pantsless (except for his boxer shorts) and disheveled. I could see he was trying to focus his eyes, but wasn’t having much luck.
“Where am I?” he said.
“You’re asleep,” I said.
Barry tried to consider that for a moment, but it didn’t compute. “Did you drug me?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Sam did.”
“He put something in my drink?”
“Yes,” I said. “Alcohol.”
Barry scratched at a place on his stomach and then sniffed at the air. “Do I smell fried chicken?”
“No,” I said.
“Could we work on that?”
My default answer wouldn’t work here, particularly since I needed to explain to Barry that tomorrow he’d have to face his fears. That tomorrow, I had a plan for him that might involve a fantasy or two-I had a vision of Fiona smacking him, which I’m sure was a vision Barry had on occasion, too-and that if he wanted my help getting out from under the problems he encountered with the Latin Emperors, he’d need to do exactly as I told him. And I needed to tell him that tomorrow, if things went poorly, this could be his last substantial meal.
I decided to leave that last part out. Why scare the guy?
“Fiona,” I said, “why don’t we take our friend Barry out for a delicious dinner?”
“Why don’t you take your friend Barry out for a delicious dinner, and I’ll stay here and read fashion magazines and memorize your yogurt selection.”
“I could stay here with Fiona while you run out and get food,” Barry said. Fiona shot him a look that was equal parts warning and promise. “Easy there,” Barry said. “I was just saying. I’m happy to go with Michael. If you want to make yourself comfortable, I left a warm space up there on the nice throw rug you let me sleep on.”
“I’ll pass,” Fiona said. “And please, put on some pants, Barry. The neighborhood dogs have begun to howl.”
Barry disappeared back into the darkness, which was good, since Sam walked back in from the patio then, looking far too happy. “Just talked to my guy,” he said. “I’m going to his place right now. He says he’s got some guns he doctored up for some boys who were doing prison control in Kabul a few months back.”
“Sounds perfect,” I said. “How much does he want?”
“Nothing yet,” Sam said. “I’m sure there’s a contingency. I’ll work it out.”
“Sam,” I said, “no more clients.”
“It’s not like that with this guy, don’t worry. He’s an ex-SEAL. Pride of country and all that.”
“Like Virgil?”
“Well, like Virgil, but with more bloodlust. Good guy. Lots of kills under his belt. This one time, in Latvia? I swear to God, he took out an entire city just by flossing his teeth and grunting. Anyway. I’ll meet you here in the morning. Nine?”
“Let’s do eight.”
“Eight thirty?”
“Why don’t you just show up whenever you want, Sam?”
“Perfect, Mikey. I’ll see you then.”
A few moments later, Barry came back down the stairs, looking essentially like Barry, though his hair still looked like a nest of vipers. I put my arm over his shoulder. “Barry, my friend,” I said, “I have a few things to clear with you tonight that you should be made aware of before tomorrow begins.”
“Oh, Mike, I don’t like how that sounds,” he said.
“You shouldn’t,” I said.
12
What Sam could remember about serving with Chris Alessio back in the day-they’d both been SEALS-was that he was never quite sure if the guy was a true-blooded American hero or just batshit crazy. He was the sort of guy who would rush a hill with nothing but a buck knife in his teeth, which is sort of neat in movies, but in real life is just a great way to get your tongue cut off. Never mind that if all you have is a knife, you’re literally taking a knife into a gunfight, and they don’t make up cliches like that without a basis in truth.
Crazy thing was, the guy never got shot. One time in Panama, Sam saw him rush into a Tupac Amaru hide- out with just a knife and flashlight, and five minutes later there were three dead rebels and ten rebel prisoners tied up in a corner, and all Chris had to show for his troubles were a torn shirt, a knife with a broken tip and, oddly, one missing shoe. They eventually found the shoe under one of the dead bodies, which is why, for a little while, other SEALS called him Kick-Ass Alessio, until it became clear Chris really just preferred to be called Chris. And when a guy that batshit crazy tells you what he’d like to be called, well, Sam figured you heeded that warning. Why piss the guy off, you know?
Now, though, Chris Alessio operated a sprawling paintball complex called Battle: World out past Tamiami, where the city began to give way to the Everglades. A few years back, this area was just farmland and marsh, but Alessio had turned it into a theme park of sorts. For the price of admission, you and your buddies could have paintball wars in Vietnam, Tikrit, Kabul, Germany, Normandy and even the Philippines. All the major wars, except for the Civil War, were represented, probably on account of Alessio’s deep well of patriotism. Or maybe because no one really wanted to kill other Americans anymore. It was too much fun killing some foreign entity… or at least your buddy as some foreign entity, anyway.
When Sam finally found the business office-the park had been closed for a few hours by the time he’d arrived-Alessio was sitting behind a desk of dark maple, but instead of being covered with papers, it was covered with paintball guns. It was a bit like walking into some militia headquarters. In fact, the last time they’d done any kind of mission together, Sam remembered Chris rather marveling at the nice office setup a Somali warlord had. It was that moment when Sam knew Chris wasn’t going to reenlist like the rest of the team. Once you start noticing furniture, it’s game over.
“That’s quite an array you have there,” Sam said.
“I’m just doing some cleanup,” he said. “I had a group of HP printer techs out here today. Talk about guys with anger-management issues. It was like watching us take on those Russian commandos in Belarus.”
“I’m not sure I remember that,” Sam said.
“You might have sat that one out,” he said. “That might have been a freelance job, actually, now that I think about it. It was after Yeltsin made nice, so I’m thinking it might not have been sanctioned.”
“The good old days,” Sam said.
“Anyway, these guys? They went after each other for hours on end today. Had to finally kick them out when they started dropping their goggles and helmets and really fucking each other up. Can’t have people’s eyes and teeth rolling around my grounds. That’s just not good for business.”
“Too much reality is a bad thing?” Sam said.
“People, it turns out, really like to shoot each other. They just don’t like to bleed or see blood.”
That made sense to Sam. All things being equal, not seeing blood for a few years would suit him just fine. Chris stood up then and came around the desk, and Sam marveled at how fit he still was. Where Sam had added a few pounds over the years-mostly water weight, he reasoned, mixed with hops-Chris looked like he could still be on active duty in the SEALS. Sure, Chris had a bit of salt and pepper in his hair these days, but who didn’t? But his waist and belly were on the same plain. Genetics. That was it. Chris Alessio must have been one of those guys who just woke up on his first day as a human physically fit and ready to fight.
“Let’s go take a look at what I got for you,” Chris said. He led Sam back out of the office and then they walked out into the park. There were still a few people milling about, cleaning up the place, raking out the paint, watering down the building facades, which made it all the more eerie, since the first portion of the paintball park was designed to look like your basic Downtown USA.
“You get a lot of guys wanna shoot up their own hometowns?” Sam asked.
“We had a team of postal workers last week who went completely agro out here.”
