Chapter Six: The Huston Gold

“You had better — all you people at the South — prepare yourselves for a settlement of this question, that must come up for settlement sooner than you are prepared for it.”

-John Brown

            The corporate headquarters of Centron Farms Inc. had started life as a five-star hotel back in the 1920s known as the Huston Gold, a name most people still used. In addition to catering to the richest clientele, it also had become something of a tourist attraction in itself for its impressive architectural design. At fifty floors, it was the tallest hotel built up to that time. It was constructed in the shape of a crescent moon, curving inwards to half-encircle the immaculately kept courtyard and roundabout, in the center of which played a large and ornate fountain. The building tapered as it reached the top, with each of the two wings ending with an outer and an inner roof, the inner being a few stories higher. The central span of the building ended in a penthouse topped with a spire and flanked with eight stone jaguars (which had been added after the original owner, Howard Huston, visited the Chrysler Building in New York and decided he wanted something similar).

            Its most famous feature, however, were the two sky-patios: huge, circular balconies off of the ballrooms on the twentieth and fortieth floors. Each of these patios was large enough to host a party for over fifty guests apiece, which they had indeed done shortly after the building was completed. 

            On that Saturday evening, though, George was the only person on the fortieth floor balcony. There had been a chill drizzle all day and no one else wanted to be out. Neither did George, when it came down to it. He just felt the need for a little fresh air. He’d been to more than a few elegant, high-class affairs like this, dragged along by Ben, but he never quite got used to them. He felt awkward in his borrowed tuxedo and was never really sure how the mingling was supposed to work. People just seemed to drift about, occasionally pausing to have a conversation about the weather or the coming business year or their clothes, then move on. It was like an extremely boring game of round robin. Besides, he didn’t like crowds. His bad ear made it so that he could barely understand anything when the whole room was talking. It made for a frustrating and embarrassing experience.

            After a few minutes of drinking deep of the cold night air, he turned back to the full-front windows that looked in on the ballroom. On the plus side, Martha looked simply radiant in a red silk dress. She didn’t seem to be having any problem with the crowd; she was chatting amiably with a couple of military officers. Smiling at the sight, George took it as a sign to head back in.

            There were about fifty or sixty people attending the party; most of them members of the company’s senior management and their dates, but also a few military brass come to view the outpouring of support Centron Farms was offering (and to listen to informal contracting bids). There were also a few invited guests, like himself and Martha. George recognized the thin, dark form of Mr. Strasser standing off in a corner looking sulky, accompanied by a few equally ill-tempered-looking gentlemen whom he guessed were underlings. George had never met the man (and, frankly, had no wish to) but he’d seen him once or twice in Ben’s company.

            Speaking of which, Ben was nowhere to be seen. George guessed he was off calling somewhere to try to find out what had happened to the CEO, since Calvan hadn’t arrived yet. He couldn’t help grinning just a little at the thought of his friend running about like a chicken with its head cut off dressed in a six-thousand-dollar tuxedo.

The ballroom had been built as the ‘other half’ of the Sky Patio: exactly the same size and shape, with a great curved wall and ceiling, giving it the look of a band shell. The dome was midnight blue at the top, fading to the color of the summer sky at the bottom. A sting quartet played dance music from a stage opposite the balcony, and a bar along the left wall served drinks. In the middle of the room, a dozen or so couples revolved on the dance floor.

George drifted over to where Martha was talking to the officers. They seemed to be enjoying her company.

            “Oh, this is my friend and co-worker,” Martha said. “George Adamson. A true American patriot.”

            This rather caught George off guard so that all he could manage in response was “Uh…”

            “Glad to know you,” said a man in Army uniform. “Colonel Foster. This is Major Andrews, Colonel Phelps, and Captain Symes.”

            George shook hands all around, feeling a twinge of awkwardness in the presence of so much military authority.

            “We were just talking a bit about the war so far,” Martha put in.

            “I understand it’s been rough going,” said George.

            “Well,” said Colonel Foster. “That’s been a bit exaggerated in the press. I won’t deny we’ve had setbacks: not being able to take Zanzibar was a blow, as the captain here will tell you. Shields any sea based attack on Dar es Salaam and gives them a nice base from which to stage raids along coast. But we’ll get back on our feet soon, never you fear.”

            George guessed that the Colonel was lying, or at least putting the best possible spin on the situation, as was to be expected of an officer talking to civilians.

