The Revisionaries Page 4
“Do what bad?”
But the flickering man vanishes.
Muttering in numb wonder and puzzlement, looking like the last loony out of the bin, Julius shakes his head as though he’s newly woken, trying to clear his head of a particularly confounding dream. But it’s not a dream, he knows. No, not a dream, but somehow still he’s lost in it. He wanders the room, a man of routine, stumbling, head filled with a new and troubling mystery. What did he say what what did he soy…You’re in far over your head now. This goes well beyond whatever he’s doing to your eyes and brain with his flickering body. Consider what he said. What’s a priest supposed to do with that? An effect one can grow accustomed to with repeated exposure. A hint of God, tailored to your customized beliefs. A question of faith. Just wait for one more look at him and then you’ll go. You need to clear your head; you need to talk to someone about this.
You need to talk to Nettles.
TUNNEL
No one ever dreamed of challenging Ralph. It seemed impossible; he himself was nowhere, but he had eyes and ears everywhere. He paid informants handsomely—and why not pay out flush? Ralph had amassed enough power to declare his store a vengeance-free zone and to enforce this edict across all gangs. In Loony Island, if you wanted to transact business and not get a machete in the neck—truly, if you wanted to transact business at all—Ralph’s General & Specific was the spot. And, since Ralph had the only store that mattered, all the rats in Ralph’s maze were going to buy their cheese from Ralph anyway, so any payout money, however generous, would find its way back into Ralph’s pocket. Ralph controlled the food and the information, and, as gangs stopped fighting him, Ralph would reward them by not fighting them. This was Ralph’s genius: conquest first through pain, then through fear of pain, and finally through relief from the fear of pain. In short, diplomacy.
And then he left.
By his fortieth birthday, he’d amassed a fortune without ever filling out a W2 or visiting a bank and decided to parachute off Loony Island into luxury and ease. Ralph bought a country mansion far out of town, a squad of vicious lawyers, a platoon of neckless goons, seven cars, twelve platinum chains, an ex-wife, some girlfriends, and some more girlfriends for the girlfriends. Such was the influence he wielded that under his command the five gangs, even with their leader in absentia, established their separate boundaries without any further turf war. This is power, Ralph once told Donk: When the cat’s away, the mice behave.
But the totality of his dominance may have become a weakness. For example, it may be why, even though nobody knew what to make of the sword-carrying fighters in red when they appeared—pretty much the same time as they kicked us loonies to the curb—none of the gangs really said much about them. The idea of someone else staking a claim in Ralph’s turf just seemed preposterous. Far more likely they were just some of Ralph’s people on an unknown mission.
Besides, everyone reasoned that if there were anything untoward, surely Donk would have said something.
* * *
—
The tunnel’s cylindrical, save for a narrow flat surface, and large; the ceiling is too high for Boyd to reach. It’s not quite the pure straightaway it initially seems; it bends and curves so you can’t see the whole distance, which only adds to the sense of being lost in a blizzard. Here and there black ladders present themselves from far off, and in all the endless whiteness it seems to Boyd more as if they come to meet him than the opposite. The rungs, sheathed in rubber, are set in the wall, and lead up to more manhole covers, or to platforms from which doors can be reached—secret accesses into and out of the neighborhood. There can be found, across from some of these ladders, open doorless portals leading into empty rooms, also pure white, with elevator doors set into the far walls. The ladders are marked; tiny white letters are set into the rubber—HUDBLDG 1, HUDBLDG 4, HUDBLDG 6—those might be the Dominoes…and now most of them seem to have to do with the Joan A. Wales Psychiatric Institute: JAWPI–W WING; JAWPI–CAF, JAWPI–ADMIN, JAWPI–E WING…the realization of the scope of infiltration this tunnel represents begins to settle its entire weight upon Boyd—The knowledge the builders must have. The time this has taken. The energy. The expense. How long this must have been happening, right beneath all our collective noses. And you had no idea no idea none…or, what if…? What if Ralph knows and Donk doesn’t? Paranoia’s a spicy morsel; one touch to the tongue and it spreads fire through the whole mouth. Boyd’s starting to give himself entirely up to it when he sees something interesting in the far distance, suggesting a terminus: a silver spot resembling a steel vault door. The burglar in him stirs. Unconsciously, Boyd reaches one hand to the pouch on his belt, feels the reassuring presence of his tools. What treasures, he wonders, might belong to a thief who cracked a vault that big, hidden this deep…?
