The Immune System, page 18
“All right. Brass tacks,” the big man cuts me off.
I nod. “Yup. Let’s do this.” Quick, maybe too quick. Work those wrists. Don’t vibe rattled.
Scratch continues, “Where are the twins, Decimal? Where are the royals? You tell me fast, you don’t die slow.”
Hold up. Let me think. Let me think.
He doesn’t know. Means what? I need time to sort this. My implant trembles. I wanna cleanse. My right hand has more mobility . . . I keep working at it, like I’m knitting a pair of socks. Say, “Who’s that?”
The man rubs at the machete with a fingernail, not breaking eye contact.
I say, “Them Saudi kids?”
“Decimal. This is your last and final chance to spare yourself . . . unimaginable agony. And to redeem yourself, if only very slightly, as an American.” He leans in, the sweat still coming. I’ll be goddamned if he’s nervous. What does this mean? Divisions within the Corp? A fall-out with the Coalition? Ten to one he’s acting on his own steam. Scratch repeats, “Where’s the twins, Dewey?”
Reeling with the implications here. My voice warbles a touch, “What up, Scratch, you out of the loop, son? Outside looking in? Cause damn, I thought you were a righteous boss.”
Unruffled, Scratch says it again: “Where. Are. The. Twins.”
“Barking up the wrong pole, Cap’n Crunch.”
He blinks at me for a moment. Moves his eyebrows and sighs, like he’s got a major chore ahead of him.
Come on, Decimal. Worrying my hands. Working at ’em.
The big man saying, “I’m gonna chop you into sad little ribbons, you diseased, traitorous fuck. There’s no downside to that from my perspective.”
“Sounds like a real effort, Scratch. Why bother, man? Just put a fucking cap in me and call it macaroni.”
Scratch takes a deep, slow inhale. “You got no fucking idea what’s really going down, do you, Decimal?”
Go for bravado. “Your dead mama going down on my dick. That’s about all I know for sure.”
He waves that aside. “You’re getting played for a punk, Decimal. Don’t you know that? Think you’re fucking smart.”
“How you figure that, professor?”
“You think you get put in charge of a major motherfucking operation like this business with the Saudis? A head case like you? The degree to which you continue to majorly fuck shit up?”
I’m listening cause I reckon I know where this is headed, and as I hope I’ve made plain, this was my suspicion all along.
Big Scratch saying, “A cake-eater like Howard. This fake motherfucker needs you to fall on your ass. That should be abundantly clear.”
“Clear as New York water. Why Howard gonna want me to fuck up if I’m his agent, just reflects bad on the man.” Can’t help but fish a bit.
“Decimal, you’re so lost, it’s depressing. I’ll talk slow.” Scratch’s face stretches into disturbing extremes as he parodies speaking to a small child. “His side: wants the twins to die. You get it? His people are with the Saudi military. Saudi military is conducting a coup. SO! They get stupid.” And here he indicates me. “To fuck it all up for them. Do you read me? It’s all a big game they’re running.”
Run my tongue across my teeth, at a slight loss. “And what, you figure you’re gonna step in and sort it all out for everybody, Scratch?”
“Yeah, cause I’m with the right people, it’s simple. The other side.”
“Doesn’t sound simple from where I’m sitting, big boss.”
Scratch shakes his head impatiently. “Listen good. You fuck. Bigger picture. We’ve had our differences, I grant you.” He looks at his blade, then back to me. “I give you Jimmy, he iced your partner. That’s all right. He was a scumbag, no loss. A real serious prick, Jimmy.”
“White of you.”
“He knew you were coming anyhow. Been waiting for you. Wouldn’t shut up about it. Said to him: You scared of that skinny motherfucker, Jimmy? Couldn’t shake it. Never mind.” Now he shifts gears: “Decimal, you dumb fuck. Get it straight. Coalition assholes are split right down the middle. Apparently you fail to register this. Let me try again. We’ve been watching this fall apart over there for a good while. Saudi military finally running a coup against these fucking pasha sand-nigger kings, and they got us looped in.”
“I don’t worry politics, scout.” Unconvincing as hell.