            “I’m sure we will, sir,” he said.

            “Do you have any brilliant tactical maneuvers planned?” asked Martha slyly.

            “Dozens,” said Major Andrews, who was wearing the dress blues of a Marine and seemed to particularly admire Martha.

            “Like what?”

            “Oh, you’ll find out,” he said with a wink.

            She smiled and sipped her drink.

            “Do you ever think of signing up, Mr. Adamson?” asked Colonel Phelps.

            George knew this had been inevitable and tried to put the bravest face on it.

            “I tried, sir,” he said. “4F.”

            “Sorry to hear that,” said the Colonel. “We can use every man we can get. What was the problem, if you don’t mind my asking?”

            “Bad ear, sir. Plus I have some bad allergies as well; bee stings, in particular, but I don’t think that would have kept me out on its own if it hadn’t been for the half-deafness.”

            Colonel Phelps nodded.

            “Mr. Adamson, have you ever heard of the Battle of Tanga?”

            George couldn’t help giving a nervous chuckle.

            “Yes, sir; I have. First World War; the ‘Battle of the Bees.’”

            “Right about where we’re fighting now,” said the Colonel, who sounded rather impressed. “As a matter of fact, I was there when we took Tanga back in March. Ran into quite a few bees ourselves, nothing like what the British and Germans faced, but nasty enough…”

            He launched into a recollection of the battle. George knew about it, of course, from the newspapers, and he noted that the Colonel was hewing very close to the version the papers had reported, with only a few personal details. That either meant the papers had been accurate, or the Colonel was trying to make it seem like they were. It really could go either way. George wasn’t especially concerned; he knew perfectly well that he had no business knowing any of the details of the war, and if the military wanted to keep the country in the dark, he figured that meant they believed to do otherwise would make the war harder to win, which was the last thing anyone needed.

            But listening to the Colonel talk made the old aches start up again in George’s heart, and after a few minutes he politely excused himself to drift away to a more deserted corner of the room. He should have been out there. He should have been serving his country in its time of need. This was his fight, like Vietnam had been his father’s and World War Two had been his grandfathers’. This was the challenge of his generation, and he had to sit it out. It gnawed at him like a physical pain.

            George had no romantic illusions about war. He remembered only too well the grief of learning his father had been killed. He had read enough books on the subject and listened to enough stories from his relatives that he probably was more aware of the real nature of war than almost any other man of his age who had never served. One of his uncles had been driven to suicide by a morphine addiction he had picked up in Korea. Another had come home from Vietnam with about two-thirds of his face missing, which had given George nightmares as a child. But every time something like that happened in their family, they would always repeat the same thing to each other, like a mantra; ‘This is what it costs. This is what it costs.’

            The Adamsons, since the days of the Civil War, had seen just how high a price freedom could command, and they took it as a point of pride that they were always willing to pay whatever was asked of them. George was willing, alright; he just wasn’t able. But the thing about not being able is that you always wonder if you really would be willing, if it came down to it. When you know you will never be asked to make good on your oaths, you can never know whether they were false or not. And so, though George told himself again and again that he would have gone, that he tried to go, the question of how he would have reacted if it had come to the point still ate at his soul like acid. And it was never so fierce as in times like this; when he had to stand alongside the men who had had that question posed to them and had answered as he wished he could.

            Absently, he reached up and fiddled with the ear that had kept him out of the service. It admitted nothing but a faint buzzing sound and its sole contribution to his senses was to make it that much harder to understand anything that its fellow let in.

            “You okay?” Martha had followed him.

            “Fine,” he lied. “Just…”

            He didn’t bother finishing. There was nothing to say, and he doubted he could make her understand anyway.

            She watched him expectantly, but when he didn’t elaborate she seemed to decide to let the matter drop.

            “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go see how the captain of industry is doing.”

            She slipped her arm into his and led him back and into the crowd of partygoers. George recognized one or two more members of the board whom he had met through Ben and gave them awkward nods of recognition as he passed.

            “I don’t know about you,” Martha muttered. “But with all these rich folk, I’m feeling kind of out of place.”

            George though she was easily just as glamorous as any of the other ladies, and said so.

            “Thanks,” she said. “But it’s not the looks; it’s the attitude. Don’t they just seem so…so posh?”

            “I think you’re imagining things,” he said, bringing his hand across to rest on hers. “Relax. I’m sure most of these folk are perfectly friendly and wouldn’t give two hoots whether you’re from the Bronx or Littleton, Iowa, just as long as you’re polite.”

