2028, p.16
2028, page 16
“We’re ready now,” Guardo Rodriquez, Number 82, said to Sardo, Number 48. “I think we should try something tomorrow. Like a test.”
Sardo nodded. “Make sure it’s quiet. And remote.”
“Who’s gonna do it? We need someone with, you know, experience,” Max, Number 36, said.
Guardo glanced around the tent, and fixed his eyes on Number 47, as he finished wrapping another rake tine into a chiv. “Him,” he said. “I’ve talked to him. He was with M-Thirteen in Caracas, and he’s killed before. Told me one of the murdered Venezuelans hung with him back in the day. He’s got a grudge and there ain’t noting worse than someone from M-Thirteen with a grudge.”
Sardo looked over to him. “Yo, Number Forty-Seven,” he called to him in Spanish.
Number 47 looked over. “Yeah, what?”
“Come on over here.”
He nodded, then flicked his product off the bunk post and onto a towel with the other ones. He pushed the wrapped chivs under the bunk and crammed his blanket over them.
“Twenty-six, you too. Got a minute?”
Pepito wrapped up his small pile of larger knives and stuffed the bundle into a torn pillow. He labored to stand, as Rodriguez went to fetch one of the Mayan healers.
They hunkered around in a small group pretending to watch the dice game. Sardo worked his aching fingers as though warming up to play piano—a nervous habit. “We’re gonna move tomorrow,” he whispered in Spanish, while Guardo translated into English for the other Neo-Pubs. “Forty-Seven, you’re our triggerman with one of your chivs. You know what to do, right?”
“I know where to stick the knife, yeah. But the rest of it...?”
Sardo glanced at Pepito, who drove the inmates out into the desert in the camp transport, a grey, twenty-five-year-old school bus. “You can drop forty-seven off on you last stop, the farther out the better.”
“I will do that, yes.”
He turned to the Mayan. “You can have the Tonto juice ready before dawn?”
He nodded.
“Tell Forty-Seven what he needs to do.”
“Yes. What I will do is give you some rags soaked with Tonto. Be sure you cover your nose to keep from smelling it, otherwise you will fall.”
“I’ll be wearing my kerchief over my nose and mouth, as usual.”
“Good. Carry the Tonto rag away from your face.” the Mayan said. “When the time is right, you will bring the rag from behind to the guard’s face like this.” He brought his hand up to cover his nose and mouth. “And hold it tight until he weakens. My mixture will be strong so it will not take long... probably less than fifteen seconds. You will know when to do what you do next. You understand?”
“Yeah, I get it,” Number 47 said.
Sardo looked at Pepito. “So, Twenty-Six, you can pack some extra shovels in the bus with the rakes. You can find some extra tarps?”
“Yes. I have some.”
“Pack them, to wrap and bury the body.”
“And the Tonto rag,” the Mayan said.
“No.” Sardo said. “Bury that and the chiv separately, far apart. Oh, yeah—and don’t forget to lift his weapon.”
“I can wrap it and any others in an oiled cloth and bury them in the dirt underneath my salvage truck,” Pepito said.
“Good,” Guardo told them. “We can start an arsenal.”
“I’m keeping my chiv,” Number 47 insisted. “I’ll keep it hidden tight.”
“Just remember to say your prayers tonight that this works,” Sardo said.
“Cinco cero!” A stooge called from where he mixed the yucca-root “tea” in his kettle over the cook-fire.
“BlueShirts!” Guardo whispered tightly. “Let’s pack it up and play dice.”
————————————————————————-
The BlueShirt guard stationed to watch over Number 47’s dessert raking crew never showed up in the return trip on Pepito’s bus the next day. At first, the other BlueShirts reasoned he might have wandered off to take a piss and got bit by a rattlesnake. Such things had been rumored to happen. The PRICE guards were not all that concerned because the inmate count held steady, and that was what mattered. Besides, some of those BlueShirts were as stupid as a dead buzzard, and it would be just like them to get bit in the pizzle by a rattlesnake.