“Well, maybe start worrying about something, maybe you should pay some attention, huh? Especially when they’re playing you. They worked it all out, see? Got any number of bodies after you. Our crew, Howard’s crew, some cuckoo Mossad bitch we’re monitoring, every Saudi military on the island.”
“And yet, magic. I’m still standing, son,” I say, calm and cool on the outside.
“No sir. Hardly. Look at you, man. Falling apart piece by piece. No, you’re gonna come out of this deader than fuck, burnt like bacon, with ID that calls you out as a Mr. White, Secret Service. Mr. White. The final joke. On your black ass.”
Huh. I absorb this. Massaging my paws behind me . . . man in a semirant now.
“Always knew you were a crazy son of a bitch—but never took you for a complete stooge, Decimal. That’s what you are, a fucking patsy. Now that’s an embarrassment.”
Come on, Dewey. Come on. Looser and looser. Keep him talking. “What’s your percentage, Scratch, why you give a shit?”
“I’m on the winning side, Decimal. I want to do the right thing. Protect those twins. Howard wants to see them dead, and my people are not going to let that happen.”
“You’re like the greatest American hero and whatnot.” This tape. Working, working at it. Do it methodical.
“Think it’s funny? Okay, that’s all right, that’s how you want to be.”
“Don’t think anything’s funny, Scratch. I just can’t imagine how you can expect me to swallow your rap. How you expect me to do that? Shit is not credible, and plus. Every time I run into you, you kick my ass and come with all kinda threats.”
“Well, let’s put it like this. What are your options? So your options are not great, Decimal. Let’s look at it.” He extends a dirty thumb. I flinch, and am pleased he doesn’t seem to have noticed.
Rotating my hands, back and forth, back and forth. Come on.
“You tell me where the twins are. You save the day, you save a couple lives, you maintain the union, and you preserve the nation, then you go back to your library, bravo.” He extends his index finger. “Option B: you don’t tell me where the twins are. Best case, I kill you. Worst case, I kill you, and Howard’s boys get their hands on the twins. Kill them too.” Scratch makes a pistol with his stubby fingers, jams it into my forehead. “Boom. You read me?” He’s sweating. This is his big play.
“I read you scared, Scratch.”
“I fear nothing. Least of all a little piece of pork like you, Decimal.”
“How about this: I tell you where you’ll find the twins, you kill me anyhoo just cause why wouldn’t you?”
Scratch can’t help but grin huge at that. “Anything’s possible these days, Decimal. Anything’s possible. That’s the risk you run cause you fucked up this much so far. All I’m saying is here’s your chance to put events back on track, do the proper thing by your country.”
I think about this. I consider this a good while, shaking my head slow like I’m concentrating on the issue. Fuck, I am concentrating, twisting against this fucking duct tape. Come on Dewey.
Then I say, “Got a big problem, Scratch. Cause I can’t tell you where the twins are. Last time I saw ’em they were up at that squatter’s camp, which your crew saw fit to burn to the ground. So for all I know, pal—you already went and done ’em. It’d be a damn shame, hell of a thing . . .” It’s truth, plain as yogurt. Hangs there for a bit. Scratch blinks at me.
Right hand pretty close to getting clear of the tape. Feel like puking, my stomach churning butter.
Finally the man says, “Bullshit.” Stands and places a boot on my chest, kicking me backward.
Midair I’m trying to jerk my mitts so the chair hits the tape. I almost succeed, landing on my lame right hand, which comes free, praise Jah—roll sideways so as to conceal this from Scratch.
Man comes around and squats, dragging the machete across the concrete, creating a tremendous screech, like some prehistoric bird. “I’m gonna truly enjoy this. Maybe as much as back when I did your lady and kid.”
Hold it.
I’m genuinely winded. Guppy-gulp like I’m trying to catch air.
South Bronx housing project in winter . . .
“My wife . . . my kid . . .” I wheeze.
“Price you pay to fuck up a grand op like the Occurrence, Decimal. Was a pleasure. And I should have done you back when. Like I say, you’ve been wandering around dead and you don’t even know.”
