.”

“I know what you’re doing!! You can’t stall! I know they can’t find us! I have a failsafe!”

The little minion slips his hand into his jacket and sidles off to the side. Radio signal. They might have new technology.

“Listen you crazy bastard, $85 bucks or you can kiss my ass!” The man advances a little letting the gun point slightly at Bart.

“Good thing I’m protected!”

The bar slams down on Bart’s head from behind. He falls hard dropping the phone. The man and the little minion laugh and turn him on his back. They rifle through his clothes and take the money in his pockets. The man says, “One hundred and two dollars! You squirrely shit. You had enough. Well, this will do.” He picks up the phone where it has fallen and looks it over. “Nice—a completely useless broken phone. You’re an idiot.”

The little guy kicks Bart in the ribs. He rolls to his side groaning and mumbling, “Failsafe, I need that! I have no coverage.”

The little guy bends close and listens. “He’s saying something about failing!”

The man laughs and says, “I guess he did fail, huh? Why don’t ya take him and dump him at the lake? We don’t want this crazy shit hanging around.”

The little guy kicks Bart again and then drags him down the alley to the car. He dumps him in the trunk. At the lake he finds a dirty area under a series of piers. He looks around, sees nothing. He gets out, unlocks the trunk, bangs his hand in the process, and pulls Bart out. “Stupid asshole.” He lets Bart fall to the ground. Kicks him twice. Grabs the superman glasses with the tape in the middle out of the trunk and tosses them on the ground next to the body. “Here’s your specks you squirrely-brained bastard.” He pushes his boot down on them, relishing the crunch of glass from the one good lens. He gets back in the car and drives off with a grin.

Bart rolls onto his back. His nose is bleeding and blood trickles down his throat choking him. His head flops to the side to see his watch: it’s 3:07! I gotta make the meeting! I’m not safe anymore! He took the phone! Bart begins to cry softly as he lies in the dirt.

—

Mary Wallace wrings her hands for the hundredth time. She sits on the couch, leaning forward, worry creasing her pretty face. Bart was gone again. The police are looking for him. But it’s been three days, and no word. She frets over a little scar on her finger. A squirrel had bitten her years back. It had been feeding in their yard for a good two years. Then one day, it seemed odd. Out of sorts. It bit her. Her dad had said it was sick and tried to trap it. It ran off. Mary scratches the scar, not thinking about it at all. Poor, poor Bart. Why didn’t we put him in the hospital? Schizophrenia.

Dennis sits down next to his wife and puts an arm around her shoulder. “They’ll find him hon. They have before. He’s sick, but he’s not stupid. He’s lived a long time on the streets before.” They sit quietly. The only sound in the room is the clock as it ticks out the minutes since Bart disappeared. Mary leans her head on her husband’s shoulder and weeps softly for her brother.

—

Bart finally stops crying. He’s in the open. They can see me! They can see me now! He flails his body over onto his belly and crawls under the overhang of the pier. His body is wracked with heavy breaths at the exertion. Safe. They can’t see now. Where am I? What have they done? He was CIA. I hope they don’t find Mary.

Hours later, as dawn begins to break, Bart tries to stand. My knee! They implanted something in my knee! He sits back down and leans against a piling. Reaching into his shoe, he pulls the small knife from next to his ankle. I’ll have to remove it. There’s no other way to escape. He rolls his pants up to reveal the dark bruise on his knee where little guy stomped him. There it is. It’s just under the skin. Bart digs the knife into his calf just below the knee and pries a chunk of flesh away. He breathes hard, clenching his teeth. He tosses the meat from the knife and puts it back in his shoe by his ankle. Finally. Now they don’t know what I’m doing.

Bart is staggered by the amount of blood pouring from his leg. He unbuckles the belt on his waist, then re-buckles it cinching it tighter. That should stop the blood. Just relax. Hard to breath now. They can’t track you without the tracer. He stands gingerly on the painful leg and hobbles about a hundred yards down the shore until he collapses amid a jumble of rocks and dirt. He rolls onto his back and shakes the black spots from his eyes. The cold wind coming from the water chills him, but he can’t seem to move anymore. His leg hurts. And bleeds. They must have a new ray. “I’m paralyzed.” He closes his eyes.

—

“I’m sorry ma’am. We found him just a little while ago. It looks like he bled to death. We don’t know yet if he was attacked or not. He’s got some injuries though. He didn’t seem to have anything with him, except this.” The officer holds out a little cross. On the back is Mary and Dennis’ phone number and address. On the front is inscribed, “We love you Bart.” “He had it clutched in his hand.”

Mary leans into Dennis and sobs bitterly. At twenty-four, Bart seemed to be a baby to her. He was so normal just three years ago. Things change.