Some shit never changes.
• • • •
ZELDA YAWNED UNDER her desk. Diego hadn’t left until three in the morning and then she couldn’t fall asleep. He’d brought quasi-illicit coffee from Mexico; she was still flying on caffeine. Why didn’t the planet conquer the Universe when we had real caffeine for fuel, she wondered, her musings about the failures of the human race cut short by Mr. Pietro’s legs passing by. She unraveled and followed him down the hall.
“Mr. Pietro, sir. Can I walk with you?”
“Only as far as my office.” He reluctantly considered her. “How was your field trip?”
“Very enlightening.”
“I can imagine an afternoon at the ocean would be,” he said sourly, hoping to lose her by abruptly veering down a corridor.
She kept pace. “I have great ideas for the new campaign. Don’t worry. No singing or talking salmon.”
He walked a little faster.
“Our New Home Will Come to Your New Home.”
Pietro slowed down with puzzled deliberation. “What does that mean?”
“The new home of salmon. The migration from Alaska to the Atlantic.”
“Migration?”
“Of the fish. You know how the war threw off the eco-systems?”
“Did it?” he asked sarcastically.
“One of the consequences was salmon relocating.”
“Like the refugees from Los Angeles?”
Something about his tone troubled Zelda. But if she worried about annoying people she worked with and knew and socialized, she’d be a mute.
“Without the radioactive quality.”
Pietro led them into a conference room, closing the door.
“Why did you ask to go on the boat?”
Zelda hesitated. “So I could do my job better, sir.”
“Which is drawing, Ms. Jones. That’s your job. To help lead the charge so salmon salad can overtake tuna salad after centuries of second-class citizenship.”
“What if the salmon don’t show up?”
“Where?” He was flustered.
“In their new home. My slogan is catchy, needs work, but it means nothing if the salmon doesn’t come this way. The boat didn’t catch anything. Since all the Scottish salmon stays with Muslim Europe, what happens if the Alaskan salmon got lost? A continent is huge and I mean, salmon is tasty, but how good a sense of direction could they have?”
Zelda pressed his hand so he couldn’t open the door. Pietro’s look wasn’t friendly.
“It’s important to understand all aspects of our jobs, Mr. Pietro. As you must know, one of Grandma’s favorite songs is Pink Floyd’s Another Brick in the Wall. We can’t ever be bricks in the wall, not questioning and challenging and growing.”
Pietro wasn’t happy about her referencing Grandma. He was even less happy when Zelda began singing Another Brick in the Wall complete with brisk dance steps. A curious crowd gathered in the hallway. When Zelda finished, her new colleagues applauded lustily. Pietro’s glare sent them scurrying back to their desks, returning to Zelda.
“I don’t have any answers to your questions, Ms. Jones. Except there is one answer to mine. According to your employment history, this is the fourth job you’ve had in three years. If you lose this, you would be officially labelled questionably employable. Do you understand it’s in your own best interest, whether it makes salmon happy or not, for you to keep this job?”
Zelda remained alone for a few minutes. A gray-haired woman popped her head inside the conference room.
“I love that song, Zelda.” She winked. “We have karaoke outings once a month. Maybe you could be on my team.”
“Not if you want to win,” Zelda said glumly.
• • • •
LIGHT GLINTED BRIEFLY in the clouds. Sometimes Tomas thought he was the only one who could see the trace of her ‘copter. But he knew he wasn’t. That’s why three stealth ‘copters followed her. That’s why ten armed men, two with bazookas along with a SAM team, fanned out around the landing field, with five more snipers on rooftops flanking the entrance to Van Cortlandt Park.
Except there were only four snipers today. Running across West 239th Street, Tomas reviewed the orders, his orders, changing every three hours, ten hours, occasionally not at all, predictability was an enemy. Five.
He messaged Artito. Northeast rooftop now. Serve tea elsewhere. Tomas slowed, avoiding attention, then limped around the corner, the Gelinium throbbing.
On way, Artito messaged back.
Tomas kicked in the door of the apartment building, scattering glass and horrifying a family of residents. He hit the elevator button and bounded up the old staircase.
Seven flights. His knee throbbed, his breaths came shorter; he pulled his gun. The door to the rooftop was open a few inches. Tomas crouched and burst in, firing off a few rounds.
“It’s me, Major,” Artito yelled, hiding behind a chimney.
Tomas stayed low. “Did I prefer blondes or brunettes in London?”
“You screwed everyone, Tomas. There’s no one up here.”
The Major rose carefully to hip height and waited for Artito to come around the corner. The Lieutenant held his gun up, irritated.
“You going to examine my cock next? Sir.”
Tomas scowled. “Where’s Dano?”
Artito’s dark face creased.
“He’s supposed to be here.” Tomas moved around the rooftop. “Did you check to see if he’s dead?”
Artito’s eyes lowered briefly. “He’s off, sir.”
“What do you mean he’s off?”
“Orders had only four rooftops covered.” He hesitated. “Yesterday was five. Today’s Tuesday.”
“I know what fucking day it is.” Tomas continued searching the rooftop, ashamed a small part of him hoped to find a piece of Dano lying butchered. “He’s not here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I screwed up.”
“Happens, sir.”
Not to me. It can’t ever happen to me. Yet it just did.
Artito smiled reassuringly. “Your message was encrypted, sir. No one will know.”
“Loyalty and all that.”
“Only a few of us left, sir.”
“And that excuses you not correcting me when a decision is made based on erroneous information?”
“No, sir.” Artito stiffened. “That was wrong of me.”
“Damn straight. There’s a broken lobby door downstairs.”
“I’ll handle it, sir,” Artito saluted somberly.
When Tomas returned to the original landing site, a small two-door car waited, exhaust fumes seemingly generated as much by the anger of the elderly man behind the wheel as from the Chevy engine.
Off a sigh, Tomas walked around to the driver’s side. Albert Cheng slowly rolled down the window.
“Morning, First Cousin Cheng.” Tomas tipped his head