Sardo was stoically pleased that the plan worked. He had number 47 work with training several other Venezuelans to be quick and quiet with the Tonto juice and knife as the growing resistance’s hit-men—and woman, as Tricia, volunteered for training. She had a revenge of her own to carry out and was reminded of this with each searing hot pain in her groin from the PRICE lieutenant’s abuse of her.
16
The Window Washers
August 19
“I
wish you wouldn’t keep doing that, Randy,” Kenton groused.
“What?”
Kenton pointed to his wrist. “That. All that tapping.”
Montefiore glanced down at how he was batting his pen against his wrist again. “Ah. Nervous habit. Something I’ve done since I was a teenager.”
“Well, my friend, you’ve been doing it a lot more of it lately.” Kenton sipped his chilled black coffee, made a face, and sipped it again. “Anyway, it’s fucking annoying. Are you nervous about something?”
In either an act of compliance or ridicule, Montefiore made a point of placing the pen on Kenton’s desk. “Okay. Done and done. And yes, Al, I am a little concerned.” He narrowed his gaze at the Premier. “It’s about Saunders. He’s been acting...distracted, lately. Not concentrating on his work.”
“‘course he is. He just got back from one of his tours of the gulags.” Kenton took another sip of his coffee, made another sour face, then took another sip. “He’s perfectly doing his job. Look at all those Neo-Publican shitheads he shipped off in May. He did an outstanding thing, there. Outstanding. Don’t you think. Randy?”
“Okay, yeah, Al. But lately? Not so much. He’s been walking around in some sort of funk. Totally distracted. He hardly ever shows up in his office anymore.” He picked up the pen again and poised it against his wrist. “He’s locked himself away in his suite. His secretary hasn’t seen him in a week.” He started to flick the plunger on his pen: click-click...click-click. “I saw him in the hall two days ago walking around like some sorta zombie. Looked like he hadn’t ‘t shaved in a week.”
“Sure, of course. He’s probably preparing a report on his gulag visits. You know how fucking thorough he can be.”
Montefiore had to admit, Saunders could be anal retentive about his reports. “But, still, I’m worried for him. He could become a liability.”
Kenton stared annoyed at Montefiore’s clicking away on his pen. “Look, maybe he’s just tired. Why don’t I send him for a week at my place in West Palm Beach? He can play a little golf, then come back to us in perfect shape.”
“He doesn’t play golf.”
“That’s fine. I’ve got some of the best pros in the business who’ll work with him.”
Montefiore stared briefly at the cleanliness of Kenton’s desktop—the sign of one who chose to do no work. He mused over how easy the Premier’s job was. And he would know; he did most of his boss’s work. “Saunders once told me once. He doesn’t want to learn golf,” he glanced back up at Kenton to make his point, “he hates golf.” He knew that would cut Kenton to the quick.
The Premier glared at him. “He’ll like it if I tell him to.”
“Look, Al, why don’t you send him on a long sabbatical? I can fill in as PRICE Commissar for a while.”
Kenton’s glare turned moderately challenging. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Randy? But no. I need you here with me, and I need Stan where he is. He’s good at it.”
Montefiore’s vision was sideswiped by a window washer’s platform being lowered from the roof. “And I wouldn’t be good at it?” he said, distractedly.
“I don’t know, Randy. But you’re better at being my legal counsel. I need you for that.”
The two window-washers expertly waved their squeegees against the window. Montefiore became quiet; entranced with the way the soapy water oozed down the glass.
“Let’s get Stan up here, Randy. Let him explain. Maybe it’ll put your thoughts at ease.”
As Kenton dialed up his PRICE Commissar, Montefiore noticed the window washers were Mexicans—or something like that. He wondered how nice it would have been to open the window and push them off into a 58-story fall. He started batting the pen against his wrist.
