thirdhand.
Bunker-nouveau? All that field-command drabness provided a nice sense of contrast with what covered the wall behind the desk. A flag big enough for City Hall. Black muslin bordered in red satin. In the center a red spear-in-a- circle motif.
Gordon Latch sat on the couch, wearing double-pleated ankle-pegged black slacks with narrow cuffs, black snakeskin boots with riding heels, and an oversized black silk shirt buttoned at the collar in the pseudo-nerd style favored by actors and dope dealers. The shirt had twin breast pockets with flaps, pearl buttons, and ostentatious epaulets. Chrome spears glistened from the lapel tips. His legs were crossed, his posture relaxed- the casual but calculated slump of an old favorite guest on a late-night talk show.
He tossed me a victory smile. The smile flickered. His triumph marred by something…
I looked over at the green desk and understood.
Behind it sat Darryl “Bud” Ahlward in a high-backed green leather swivel chair. His uniform was identical to Latch’s but for rainbow splashes of battle ribbons over each breast pocket and a black leather shoulder holster from which a black gun butt protruded.
He sat very straight and very still, eyes static and changeless.
I turned back to Latch and said, “Nifty little role reversal. Still second cadre, huh, Gordon?”
Latch sat up straighter and started to speak. Ahlward shoved the words back down his throat with a quick look. Latch turned away from both of us, recrossing his legs and making a show of boredom.
I said, “So this is what the well-dressed storm trooper’s wearing this season. What’s the official greeting?
Ahlward reached across his chest and took the gun out of his holster- a big black affair with a long barrel and a high-tech profile. He caressed it, then pointed it at me.
“Sit down.”
I said, “Or is it Haberdashery
Latch said, “Asshole.”
I feigned puzzlement. “Let’s see now, which one are you, Gordie? Goebbels or Goering? Must be Goering, ’cause it looks like you’ve got a little paunch sprouting under those baggies. And what about the charming Ms. Crisp? Is she doing Eva Braun in tonight’s pageant, or is that Beth Bramble’s role?”
Ahlward sighted down the barrel of the big black pistol. His left eye closed. I fought to keep my eyes open, staring straight ahead. Behind him.
Concentrating on the spear logo, glowing scarlet and ugly. Thinking of photos at an exhibit. A wintry day in Bavaria. Bodies collapsing into a ditch.
“You’re a puzzling piece of turd,” said Ahlward. “I’ve researched you. Always getting into things that aren’t your business.”
“For the last time,” said Latch.
Ahlward said, “Show and Tell time, turd.” Gestured with the gun.
I said, “Why should I bother?”
Ahlward smiled. “Because,” he said. “Every second’s precious. Everyone thinks they’re immortal. Amazing the things creatures will do- how low they’ll sink- to buy seconds.”
I said, “Is that a fact?”
“Scientific fact. Toss a kike-creature in freezing water and watch him prolong his agony just to buy seconds.”
“Toss a penny in the pool and he’ll dive in voluntarily,” Latch added.
Ahlward smiled and said, “They gasped like fish and screamed in Yiddish for mercy, even though they knew it was no use. Just kept going until they turned into Popsicles. Scientists are using it today. Hotshot research on hypothermia. Who knows? Maybe you’ll end up benefiting mankind too.”
“An entire new area of inquiry,” said Latch. “Pain tolerance.”
“So,” said Ahlward. “You’ll cooperate. What’s the alternative?”
“The alternative is, I say fuck you.”
Ahlward put his gun away and pushed a button on the phone. His reward was a single short ring. He picked up the receiver and said, “Now.”
He sat back and folded his arms across his chest. Same stance I’d seen a few days ago. In a classroom.
A single knock sounded on the door.
Ahlward said, “In.”
Two clean-cuts came in, grasping something big and white and limp under the arms. Both of them were husky, very young. One was blond and had bad acne. The other, dark-haired, with a wispy mustache.
Twenty years old, tops. They should have been beer-bashing. Trolling for cheap thrills.
They stood at attention, grim, pithed of soul.
The white thing between them was Milo, head lolling, heels dragging.
Dead weight. My heart did a high jump and landed in my gullet, choking off air. I moved forward. Ahlward snatched up the gun and said, “Stay.”
Buy seconds.
I remained in place and looked at my friend.
He was barefoot and had been stripped down to his undershirt and trousers. The shirt was ripped and splotched with blood. His eyes were swollen shut, his lip split in a couple of places and blood-engorged. Worms of dried blood crawled all over his face, trailed down his chin and onto the shirt. One of his shoulders was exposed through a rent in the undershirt. Scraped raw and still weeping. Blue-maroon cabbage-shaped bruises blossomed along his arms. Despite his bulk, he looked small.
His head sank lower and bobbed. I saw more blood at the crown, crusting his hair. Where it hadn’t been damaged, his skin, always pale, had the dirty-porcelain cast of the terminal ward.
But faint pumping movement under the shirt. Respiration.
He passed wind; a raw growl.
Latch chuckled. The boys in black grinned.
I said, “Milo.” Louder than I’d intended; it made me sound desperate.
His face didn’t change but something passed through the raw-liver lips. Half sigh, half retch; I couldn’t tell if it was voluntary.
He sank again. The black-shirts tightened their grip. Eagle Scouts helping a drunk across the street, whether he wanted to cross or not…
Ahlward said to me: “Here’s the way it’s going to be. You’re going to sit down right now and not give me any shit, or I’m going to walk up to your asshole buddy and hurt him while you watch. When he’s no longer of any use, I’ll blow his brains out, making sure lots of wet gray stuff lands right on your shirt. Then I’ll cut the stuff with a fork and knife and feed it to you. Vomit it up, you’ll eat vomit for dessert. One way or the other, you’re going to get it all down. After that I’ll hurt you. Take you apart- surgery- and make you watch it happen. Turn you into a fucking cartoon. You’ll be the only one not laughing.”
Shrugging with my arms behind me was painful. I sat down. “Well, if you put it that way, D.F… D.F. Let’s see- gotta be
Talking fast. To keep from shaking.
Ahlward gave his hand an impatient wave. The Gestapo-scouts began dragging Milo out of the room.
I said, “No. I want him here.” Surprised at the assertiveness in my voice. Good clear sound, finally, shooting out of my aching throat.
Buy seconds; I half-expected to die.
But Ahlward looked amused. He held up a hand and the black-shirts stood still.
“You
“You want what I’ve got, D.F. What I want in return is seconds. Just like you said. For both of us.”
“You