Boyd pads along as quick and silent as he’s able. You are absolutely insane, he keeps telling himself without ever quite stopping. Soon the circle looms ahead. There’s a rectangle emblazoned in the center of it, some flag he doesn’t recognize: red field with a thin dark-blue stripe along the right side. In the center, a blue circle; described within, three white five-pointed stars. A placard below this insignia reads:
LOVE FORGEWORKS, LLC
(Sevier Division)
There’s no combination, no handle, no mechanism suggesting tumblers. Out of Boyd’s bag comes an instrument like a stethoscope, which he plugs into a mechanism with a tiny display. The radio telescope can “listen” to the internal shape of things across four radio frequency bands. The workmanlike monochrome display renders this fine-tuned scan into blocky shapes; crude, but it provides enough of an idea of what you’re getting on the other side of a door before you pop it. Boyd immediately confirms a suspicion; this is no safe, or if it is, it contains no loot. It’s a door of some kind, sure, but on the other side the density’s all wrong, too circuitous and complex. Boyd packs up quick—it’s a curiosity, but not worth the ongoing risk of your own skin. No booty to boost, Boyd, better bug out. There’ll be no informing Donk if you get busted down here.
To the left of the vault the tunnel jogs off, leading to an elevator room, but elevators aren’t stealthy. Boyd turns back the way he came. The nearest ladder’s the quieter option, and therefore the preferable one. It’s close at hand behind—the label in the rubber reads BOWL.
Boyd climbs stealthily, lifts the lid and peeks into a dark, long and narrow room.
There’s some sort of mechanized apparatus on one wall, ropes and pulleys; the other wall is bare cinder block. At the far end he can see a glow; it’s the upper level of the elevator he eschewed. There’s light coming from an open door on the right. Boyd looks through and immediately places himself—the bowling alley. You’ve come up in the room behind the pins.
Barney’s Suds and Lanes. Built back when the factories thrummed and the area looked likely to become a blue-collar paradise; these days it’s just a local dive for criminals who are short money and avoiding Ralph’s, and for the few working stiffs who pine throughout the day to be anywhere but work, and who after the shift whistle want to be anywhere but home. Twenty lanes of faded glory far exceeding the present demand. Presently there’s no bowling at all. If there had been any bowlers, they’d be far too distracted by what’s happening behind the lanes to play.
There’s half a dozen men and women visible in there, gathered around what appears to be a bar, dressed in tight-fitting scarlet pajamas and wearing…swords? Yes, swords; some, strangely, are wood, but the rest are steel and look wickedly sharp. Jesus.
They’re holding somebody down against the bar. It’s a loony, bathrobe and all, her head artfully half-shaved and dyed purple. She’s struggling against them, but the struggle’s a losing one, and now someone else is coming up, he doesn’t have the red jammies on, nor the mask, but he’s facing away, Boyd can’t see features, only that he’s holding a syringe, approaching the loony, and there’s a quick mo
tion of his arm, the syringe deploys and the loony ceases her struggles.
Boyd’s seen enough—This exit ain’t the one, son; time to get the hell out of here.
But then the very bad thing happens: His foot slips on the rung. Not enough to make him fall, no, but Boyd has to use his free hand—the one holding the manhole cover up—to catch himself, and the lid slams home with a boom.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
No hope at all they haven’t heard. There’s nothing for it now but a run. Boyd jumps the rest of the way down and tears ass, fast as he’s ever gone, listening. The trick will be to stay out of the line of sight and hope the next ladder leads to a less occupied exit. The tunnel does curve a bit up here and…looking back…yes, the not-safe door’s no longer visible…impossible to know if the footfalls he’s hearing are just his own echoes or pursuit, but the latter has to be assumed. And here comes the next ladder. Panting, Boyd leaps, scampers up, and is up and out the portal at the top before he even has time to worry that it might be locked. Running hot-heeled down a corridor before he’s even clocked his location—heavy doors with wire-reinforced windows, green industrial tiling, a certain hospital air…remember the ladder insignia—JAWPI-E—this must be the Wales…now darting down a hallway, around a corner, down another, settling down into an unhurried unremarkable pace, completely unsure of where he is within this mazelike superstructure, waiting for his heart to stop hammering.