            “If you say so.”

            “If you’re expecting them to be snobs, of course they’ll seem to be,” he said. “Try to think of them as coworkers or potential friends.”

            “There’s an idea,” she muttered absently. “Speaking of friends…”

            She nodded over to where Ben was now talking to Mr. Strasser. Ben seemed to be trying to sooth the aggrieved German when he spotted George and Martha. 

            “As I say, Mr. Strasser, you will get to meet with Mr. Calvan before the night is over. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go see if I can find him.”

            Ben detached himself from his guest of honor and headed over to George and Martha.

            “How’s it going?” he asked with a huge, fake grin on his face. “Guys having a good time?” Then, without waiting for an answer, he added. “You haven’t seen Calvan yet, have you?”

            They shook their heads.

            “Guess he’s running late,” George said with a shrug.

            Ben checked his watch. “That’s very bad: he’s never late. I swear, if this whole thing is ruined by a car crash or something…”

            “Easy there,” said George. “Everything will be fine, don’t worry.”

            “Right,” said Ben. “Gotta stay positive.” He gave himself a little shake. “Well, anyway. You both look great. Enjoy the champagne. Or cocktails. Or whatever you want. I’m going to go talk to old Fletcher; see if he knows anything.”

            Ben darted off to catch the elderly board member for a discussion of their employer’s lack of punctuality. Ben caught Martha’s eye and they both giggled.

            Dana Meadows was twenty-five, petite, raven-haired, and stunningly beautiful. She had made her living as a model for a while, before Xander Calvan had found her and asked her to dinner. They now had been together for four years. Calvan didn’t believe in marriage, or monogamy, but on the whole it wasn’t a bad set-up; she had the run of his house, all the money and jewels and cars she wanted, and plenty of free time.

            The only catch was enduring Calvan’s occasionally-alarming personality. He wasn’t what you would call bad-tempered or cruel, at least not to her, and most of the time she enjoyed his company. He was what she liked to call an ‘interesting subject.’ However, every so often she caught flashes of something nasty in him; of a rage and ego so extreme that they frankly terrified her.

            Tonight was one of those times.

            Their trip from home to the Huston Gold had been uneventful enough until they got onto one of the bridges that crossed the Avila River leading into the city. They had just reached the middle of the span when the heavy evening traffic abruptly ground to a complete stop.

            At first they had thought it was nothing but a traffic jam, and that they would be moving on soon. As the minutes snailed by and the horns began to blare, however, Calvan’s face had grown darker and darker.

            “Leopold, go see what is the matter,” he ordered at last.

            Leopold Stratsky, Calvan’s bodyguard, chauffeur, and personal assistant, extracted his enormous body from the limo to obey the command. Standing over seven feet tall, with biceps the size of bowling pins and a hard, brutal face, he looked rather as though someone had taught a rhinoceros to walk on its hind legs and then dressed it in a tuxedo for reasons best not to consider. Dana had not the slightest doubt that he would be able to get them moving again.

            They waited, Calvan drumming his fingers impatiently against the armrest. Dana didn’t say a word or make any kind of gesture: she just sat as calmly as could be and waited. There was no sense in potentially aggravating him any more than he already was. She knew him well enough to gauge his mood, and right now she guessed that his mind was cycling through the various possible causes of and solutions to their current predicament as well as all the implications it would have for his subsequent actions. Interrupting him in any way would only direct his already awakened anger onto herself.  

            After a few minutes, Leopold returned.

            “Sir,” he said. “There’s been an accident; a huge pileup at the far end of the bridge. Looks like a garbage truck hit traffic broadside. There’re at least ten cars scattered all over both lanes. I am afraid there is no way through.”

            “No way through?” Calvan said in disbelief. “There is always a way through, if you only have the brains to see it, Leopold.”

            Leopold didn’t so much as blink at the insult.

            “Yes, sir. Perhaps you’d like to see for yourself?”

            Calvan took a second to decide, then opened his door.

            “Wait here,” he told Dana, and followed his chauffeur over the bridge.

            Dana had already resigned herself to a long stay. Leopold was the kind of servant who considered his employer’s wishes to be something in the nature of divine commandments, so she was pretty sure that if there were any conceivable way through the pileup, Leopold would have found it, even it require him to move one of the cars out of the way himself. Since he hadn’t, that probably meant the thing was impossible and they were stuck there until the way was cleared.