————————————————————————-
Maybe it was because Saunders had recently watched a re-run of the movie, but in a nightmare, he’d imagined he woke up next to his own severed foot, like the horse’s head in “The Godfather.” Then, in waking, he became clumsy, as if he had lacked a foot —bumping into furniture, dropping things. Drinking more, he’d become increasingly vacant from his office, as he sequestered himself away in his apartment. His lingering image of old Maribelle, the once-upon-a-time whore who had nursed him back from his bottom almost two months before, also plagued his nightmares. It had been enough even to keep him away from his whores.
He’d also kept his distance from Randy Montefiore, to whom he’d become persona-non-grata. Every meeting Montefiore had alone with Premier Kenton was another clench to the heart of his chronic paranoia. One more day away from all the other shit on the outside, he’d convinced himself. Just one more day. Then, tomorrow: Just one more day.
He allowed another moment of silence until his inter office cell squawked out “You can’t always get what you want...”; that ring tone from Premier Kenton’s office. He put the phone to his ear but said nothing.
After a second or two, Kenton spoke: “Stan? Are you there?”
“Yes, sir,” Saunders croaked dryly; barely audible.
“Can you come on up here for a minute?”
This bolted him with a wave of dread. He never wanted Kenton to see him this way—so self-demolished. “Yes, sir. I’ll be right up.”
He straightened his tie and moved heavily toward his front door. His vision was caught by a card that must had been slipped through the mail slot while he was cowering away within his thoughts. It was a kid’s birthday card with a dancing pink and blue hippo on its cover. “What the fuck?” he muttered as he picked it up. He opened it and immediately recognized the innocuous block printing:
“Three...Soon...Three.”
————————————————————————-
Saunders shuffled into Kenton’s office as he tried to retain a semblance of professional demeanor. Montefiore noticed his color had drained. His forehead was dampened in sweat. His eyes were bloodshot. His hands trembled at his sides. All of this was proof to his point that the Commissar had come undone.
“Have a seat, Stan,” the Premier invited.
“Is it okay if I stand, sir?”
“Well, sure. If you want. Now, Randy tells me you’ve been acting a little out of touch, lately. Is everything okay?”
“I...think so, sir,” he replied weakly.
Montefiore gloated over Saunders’ show of weakness.
“Okay,” Kenton said. “I thought so.” He glanced at Montefiore. “We thought so. See, Randy? All is good.”
Montefiore saw that certainly, it wasn’t. Saunders was cracking—or maybe already cracked.
“How are your reports from your gulag tours coming along, Stan?” Kenton pressed. “Anything new? Any suggestions on how we can make our inmates any more...” he suffused a chuckle, “comfortable?”
“As if they weren’t comfortable enough. Right, Stan?” Montefiore said.
Saunders tried on a fleeting grimace of a smile. “Sure, Randy. Yeah.”
“Anyway,” Kenton said, “we think that because you’ve done such a great job, you deserve some time off. Maybe take a few weeks off in West Palm. Maybe learn a little golf. There’s nothing like some holes of golf to ease your mind. Isn’t that right, Randy?”
“Oh, yeah. Right. It really relaxes me.” Montefiore said lack-lustered.
“Would you like that, Stan?”
“I would, sir. But now I think my time is best spent here.”
“Ah!” Kenton said. “See that, Randy? Total dedication, that’s what’s needed around here.” He turned his attention back to Saunders. “So, Stan. You’re good?”
“I’m good, sir.”
“Well, then. That settles it. If you’re good; we’re all good. Right, Randy?”
Montefiore had become distracted by the squeaking of the squeegees against the glass. It annoyed him to all else, and he would like nothing more than to push those illegals off their platform to stop the noise.
“Randy?”
“Yeah, Al?”
“Are we good, now?”
“Yeah. Super-good,” he answered distantly with a rueful smile. “Real good.”
“Okay, then, Stan. You can get back to your reports. Can I have them by Friday?”
“Of course, Mr. Premier.”
“Okay, then, you can go.”
Montefiore stopped Saunders as he turned to leave. “Uh, Stan?”
“Yeah, Randy?”
“You, uh...you pissed yourself.”
Saunders looked down at the wet bloom in his pants-front and blushed from white to red. “Oh. Sorry,” he replied ashamedly, then sauntered back out of the office, with his hands fanned over the stain to hide it.