You weren’t tailed, he assures himself, walking deserted fluorescent-lit hallways, flinching every time he rounds a corner. You weren’t tailed. You weren’t tailed. They don’t know what ladder you went up. If they assume the nearest, they won’t know which corridors to take. Even if they follow the right corridors, they’ll never get you if you can find the exit…he rounds a bend and the hallway dead-ends at a closed door, which he prays won’t slow him down with a lock. It swings open onto a common room, he’s startled by a surprised yell from a most unexpected source.
It’s Father Julius. Denim robes and beard and the whole thing.
“The hell are you doing here?” Boyd asks, realizing he should expect the exact same question. He’s unsure how he should answer if it’s put to him, uncertain how much of his own business he should disclose—his business being, by definition, Donk’s business. The problem is the context. Father Julius is normally a highly trusted party, a civilian but a friend; Donk secretly has him over to the Fridge for dinner every month or so just to talk, a get-together Donk keeps secret just to keep up appearances—what would people say, after all, a criminal sharing supper with a suspicious type like a priest?…but outside that setting, Boyd realizes, he’s never interacted with the guy, and he always follows Donk’s lead when it comes to determining what info to let loose in Julius’s presence.
Luckily, Father Julius seems too distracted to mention Boyd’s business here. He looks stunned. What’s spooked him? Has he seen one of your pursuers?
“Father…is everything OK?”
“He flickered in and out,” Julius says in a remote voice.
“I’m…sorry? Who flicked what?”
“Flickered,” Julius says, gesturing with the hand holding the newspaper. “He was sitting right there. He said something to me. He hasn’t come back.” Julius abruptly stands, as if only just remembering something. “Pardon. I’ve really got to talk to Nettles.”
“Who exactly are we talking about here?”
Julius offers the newspaper, as if it might somehow provide explanation. Boyd takes it, but there’s no clarity there, just some green crayon scrawl and a headline: FRITZ ACT TODAY.
“Look,” Boyd starts, looking over his shoulder “I really need to r—”
But then he sees it at the window of the door through which he arrived: a face wrapped in crimson, eyes going wide at the sight of him.
Boyd scampers. A look back shows that his pursuer has a sword, and hasn’t been distracted by Julius in the least; he’s beelining right for Donk’s best sneak. The corridors out of the day room are straight and clearly marked; Boyd finds the exit to the Wales, puts his head down and runs hard—Bailey’s donut shop is nearby. Get there before he gets you.
PRIDE
Ralph’s General & Specific served as a front for all Ralph Mayor’s criminal dealings. Like any successful lie, it was mostly true. To run the “General” end of things, Ralph had hired a series of legitimate business managers, nameless straights who clocked in for eight exact hours, whose duties involved never leaving the office, making phone calls to distributors, paying bills with laundered money, and studiously looking the other way. This worked well for a while, but inevitably the manager would prove too reputable, grow a conscience, and start asking questions, or else grow greedy, and start using their skills to skim. Whatever the flaw, Ralph’s severance package was identical: You’d end up in a barrel full of cement and drowned in the river. Eventually Ralph, having sunk a fourth barrel, despairing of finding the perfect balance of dependable and dirty, hired family: a second cousin, Bailey Ligneclaire. Ralph had more known of her than known her until recent years—as she made a name for herself as an all-around badass in the fights the gangs organized in the abandoned factories, and then parlayed that rep into a gig as a highly effective freelance enforcer—but Ralph must have reckoned that family is family, and even a thin blood tie might prove thicker than cement.
Donk hated Bailey getting promoted to such dangerous prominence, but he had to keep it quiet or risk exposing their connection. By then, Donk had plenty of experience smiling at Ralph while inwardly seething. He had to keep that shit-eating smile affixed when Bailey turned out to be a dab hand at management—enough so that when she wanted to expand operations to the donut shack in the parking lot, Ralph approved the acquisition, and even let Bailey name it after herself.
