three days and you haven’t asked for help?”
“I said I’m working on it!” Even to himself his voice sounded strange-full of anger and impatience. Sandy’s eyes flashed with trepidation as she looked down. Her gaze returned to his face, the petulant look gone, replaced by a questioning, slightly fearful expression. Perry looked down himself to see what she’d stared at. His hands were balled into fists, squeezed so tight the knuckles glowed white against his reddish skin. He realized his whole body was coiled with aggressive tension, the same posture he used to have before the snap of the ball-or before a fight. The office suddenly seemed very quiet. He pictured how frightening the scene must be to her; his big angry body hovering predatorily over her smallish, weak frame. He must have looked like a rabid bear about to pounce on a wounded fawn.
He willed his hands to open. His face flushed with embarrassment and shame. He’d made Sandy afraid of him, made her afraid that he’d lash out and hit her (just like the last job, his conscience teased, just like the last boss).
“I’m sorry,” Perry said quietly. The fear left Sandy’s eyes, replaced by concern, but despite the change, she backed another step out of the cube.
“You seem to be under some stress lately,” Sandy said quietly. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off and relax.”
Perry blanched at the thought of leaving work early. “I’m okay. Really, I can fix the problem in Pullman.”
“I don’t care about that,” Sandy said. “I’ll get someone else to fix it. Go home. Now.” She turned and walked away.
Perry stared at the ground, feeling like a failure, feeling he’d betrayed her loyalty. He’d been moments away from hitting the one person who’d given him a chance, who’d let him straighten out his life. She’d done everything for him by giving him that chance. This was how he thanked her. In unison, the seven itches flared all over his body, adding to his frustration. Like a huge child, he packed his duct-tape-patched briefcase and sluffed into his coat.
His IM alert dinged:
StickyFingazWhitey: Hey man, you okay? Can I help?
Perry stared at the message for a second. He didn’t deserve help, he didn’t deserve sympathy. Without sitting down, he typed in a reply:
Bleedmaize_n_blue: Don’t worry about me. I’m tip-top. StickyFingazWhitey: Like hell you are. Just be cool, go home, I’ll patch this up for you. Bleedmaize_n_blue: No, stay out of it. StickyFingazWhitey: Fine, I promise I won’t say a word to Sandy. Of course, I lie a lot. I also promise” I won’t fix Pullman for you. StickyFingazWhitey: Go watch your Pope Porn™, I’ve got this. No bout-a-doubt-it.
Bill had his back. Somehow that made Perry feel even worse. Even if he insisted Bill leave it alone, his friend would just do the work anyway.
He walked out of the office, feeling the eyes of everyone on his back. Red-faced and frustrated, Perry walked to his car and headed home.
20.
It was hard to believe it had only been seven days since Murray had sent for him. Seven days ago, when he’d never heard of triangles, Margaret Montoya or Martin Brewbaker. Seven days ago, when his partner wasn’t in a hospital bed, a bed that for all intents and purposes, Dew had put him in.
Seven days ago Murray had called for Dew. They’d fought side by side back in the day, but after ’Nam they didn’t exactly keep in touch. When Murray called, it meant only one thing-he wanted something done. Something… unappealing. Something that required getting a little dirt under the fingernails, something that Murray-with his tailored suits and his manicures-wasn’t willing to do. But they’d been through hell together, and even though Murray had advanced in the CIA ranks and done his damnedest to rise above the shit-stomping lieutenant he’d been in ’Nam, when Murray called, Dew always answered.
It was only seven days ago that Dew had stood in Murray’s waiting room, eyeing the twenty-something, red-haired secretary, wondering if Murray was fucking her.
She looked up with her sparkling green eyes and a genuine smile. “Can I help you, sir?”
Irish accent, Dew thought. If he’s not banging her, or at least trying, he must be impotent.
“I’m Agent Dew Phillips. Murray is expecting me.”
“Of course, Agent Phillips, go right in.” The redhead added in a confidential tone, “You’re a few minutes late, and Mister Longworth hates tardiness.”
“Does he? Ain’t that a bite in the ass. I’ll have to get on some kind of schedule.”
Dew walked into Murray’s sprawling, spartan office. A bullet-ridden American flag decorated one wall. On the opposite wall hung a row of pictures showing Murray with each of the last five presidents. The pictures were like a stop-action movie of Murray’s aging process, from hard-bodied young man to more-than-slightly-overweight, cold- eyed piece of gristle.
Dew noticed the absence of any pictures showing Murray in his army uniform, either dress or fatigues. Murray wanted to forget that time, forget who he’d been back then, forget the things he’d done. Dew couldn’t forget-and he didn’t want to anymore. It was a part of his life, and he’d moved on. Mostly, anyway.
He certainly remembered the flag on Murray’s wall, remembered the firebase where he and Murray and six other men had been the only survivors of an entire company, remembered fighting for his life with all the savagery of a rabid animal. It had been like something from World War I at the end, just before the choppers arrived, fighting hand to hand in wet, sandbagged trenches, the 2:00 A.M. stars hidden by clouds that poured rain and turned the firebase into a slick sea of mud.
Murray Longworth sat behind a large oak desk devoid of decoration, unless you counted the computer. The desk’s empty top gleamed with layers of polish.
“Heya, L.T.,” Dew said.
“You know, Dew, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use that nickname. We’ve had this talk before.”
“Sure thing,” Dew said. “I guess I forgot all about that.”
“Have a seat.”
“Nice place you’ve got here. You’ve had this office something like four years now? Glad I finally get to see it.”
Murray said nothing.
“It’s been, what, three years since we talked, L.T.? Seven years since you needed something from me? Your career in trouble again, is that it? You need Good Ol’ Dew to come in and pull your ass out of the fire? Make you look good, is that it?”
“It’s not like that this time.”
“Sure, L.T., sure. You know, I’m not as young as I used to be. My old body may not be up to your dirty work.”
Dew stood in front of the flag. A grimy-brown color stained the top left corner; just delta mud, Murray told anyone that asked. But it wasn’t mud, and Dew knew that better than anyone. The flag had once been attached to a flagpole that Dew used to kill a VC, driving the brass point into the enemy’s gut like some primitive tribal spearman. The bottom right corner held a similar stain, where Dew had tried in vain to stop the blood pouring from Quint Wallman’s throat after an AK-47 round had all but decapitated the eighteen-year-old corporal.
They hadn’t used the flag for motivation, because at the time none of them had been particularly patriotic. The flag just happened to be where they made their last stand, where they held off the attack until the choppers came and bailed them out. Murray was the last one to board, making sure the other men-all wounded, including Dew-were on before he worried about himself. He grabbed the flag, the bloodstained, burned and bullet-ridden flag, on the way out. No one knew why at the time, probably not even Murray. When they realized it was all over, that they had escaped death, left the corpses of both friends and enemies behind, the flag somehow took on more meaning.
Dew stared at the tattered fabric, the memories pouring back, and it was a second before he realized that
