the land of flowers. You, at least, I can support for a term of years.'
'Let me make a few calls, first. Is that all right?'
'Surely, General. But, to be fair, I ought to tell you I have appointments over the next two days with Generals Schneider at the Catlett Foundation and Friesland on the other side of Phoenix Rising.'
Abogado scowled. 'Cancel 'em. I'll take the job. By the way, what does it pay?'
Carrera smiled broadly despite the smell of sewage. 'Enough.'
First Landing, Hudson, FSC, 23/9/459 AC
'I have had about enough of this place,' announced Bowman. Daugher muttered agreement under his breath.
The two had flown to Dragonback. There they'd met some of Daugher's old motorcycle gang and borrowed a car. Then they'd driven to First Landing in an all-nighter.
Daugher and Bowman hated the city, hated the stink, hated the noise. They hated the silly disguises they felt called upon to wearyuppie glasses and false mustaches, a slight amount of stage makeup, and practiced walks. Likewise they hated Hennessey's nasty little cousin for putting in jeopardy their own best hopes for the life they wanted to lead.
(For they still could not think of him as Carrera. For too many years had he been 'that motherfucker, Hennessey' for them to change easily.)
They were following Eugene now. He hadn't been hard to find and he was not hard to follow as he walked from his upscale apartment to some unknown destination. Though the streets were dark, there was just about enough light to make out Eugene's dainty mince.
They almost lost Eugene when he turned a street corner. Racing to catch up they saw no sign of him when they had made the same corner. Music blasted from somewhere. The two raced to the next corner. Nothing, no sign.
'Shit!' said Bowman. 'Lost the little bastard.'
The two turned back, frustration seething within them. After a few minutes' walk, Daugher tapped Bowman on the shoulder before pointing upward to the opposite side of the street.
'The Peeled Banana?' Bowman could hardly believe it. 'You think?'
'I think it's worth looking, ' said Daugher.
Bowman shrugged, 'Maybe so. After you.'
With a similar shrug Daugher led the way. The interior was not so bad. Oh yes, it was full of more homosexuals than Daugher had seen since being let out of prison on an overturned conviction for murder. But they seemed not the terribly aggressive type. He began to relax… slightly. Then he saw two men, neither of them Eugene, kissing in a corner and a flood of unpleasant memories returned.
'I hate queers,' he whispered, too softly to be heard.
Daugher and Bowman went to an open spot at the bar, one where they could see the-no pun intended- comings and goings of the clientele. There they sat, nursing their drinks and avoiding mixing, for nigh upon two hours.
'Not a sign,' observed Daugher. 'Might as well hit the road; try again tomorrow.'
Bowman nodded agreement, then said he had to visit the men's room. Daugher thought about counseling against that, then decided the joke was too good to spoil.
Thus it was a very surprised Bowman who entered the men's room and saw a kneeling Eugene, servicing what was almost certainly a very new acquaintance. Ignoring his intended victim, Bowman did his business and left. Before he left, however, he had cause to note a window, about head-high, that ventilated the men's room.
'Bastard's in there,' he told Daugher when he returned, 'blowing somebody. One window, big enough to stuff a body out of. You'll have to be quick.'
'Then he's been in there since we arrived,' whispered Daugher. 'Must be 'ladies night out.' Anyone else inside?'
'Just the blowee.'
Daugher did a few quick mental calculations. 'Okay, you can't go in there again. That might draw suspicion. I'll…' he stopped speaking as the bartender passed within earshot… 'I'll wait until the guy with him comes out, do the job, stuff him out the window and come back. Then we can leave.'
Eugene, apparently, either had great talent for the enterprise in which he was engaged or lacked any at all. It was quite some time before the man Bowman had seen with him emerged. By that time another had gone in and stayed. Then another. It was past ten PM before they knew Eugene was alone.
'And… we're off,' Daugher whispered, tapping his fingers on the bar.
'Oh, aren't you a big one,' Eugene observed as Daugher undid himself to urinate in the trough. 'Want me to take care of that for you?'
'Sure, brother,' Daugher agreed as he turned around.
The last thing Eugene ever felt was the blow from above that rendered him unconscious. He never felt the hands that gripped shoulder and chin and twisted his neck in a way human necks were not intended to go. He never heard the crack of his own neck breaking. When his wallet was removed from a back pocket- Well, thought Daugher, there needs to be some better motive for the killing- Eugene's body was already beginning to cool. He was thus spared the embarrassment of shit filling his trousers. Likewise he never knew that his bladder had let go. He felt neither the scraping as he was lifted up and pushed out of the small ventilation window nor the noisy impact on the trash cans below that window.
Daugher did up his trousers and left an empty men's room behind him.
'Done?' Bowman asked.
'Very done.'
'You realize, right, that if they connect us to the murder the boss is screwed?'
Daugher thought on that. 'Yeah… but's what to connect us? By the time I did it, the bartender had changed, so he can't connect the time the queer was in there with the time I went in there.' He showed Eugene's wallet. 'Motive: money. What connects us to a need for money? Nothing. Did the boss have a reason to want the fucker dead? Yes. Would we have killed him if the boss had asked? Clearly. But we weren't here; as my old motorcycle gang will swear on a stack of bibles, we were in Dragonback Pass. So they've got nothing, even if they suspect the boss.'
Bowman considered that as the two walked. After a few contemplative moments he agreed.
First Landing, Hudson, FSC, 27/9/459 AC
Lourdes had passed on the news when Carrera had called in to the Casa Linda from his hotel in Phoenix Rising. He was shocked, at first. Then, secretly, he was pleased. That made him feel terribly guilty. Still, try as he might, he had not been able to shake the pleasure of Eugene's most timely demise. His shame grew with that failure, warring with his joy.
I am a low-down, no good, bastard. I should be ashamed, he thought, and I am. But even so, I am glad the piece of shit is out of the way.
Having flown up for the funeral, Pat had listened patiently to the Jewish branch of the family's rabbi droning on and on about Eugene's many virtues; his love of animals, his support for equal rights, his staunch activism. All true enough, I suppose, provided you add in 'eager support to terrorist organizations.'
Now, standing in bright winter sunshine at the graveside, with Eugene's heart-broken mother weeping into her third husband's arms… Aunt Sarah was always good to me. Always. Too bad she has to suffer. She deserves better.
Cousin Annie, smelling more than a little of strong drink, leaned against Pat Hennessey for support. His arm helped her stand as she shook with great shuddering sobs. She whispered, over and over, 'Poor Eugene. Oh, the terrible things I've said to him.'
As the funeral began to break up, Pat half carried Annie to Aunt Sarah's side. The two women fell upon each other with weeping. Pat and Sarah's current husband held back.
Finally, Annie backed off and Pat took Sarah in his arms, cradling her aged head with one hand. 'I am sorry,' he whispered to her. 'For you, I am sorry. I know what it's like.'
Excursus
From: Legio del Cid: to Build an Army (reprinted here with permission of the Army War College, Army of the Federated States of Columbia, Slaughter Ravine, Plains, FSC)