            Sure enough, a few minutes later Leopold and his employer reappeared, Calvan looking as bad tempered as she had ever seen him. Dana braced herself as he threw open the car door and dropped into his seat.

            “Damn it!” he snarled. “Of all the nights for something like this to happen! If I ever find the idiot who caused this…”

            He kicked the driver’s seat furiously.

            “I have never been late for anything in my life,” he said. “Now, I’m delayed by this stupidity!”

            He slammed his fist against the door and lapsed into silence. Dana said nothing, but watched him with a wary eye. After a moment, he turned to look at her and, to her surprise, actually looked a little ashamed of himself.

            “Perhaps I shouldn’t lose my temper,” he said in as close to an apologetic tone as she had ever heard him use. Encouraged by this, she ventured to speak.

            “It’s your party, Xander; you’re entitled to be late to it.”

            He gave a small chuckle, and she smiled at him.

            “Well,” he said. “Nothing we can do now except make the best of it.”

            He pressed a button on the divider between their seats. The lid flipped off and a minibar rose between them. Dana was amazed he had recovered his good mood so quickly and grinned.

            “What’ll you have?” she asked.

            “Champagne.”

            She raised an eyebrow.

            “Doesn’t seem quite appropriate, given the circumstances, does it?”

            He seemed to think about it a bit.

            “Then call it an act of defiance against cruel fate and all his works,” he said.

            She laughed and poured the drinks. He raised his glass, studying the clear, bubbling liquid, and smiled.

            “What shall we drink to?” Dana asked.

            Calvan swirled his champagne around a bit.

            “Let’s drink…to freedom.”

            “Mr. Strasser, I assure you, Mr. Calvan will be here. Believe me, he’d consider it much more of a shame on himself than an insult to you if he didn’t show up, so you don’t have anything to worry about. Try to enjoy yourself! Have a drink, or some refreshment. Have you tried these shrimp? They’re really excellent, as you’ll see…”

            “Sheesh,” Martha muttered, watching Ben try to calm his guest for the fourth time in the last half-hour. “My Junior Prom date wasn’t that transparently desperate.”

            George gave her a quizzical look.

            “You know the cliché of the kid in school who everyone thinks is a creep, but is really just shy, sensitive, and a total romantic?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Turns out that’s not always the case,” she sighed. “Sometimes the kid everyone thinks is a creep really is just a creep. I stuck with handsome jock-types from then on.” She suddenly grinned mischievously at him. “Case in point.”

            George choked a little on his drink. All at once it occurred to him that tonight might be a good time to ask if she wanted to take things up a notch, relationship wise. He filed that thought away for further consideration. Perhaps he’d try later, like after Ben stopped running around like a chicken with his head cut off.

            The said chicken scurried over to them again, more, George thought, to escape his irate guest than for any social concerns. His face was fixed in a very unconvincing grin that made him look as though his cheeks had been wired back. He didn’t change his expression, or even unclench his teeth as he asked “Where the hell is Calvan?”

            “Don’t worry, Ben,” said Martha. “I’m sure he’ll be here. He’s not going to miss his own event.”

            “Well, he’s late,” said Ben, still through clenched teeth. “Very, very late. Strasser’s starting to feel snubbed again, and that’s not good.”

            “Just calm down, okay?” said George.

            “I’m calm,” Ben lied. “I’m perfectly calm. Only Calvan had better show up soon or I just might jump off the balcony!”

            “Oh, don’t do that!” said Martha. “It’ll make you look desperate.”

            “Yeah,” said George. “And we wouldn’t want that.”

            Ben scowled at him, his face twitching angrily.

            “Easy there, slugger,” said George. “Just trying to lighten things up a bit. The night’s still young; Calvan will be here, don’t you worry about it.”

            “In fact, this is probably him now,” said Martha, nodding at the elevator. The numbered display over the door was showing it rising from the lobby.

            Ben turned to look, so eagerly that he knocked George’s drink out of his hand. Fortunately, most of it ended on up George rather than Ben, since a stained tux wouldn’t have helped the aspiring tycoon’s nerves. They both apologized at the same time.

            “I’d better go clean this off before Calvan gets here,” George muttered, surveying his dripping shirt. His glass had been nearly full. “Ben…”He held out his hand. “Good luck buddy.”

            Ben grinned and grasped it.

            “Appreciate it.”