“So, Al. You still think he’s okay?”
Kenton regarded his answer. “Well, Randy? He’s been going though a lot, lately.”
“Uh-Hunh,” Montefiore said facetiously. “He has.”
17
The Third Move
August 23
S
aunders was off the liverwurst, or any other organ meats.
Now he was into salads—healthier, if not all that tasty. He’d missed his diet of pure meat but could still not imagine biting into it without that sense he was chomping into a dead finger or two. He stabbed a chickpea with his fork and gazed out through the rain-drooled view at Lincoln Center across the way. That was one name Premier Kenton did not cover up with his own. Back during the first times, in 2021, he’d likened himself to the 16th American President, perhaps not to so much that he had freed the slaves but defined them more precisely as illegal immigrants. Or it might have been because Lincoln was the first Republican—the party that had propelled Kenton into power—and the party he’d weakened enough to manipulate into being his loyal subject. So, Lincoln Center, Lincoln Memorial, Lincoln, Missouri, Lincoln cars, and all other things Lincoln kept their names. Washington, as in Washington DC, was okay, too, because it was a Museum City, and George Washington was a curiosity like a museum artifact, such as the dreaded —now shredded—U.S. Constitution.
Saunders shifted his gaze out toward the street. Primary-colored spatters and glitters from the neon lights at the confluence of Broadway and Columbus Avenue webbed the window, as pedestrians huddled beneath their gleaming black umbrellas rushed past. He glanced again at the lone chickpea stuck on the tines of his fork. What the hell? he told himself and plunked his fork back down upon the salad. He called the server over to order the drink he needed more than a salad.
As he waited, his cell phone buzzed. At least his time it wasn’t Kenton or Montefiore summoning him up for another meaningless meeting. But who else would have his private, inter-office number?
“Hello?” he said guardedly into the annoying silence on the other end. “Hello? This is Saunders.” More silence, and a hint of rustling. “Fuck it,” he muttered as he began to put his phone away.
“Stanley?” The voice sounded as timid and distant as it did vaguely familiar.
“Yeah?”
“Stanley? It’s...it’s Karen.”
“Karen?”
“Fabrizio. Karen Fabrizio? Your old secretary?”
He relaxed his shoulders. “Karen! Of course! How the fuck are you? Where are you?”
“I’m...I’m really sorry I left the job like I did, Stanley.” He heard her sniffle. Twice. “Can you ever forgive me?”
He thought he could use a little of her right now, and her timing was a gift from God. “Oh, sure, honey. That’s all in the past now. You sound a little rattled. Is everything okay?”
“I’m scared, Stanley. I need to talk to you soon.”
The server placed his bourbon before him. He took a quick sip. “What’s the matter, Karen. You’re okay, right?”
This was met with more silence. “I…I don’t know,” she finally said. Then more silence. “I’ve been getting these, like, messages? from some very bad people. I think it has something to do with when we...you know.”
“Oh, yeah, I remember. And I’ve really missed it.”
Sniffle. “Me, too, Stanley. Really.” Sniffle. “But these people, they scare me. I don’t know what they want. The things they send me... I need to talk to you.”
He calculated her obvious fear. “What sorta things, Karen? What are they sending you?”
He heard her sigh unevenly in resignation. “Weird shit. They’re ...they’re like...body parts. And they’re, like, numbered; One, Two, like that.”
He froze with his drink held halfway to his mouth. His mind became suddenly void. “Body parts?”
“Yeah. Like fingers and toes. The last note said something like: “’We know all about you and the PRICE Commissar. We’re watching.’”
At least her notes said more than the ones he had gotten. “Fuck yes, Karen, we need to talk. I’ve been getting the same shit sent to me.”
“Really? Can we meet somewhere?”
“Yeah. I’m at the...” he referred to the menus on his table “The Prince of Monaco, a French place on Columbus Avenue, across from Lincoln Center. I’ll wait. You can meet me here.”