Meanwhile, to maintain the “Specific” end, the more black-market part of his Market, Ralph had Donk. While all actions had to be approved by Ralph, and the only way to submit to Ralph was through Donk, who met with Ralph weekly by video conference. Donk communicated Ralph’s decision through a byzantine code system, which he posted to the grocery bulletin board. If you made a formal request to Ralph during “office” hours, you were obliged to make a purchase. On your receipt, you’d see a code that Donk had put in his system especially for you, which you used to cross reference for your answer on the bulletin board. There were two columns: one with your receipt code, another with a Y or an N or an OFFICE; “office” meaning you needed to go see Donk for further instruction. If you made a move “off-code,” you did so unprotected by the umbrella of Ralph’s approval; you went back home and prayed, hard, that Donk never heard about it, which he always did—Donk’s business was having his thumbs in all the pies. Ralph naturally expected regular reports and regular payments, all of which he received from Donk, and Donk got to have the best of the violent criminal life without having to commit much actual violent crime.
Life at the center carried its own set of difficulties, though. The problem with being the man with the plans is everybody knows you’re the man with the plans. This breeds jealousy—as Donk explained to me, there was healthy resentment among the gang bosses toward him. Owing to fear of reprisal and Ralph’s finely honed sense of sadism, jealousy rarely progressed to action, but Donk remained wary. Better to live a life with no obvious places to pinch.
So, Donk was always scheming. Anyone he actually loved he’d pretend not to know, or even pretend to hate. Anything he really thought, he’d hide behind five lies. Anyplace he went, he’d plan three shakes for the tail he assumed was there. He was one who buried his business deep and then dug a dozen decoy holes so anybody spying on him would waste time at the finding.
His love, he buried deepest of all.
* * *
—
When Bailey Ligneclaire’s bored—like now, between the rush hours—she passes the time counting the fights she’s been in.
>
…and the first fight came when you were only ten, up against a teenager whose name you didn’t even know, a local, one of your regular bullies, he had a knife but you beat him anyway, bare-handed…
Bailey’s small, almost waifish, but if you watch her walk you see how she carries herself, and you understand that the simple black outfit, and the complicated braids arranged helmetlike around her sleek head, are part of a calculated martial air. It’s the sort of confidence that comes with the well-earned reputation she’s acquired in the fields of both combat and management. You wouldn’t dream of attacking Donk at Ralph’s during “office” hours, not when Bailey’s nearby, and you wouldn’t dream of shorting her a delivery of beer or soda pop if you drive the supply truck. All the affiliated cats know her unassuming form hides ferocious strength and a spider’s reflexes, but civilians know the store manager is here to help them find what they’re looking for, or to clean up the spill on aisle 4 herself if nobody else is around to do the job, or walk you to the item you’re looking for, or even to personally attend to the counter at the donut shack she named for herself.
Bailey’s Donuts is situated in the corner of Ralph’s parking lot, a building in the shape of two perpendicularly linked diner cars, long and low. Inside, there’s room for a counter with a display case, and for the fryers behind that. You can smell donuts sizzling in grease as you order. On the other side there’s a row of booths hugging the wall. The walls are all done in chrome and mirror, but the shine’s gone to seed, the mirrors dulled and smeared, less reflective but more forgiving than they were in brighter days. The dilapidation is intentional; it was like this when Bailey persuaded Ralph to let her run it, but it’s kept that way on purpose; it excites her aesthetic sense. The donuts are cheap and irregularly shaped, fried hot and dipped in sugar, and they taste like love and peace and joy. An old place, Bailey’s Donuts, a place that makes its foodstuffs without any sop to the advances of donut technology, a place uninterested in innovation and perhaps unfamiliar with the idea that innovation might be desirable or even possible, a place left behind by a faster, fleeter, more modern, more improved world. You consume the same donut here today as you would have forty years ago. Donut shops like this once grazed wild across the country, but one by one they’ve fallen to the competition—more streamlined, more centralized, increasingly more effective donut shops with more donut choices, quicker average donut production times, lower donut overhead, faster donut purchase processing, market-tested donut décor, synergies of corporate donut cross-pollination, more regularly measurable distribution of donut toppings, growth, you understand, growth of, of, of donut brand awareness and donut thought leadership…. Bailey’s Donuts, blissfully safe from these corporate behemoths extinguishing its independently owned kin, keeps protected from competition and immediate destruction by its undesirable location. The donut spreadsheet doesn’t lie, claim the donut accountants from the donut chains; no point in putting a franchise in Loony Island. The insurance premiums alone make it a non-starter, and the clientele, well…it isn’t the right fit for the brand…