            They smiled, then George hurried off for the men’s room.

            Ben took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Martha laid a hand on his arm. 

            “Don’t worry,” she muttered. “Everything will work out. You’ll see.”

            The elevator dinged and the doors opened. A second later, the air was rent with the sound of gunfire.

Next Week;

Chapter Seven; Shots in the Dark

Chapter Five: Mooky and Slicer

“I was born for a storm and a calm does not suit me.”

-Andrew Jackson

            “I’m going to have to see about him,” Ben muttered.

            They had left the diner shortly after discovering their unexpected companion. Martha had hailed a taxi to take her back to her own apartment, but Ben had insisted on taking George out to a bar a few streets down for drinks and more talk.

            “I don’t like people spying on me. Who does he think he is, anyway? I’m on the board of directors for Christ’s sake; he’s basically a rent-a-cop!”

            “Easy there,” George said. “Don’t lose your temper.”

            “Who’s losing his temper?” Ben snapped. “I’m just saying, if he was spying on me, he’s gonna regret it.”

            George couldn’t pretend he wasn’t unnerved by the incident as well. It seemed pretty obvious to him that Joshua hadn’t simply shown up in this one out-of-the-way restaurant on a whim. Nor, now that he came to think of it, was it at all likely that he ever had anything like a ‘half-day.’ No, he was sure that Joshua had purposefully followed him there…for what? Just to smile, say a bit of cryptic nonsense and leave him unnerved? What was the point of it?

             Ben took a deep drink of his beer and then, abruptly, changed the subject.

            “So, what’s the deal with you and Martha?”

            George, who had just taken a drink himself, choked.

            “What do you…” he gasped, coughing and spilling Sam Adams all over the table.

            “You know what I mean.”

            It took George a minute to finish choking and answer.

            “Nothing,” he managed at last. “Just friends.”

            “Oh, okay,” said Ben with a shrug. George took another drink to try to wash down the one that had gotten stuck in his throat.

            “Because I was thinking of asking her out myself.”

            This time, George actually spat the whole thing out in a high-pressure spray. Ben shook with laughter. George, temporarily unable to speak for coughing, punched him hard in the arm.

            “Guess it’s not nothing then,” he said, rubbing the spot and still grinning.

            “Alright,” George gasped after composing himself once more. “I admit it; I like her. She’s fun, and she’s got a good head on her shoulders.”

            “What’s below the shoulders isn’t bad either,” Ben pointed out. George glared at him. “Easy there, tough guy, just joking.”

            George scowled, started to raise his beer to his lips again, then thought better of it. 

            “Anyway, we get along, and I enjoy her company, but it’s too soon to tell yet,” he concluded.

            “Too soon? Buddy, you’ve known her, what? Two months? Three? Christ, by that time, she’d have her own drawer at my place.”

            “Yeah, well, I don’t work that way,” George muttered.

            “I know, I know,” said Ben, waving his hand. “You’re the ‘wait for the right girl’ type; I respect that. Just saying; don’t waste time. If you think she might be that right girl, you don’t want someone like me stealing her right out from under your nose.”

            George smirked.

            “Yeah, well, if you did that, I’d have to break yours.”

             “Oh, my; that sounds like you’re about ready to make up your mind.”

            George grunted and risked taking a sip of beer.

            “How about you; you got any plans to take the plunge? Stop being a playboy?”

            “Are you kidding?” said Ben. “I’m just getting started! Unless some really devious temptress shows up and seduces the sense out of me, I plan to stay a rich, handsome, and extremely eligible bachelor for a long time yet.”

            He took another drink, then added “And I’m not to worried about the moral issue, if that’s what’s you’re wondering. Way I see it you’re moral enough to cover both of us. One of the reasons I like having you around. You’re like if a Boy Scout grew up in a convent, and I mean that in the best possible way.”

            “Naw,” George said with a shrug. “I’m just another guy.”

            “Well, yeah,” said Ben. “But you’re the kind of ‘other guy’ who feels guilty because he was rejected from serving in a war that’s pulling in about a thousand casualties a day.”

            “It’s not quite that bad,” said George.

            “Oh, no? What’s the latest casualty count? And I know you know it.”

            George sighed.

            “Latest estimates are about fifteen thousand American casualties.

            “Fifteen thousand in one year, and you feel bad because you’re not in it. I call that Boy Scout behavior, and that’s not even counting all the other noble crap I’ve seen you do. Just last week you made us miss the whole first quarter of the Friars game while you helped some lady change her tire.”