“Please . . .” I exhale. My guns are gone. I’m stripped to the waist, only my trousers and my scrawny rib cage.
But he missed one thing, old Scratch. Getting sloppy. He missed my knife.
Scratch saying, “Faking like, I don’t remember. Please. That’s some coward’s bullshit.”
Going for the knife, slow.
“Want to know what your wife said before I cut her throat?”
Freeze. I’m no longer openly struggling. Open my maw, shut it. Slowly lifting my leg up behind me to get at the blade on my ankle.
“Shit, you must remember, old man. You were there. You let us in the door. Nobody else had a key, Decimal. Or don’t you recall?”
My key is in the lock . . .
Freeze. Freddo.
“Well here’s a refresher. I’ll tell you what she said. Nothing. Cause she was busy choking on my cock. She put up a decent fight, though, I’ll give that to her.”
Freddo. Somewhere remote I’m waiting patiently for it to pass so I can make my move.
“Unlike you. Faggot. Bye bye, Dewey. This is for Nick—”
Midst of his dedication, I slam my knife handle deep in his abdomen. His brow raises, this time less in amusement than surprise.
“Ah. Goddamn, Decimal,” the man says, quite calmly, as if conceding a hand of cards. “Where the hell did that come from? That’s my fuck-up there. Goddamnit . . .”
And in the midst of my Freeze, I know only that he must die, and thoroughly, though I couldn’t tell you exactly why.
And I know it’s gotta be dramatic.
So. Get both hands around the dagger, drag the thing upward toward his heart, he recoils, and timber, over he goes.
I gain some leverage, put my weight on my knees, and steady myself. Grip the handle, pushing the knife down again, then left and right. Gut him like a trout. All this I observe at a remove.
Scratch looks shocked, dismayed. More resolved than angry. A blood bubble pops out the man’s nose . . . I’m on top of him. With an effort I work the knife loose from his sternum. I wanna cut him more, I wanna break him down into the smallest possible particles, I wanna take a bite out of his face. Yet as the adrenaline drains, I’m exhausted, winded.
Blinking at me. He’s done talking.
But I’m not, now I’m leaning over his corpse, getting up in his right ear. I’m shaking, giddy with rage, trembling, my muscles barely behaving.
I need to do it, and my purpose comes back in a painful rush. Say this, in a ragged whisper: “When you land in hell, son? Stay the fuck away from my wife.”
_________________
Belly flop out the door onto 4th Avenue, into the rain, my battered body in full revolt.
Disassociation. That’s the word. I watch from the opposite corner, the thrashings of an unnaturally thin man.
On my back. From whence I came, I dig the window that’s not boarded up:
HALLOWEEN ADVENTURE
GAGS
MAGIC
So I put myself just south of Union Square.
Unable to spit, I roll on my side so as to avoid choking. I’ve found a center of calm, which is where my spirit takes a seat to observe. The drizzle pitter-patters in my ear.
In other local news, my corporeal self appears to be having a seizure, a for-real seizure. My ankle sheath is hanging loose, and I have the wherewithal to shove the leather in my craw lest I chew off my tongue.
This body, rejecting that which it knows to be true like a failed skin graft.
Failed, yes. Because I failed everyone. Failed my crew, my brothers, abandoned my post in the midst of the grand op of February 14.
Failed my wife and child, and let the wolves take them.
Failed those I love, again and again, and allowed them to perish while I stood by and did nothing.
Failed civilians and allowed them to die, opening the door for the wolves yet again.
Failed my employers, whatever their unknowable intentions are or were, whether for ill or its opposite; I am a shitty earner, I am unreliable, and I have failed them.
Failed my city, in being party to its destruction.
Failed my System, neglecting the beauty of its architecture.
All that stops. I won’t fail Haifa. I will not.
The lump on my neck seems to be fully sentient, pulsating.
Pulses about four seconds apart. And I know without doubt, and without logic, that this machine is attempting to squelch everything my deeper consciousness is disgorging. Information that has now been released into the stream of my direct awareness, impossible not to re-bury. The machine throbs angrily. From a distance I recognize it as the source of my seizure.
As I convulse, I’m laughing through the rain and the cowhide, because I’ve finally beat this fucking monster. With Scratch as the trigger, and all the attendant irony. I’m laughing, because I’ve been right all along about this living implant, its level of control over my movements now graphically obvious.
I’m laughing, my fake front teeth sliding down the side of my face . . . even as the convulsions intensify, and multiply, an obscene puppet, my head smacking the pavement wetly, my flippers flapping of their own accord, until with a nearly audible thump the mains on my apprehension are cut, and I disappear.
_________________
Then there’s the dream, as familiar as sleep itself, almost comforting in its frequency.
American housing project in winter. My perspective is from the parking lot, which is sparsely occupied.
Sweep through a sad play area. Toddler-size Rocawear sneaker, always one shoe, these city mysteries. Chicken bones, discarded malt liquor bottles, crushed packs of Salems. Proceed.
I have the two men with me, two men from the unit. Scratch catches the exterior door with a gloved hand. Another dude, Ace, whom I know less.
In the stainless steel elevator, we breath each other’s air, slightly winded as if one is coming out of the cold. Nothing is said.
Exit the elevator into the hallway. Key in hand.
Check my pistol and disengage the safety. Listen at the door. Within I can feel the female and the child, feel their fear.
Let the boys in. Need to reassure my family. After all, I’m just having some buddies over. My wife always said: “How come I never getta meet your friends?”
Alls I’m doing is making that happen.
_________________
Beep.
I wait, listening, awake now. The discomfort in my neck has blossomed out across my skull, and a full migraine sits up and says howdy-do.
Beep. Blip.
Again the not-unpleasant tapping of rain on a window pane.
Okay. Before I attempt to open my eyes, I run a status check. My limbs are apparently still attached, though I make no attempt to move them. I seem to be unrestrained.
Half of my gut sinks. Better I had died. Simpler. Cleaner.
But my other half? Says, Fuck it. Get to work. Wreck motherfuckers.
Crack an eyeball. As I’d gathered, I’m in a medical facility of some kind. Scope it: hooked to an IV, EKG, the standard bleeps and boops.
Déjà-fuckin-vu.
IV drip-drop, clear liquid. Nude underneath a thin cotton gown.
“Major.”
I start, having not noticed the man seated to my right. “Sergeant major,” I manage. “Give me a second.”
Guy inclines his head. Squints at a folder, brow knotted. “Hmm. Wasn’t aware . . . no, just major. According to this.”
My head. Takes a moment to focus, tunnel vision . . .
Brylcreem is the vibe. Glasses, white military uniform, couple of gold bars. Navy? No. Maybe early sixties, a healthy early sixties, clean shaven. Looks like he popped out of the Eisenhower era. I can smell his cheap aftershave. Old Spice, same as my dad, may he roast in the lowest levels of Hades.
“Who the fuck are you, fancy man? You got that Clark Kent kinda thing working. ”
Regards me like one might peep a misbehaving car engine. “So you have absolutely no recollection.” He looks to a white-coated blur, who seems to be making notes at a distance.
“I recollect waking up just now in 1965 with some retro government dude hanging over me, yeah. Unless you brought me my disability check, you can fuck right off.”
The man crosses one leg over the other. He has a certain elegance, though I knee-jerk hate him.
“Forthright as ever. The funny thing is, major, we’ve never been out of contact, so to speak.” A dry smile.
“Sergeant major. Uh-huh. I ask once more: who the fuck are you?”
Again the glance to the lurker in the background.
“Hey,” I say.
“Yes. Well, I’m Dr. Kavan, with the National Institutes of Health. Formerly. Public Health Service. I served as your liaison, first at Walter Reed and then at the NIH. This would have been—”
“I don’t know you, man.”
And again the smile, the glance. “Well. We’re aware of the memory loss, so it’s not surprising—”
“I mean like I’ve never seen you in my life, doc. On my fucking honor.”
The man flips open a briefcase. “Be that as it may, I know you. And . . . here we are. I’ve got some paperwork that requires a signature,” he says, placing a document on the edge of my bed.