            “It was a bad neighborhood; who knows what might’ve happened if she’d had to do it by herself?”

            “I’m not questioning it, I’m just saying; you’re an absolute Boy Scout.”

            Ben grinned and raised his glass.

            “So,” he said. “If I ever start to go too far, you will let me know, right?”

            George clinked his bottle against Ben’s.

            “Sure.”

            They laughed and drank. George checked his watch.

            “Aw, hell; I gotta get home to bed.”

            “Oh, right,” said Ben. “I keep forgetting you work owl hours.”

            “You’re the one who got me those hours,” George reminded him.

            “No, I’m the one who got you the job,” said Ben. “Your sneaking and spying boss set the hours. Another reason for me not to like him.”

            They drained the last of their beer, dropped a tip, and made for the door. Outside, they decided, as they had on the way in, to cut across the block through the alleyway next to the bar. It had gone fine earlier, and it wasn’t quite night yet. The alley was wreathed in shadows, but had appeared relatively clean and orderly the last time they came through.

            This time, though, it didn’t go fine.

            About halfway down the alley was crossed by another, narrower alley. And as they reached the corner, someone suddenly came around it and bumped right into George.

            “Hey, watch where you’re going, punk!”

In the light of the lamp set in the wall overhead, George saw that the speaker was small, wiry man with a boxy face crisscrossed with the lines of old scars. He looked as though he were trying very hard to grow a mustache, but the feat was proving beyond his power.   

            “Sorry…” George began, but Ben had to butt in at that point.

            “You watch where you’re going, pipsqueak!”

            “Pipsqueak?” the man said. He sounded like he was originally from somewhere in New Jersey. “Hey, Mooky, did you hear that? This college boy thinks my name’s ‘Pipsqueak.’”

            His friend stepped around the corner into the light. No one would call him ‘pipsqueak’ except ironically; he was roughly the size and shape of large refrigerator. His small, dim-looking eyes were set deep in his rather pudgy face, and his hair looked like he had long ago grown out of it.

            “Is that so, Slicer?” said Mooky in a deep, slow voice. “Why would he do such a thing?”

            “Guess they didn’t teach him no manners in his fancy-pants school,” said Slicer. “Looks like maybe we gotta take up the effort, eh, Mooky?”

            “Maybe, Slicer.”

            “Hey, guys, we don’t want any trouble,” said George. “Excuse my friend here; he was just startled, you see…”

            “Doesn’t look all that startled to me,” said Slicer, eying Ben. “How about it, college boy? Did I startle you.”

            “Oh, yes,” said Ben. “For a second, I thought a chimpanzee had gotten loose.”

            George always knew Ben had a bad habit of picking fights, but he had thought that even he would know better than to provoke an obviously unstable man named ‘Slicer.’ He grabbed Ben by the arm and hissed “Shut up, idiot! You’re gonna get us killed!” But Slicer was now screeching like a bat and it was doubtful Ben heard his friend’s admonition.

            “Oh, funny guy!” Slicer cackled. “Ain’t he a funny one, huh? Huh Mooky? Huh?”

            Mooky chuckled sycophantically.

            “Freakin’ hilarious!” Slicer went on. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he produced a long, wicked-looking switchblade as if by magic. “How about that?” he snarled, waving it in their faces. Ben and George took a step back. “You think that’s funny, college boy? Huh?”  

            Mooky chuckled again.

            “Yeah, you’re pretty funny, Slicer.”

            Slicer rolled his eyes and sighed.

            “This isn’t supposed to be funny, idiot; that’s the point.

            “Sorry,” Mooky shrugged. “Sometimes you’re kinda hard to follow.”

            “Okay, okay,” George interjected, taking advantage of the thug’s distraction. “Look, we’re sorry, it was our fault, we’ll be more careful next time.”

            Slicer licked his teeth thoughtfully.

            “What do you say, Mooky? You think we should let ‘em go?”

            “Uh…You really thinking about doin’ it, Slicer?” Mooky asked, sounding surprised. “Just like that? Out here in the open an all?”  

            “We ain’t in the open, Mooky; this look open to you?”

            “Well, I mean, there’s big street right there, and you know we’re not supposed to do stuff that might…you know.”

            Slicer sighed and rolled his eyes. Odds are, he had had no intention of actually knifing Ben and George over such a trivial matter, but he had wanted to be able to scare them a bit longer. He flicked the knife closed and back into his sleeve with the same magician’s trick as he had used to produce it.

            “Looks like it’s your lucky night, boys,” Slicer sneered. “Just be careful, or maybe next time, Slicer’s slicer’ll slice’ya.”

            “Uh…sorry?” George asked.

            “Yeah, you better be sorry!” said Slicer, fortunately misinterpreting his confusion as contrition. “Now you better beat it before Mooky here gets worked up.”

            “Huh? I’m not getting worked up…”

            “It’s just a threat, stupid! Sheesh, we gotta rehearse this better.”

            Ben snorted. Slicer’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Hoping to salvage their fragile truce, George began to pull his friend away from the two toughs. They had made it about five or six steps and George was just beginning to think they’d gotten away with it when Slicer gave a parting shot.

            “Yeah, go on! I bet you hit like a girl anyway!”

            Before George could catch him, Ben wrenched his arm out of his grip, sprinted right at Slicer and slammed his fist into the crook’s face so hard that he was knocked to the ground. It all happened so fast that Slicer didn’t even have time to flick out his knife.

            “BEN, NO!”

            Mooky, though was, just as fast as Ben. Slicer had barely hit the ground before one of his cinderblock-sized fists shot forward and smashed Ben’s nose flat.

            George, who had started after his friend as soon as he realized what he intended, managed to catch Ben as he fell half-conscious from the blow. Meanwhile Slicer, holding the side of his face with one hand, lurched to his feet, switchblade at the ready.

            “That was a stupid move, pal! You’re gonna pay for that! Slicer’s gonna slice y’ah up so much that yer own mother won’t recognize ya! I’ll slice you both up! And then I’ll…”

            “Is there a problem?”

            Slicer whipped around, stabbing his knife threateningly at the new arrival, who stood half-shadowed a few feet down the alley.

            “Stay out of this if you know what’s good for you!” Slicer shrieked. “Or I’ll slice you too!”

            “Uh…Slicer?”

            “Shut up, Mooky!” Slicer howled. He seemed to have lost all reason.

            “I think we all need to calm down,” said the newcomer, stepping forward into the light. To George’s surprise, it was none other than Peter Joshua.

            “Alright, that’s it!” Slicer snarled. “You’re dead, pal!”

            But Slicer had only taken one step towards him before Joshua drew an automatic pistol from inside his coat pocket and pointed it right between his eyes. Slicer stopped dead, suddenly sobered by the sight of the gun.

            “Now, I’m only going to give you one warning,” said Joshua. “Shooting you would involve a lot of very tedious paper-work and meetings with lawyers. At the moment, that prospect is unpleasant enough to offset the satisfaction that would come from putting a bullet in you…”

            “Who the hell do you think you are, pencil-neck?” Slicer snarled.

            “…However,” Joshua continued. “The longer I am acquainted with you, the more satisfying the idea of shooting you becomes.”

            “Do you have any idea who we work for!?”

            Joshua didn’t answer. He only gave a half smile, as though contemplating something extremely pleasant.

            “Uh…Slicer?”

            “Shut up, Mooky.”

            “I’m thinking maybe we should go.”

            Slicer turned to his partner in disbelief.

            “You…you’re thinking?! Why are you thinking? Who pays you to think? Huh?”

            “Uh, no one, but…”

            “Who is the brains of this outfit?” Slicer asked, gesturing between them with his knife. He seemed to have temporarily forgotten about the others in his indignation. George glanced at Joshua who rolled his eyes.

“Who is the brains?” Slicer repeated. “Me or you?”

            “You, but…”

            “Me! That’s right, me! I do the thinking, right? Huh? Right?”

            “Right.”

            “Right!”

            “Well, in that case,” said Mooky. “Do you think maybe we should go?”

            Slicer looked around at the gun pointing at his head and at Ben nursing his broken nose. Finally, it seemed to dawn on him just how precarious his situation was. Struggling to maintain some dignity, he pointed his knife at Ben and George.

            “You…I don’t want to see you guys ever again, huh?”

            He turned to Joshua, obviously intent on delivering a similar threat, then thought better of it and flicked his knife back up his sleeve.

            “Come on, Mooky; let’s get out of here,” he said sourly.

            With a look of pure venom at the two of them, Slicer stalked past George and Ben, Mooky trailing behind him like a huge dog.

            Joshua waited until the two thugs had vanished around the corner out of the alley before lowering his pistol.

            “Well,” he said. “That could have gone a lot worse.”

            Ben managed to get his feet under himself and stood, wobbling, head tilted back and one hand pressed to his ruined nose.

            “Damn,” he groaned.

            George really wanted to tell him that he deserved it for stupidly letting himself be so easily goaded and nearly getting them both killed, but he restrained himself.

            “We should call the police,” he said.

            “No, we really shouldn’t,” said Joshua. “See, those two work for Sonny Scarletto.”

            “Who?”

            “Luigi Morello’s right-hand man. If you don’t know who that is, be grateful.”

            George didn’t and he wasn’t.

            “What does that…”

            “Let’s just say the police probably wouldn’t be very interested,” said Joshua. “And leave it at that.”

            “I think I might need to get to the hospital,” said Ben.

            Peter shrugged and led the way down the alley to the street on the other side, George and Ben following. The street turned out to be deserted.

            “Never a cab around when you need one,” Peter sighed.

            “My cars that way,” Ben said, pointing with the hand that wasn’t trying to staunch the bleeding from his shattered nose.

            “What were you doing here?” George asked Peter as they emerged from the alley and headed for the parking lot.

            Joshua gave him an appraising kind of look. 

            “I told you; had a half day.”

            “Sir, not to be insubordinate, but no you didn’t.”

            “Sure I did,” said Joshua. “I arranged it with Dr. Arnold, then I decided to go grab some dinner.”   

            “And you just happened to pick that restaurant?”

            “Who said anything about happenstance?” Joshua replied. “I went there because I knew you would be there.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “George,” said Joshua, smiling. “You work at a facility that does secret research funded by the military. Not to be rude, but I don’t just trust to the good nature of my employees to make sure they keep their mouths shut.”

            “You were spying on us!” Ben snarled, so indignant that he let go of his nose to better glare at Joshua.

            “No, I was spying on him,” said Joshua. “It’s not my fault you decided to boast about your little coup.”

            “Why, you…”

            Ben took a step toward Joshua, but George caught his arm to stop him.

            “You not a fast learner, are you?” said Joshua dryly. “Relax. Calvan’s job is not my job; I couldn’t care less who runs the company as long as the Birkin Center remains secure and my paychecks don’t bounce.”

            Ben still seemed angry, but he couldn’t forget about his nose for more than a few seconds in order to do anything about it.

            “In any case,” Joshua went on. “George, perhaps we’re not clear on the limits of our classified policy; not telling anyone means not telling anyone; there’s no ‘other employees’ loophole.”

            George felt a sudden dread of a different tone than he had felt while confronting Mooky and Slicer.

            “Oh,” he said. “I…I apologize sir; I was mistaken in that, and it won’t happen again.”

            “Yes, well,” sighed Joshua. “Since it’s not specifically mentioned, I can see where you would get that idea, so I won’t fire you this time.”

            He left them at the parking lot, saying “Now, I would like to assume you boys can make it home without ticking off any more gangsters?”

            “He’s a prick,” Ben said as George drove him to the hospital.

            “He’s just doing his job,” George answered.

            “First thing I’m gonna do once they fix my nose,” said Ben. “Is to call my lawyer and get those two bastards thrown in jail; I don’t care who they work for! Next, I’ve gotta call my plastic surgeon and set up a time to get this fixed.”

            George glanced at the squashed and bleeding nose.

            “You might want to think about leaving it,” he said. “I think it’s an improvement.”

            “Very funny.”

            “No, really; it makes you look like a rugged man of action. Besides, it’ll serve as permanent reminder to think first before you do something stupid like that.”

            “He was asking for it!” Ben protested.

            “Of course he was; he wanted an excuse to cut us into mince-meat. You saw him. You’ve gotta use some common sense, buddy, or one of these days that temper of yours is gonna get you killed!”

            “Yeah, yeah, look, who appointed you my mother? Just shut up and drive the car, will you!”

            George shook his head in resignation. Ben would eventually come around and admit that he’d been stupid and all the rest. Just not right now. He needed a little time to simmer with rage at his humiliation. Then he’d calm down, apologize for being an ass, and things would go back to normal. That was the way it was. Though, George did hope that tonight’s adventure might inspire his friend to practice patience and humility a bit more in the future. It sure would save them both a lot of grief.

Next Week:

Chapter Six: The Huston Gold