The Milkman: A Freeworld Novel (16 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Emory had nearly finished his pudding when a man in his early twenties walked up to his table. Campbell stopped talking. Which was a kind of special moment all in itself.

“Come with me,” he said.

“I don’t think so.” Emory went back to his pudding.

“Go with Frank,” sounded in Emory’s ear. He spit out his pudding.

“You OK?” Campbell asked.

Emory wiped a paper napkin across his mouth and nodded. “I guess I’m going with Frank.”

The young man led him out of the common room, down the hall, into the elevator. They went to the first floor. Instead of heading for the garage, they turned left and walked into a part of the barracks Emory hadn’t ever considered. A dim, yellowing shadow of a hall. Long, quiet, ending in a steel door that looked like it could take about 40,000 pounds of pressure per square foot before giving way. It shushed open as they approached. The young man stepped aside and Emory continued in.

Familiarity set in as the door closed behind him. This office suite looked like 40 or 50 others he’d visited in his life. Beige felt sectioned off with strips of aluminum. Glass and plastic placed without care, without purpose. This entrance area had enough room for two opposing couches, dull and inviting as crates. An older woman entered and beckoned him forward. Emory walked down another shorter hall and into an office.

The man behind the bamboo desk was the offspring of a swine and a bear. Pale skin, red cheeks, next to no hair. Emory figured late forties. His faded striped shirt fit like a hot dog casing, ready to burst. He considered Emory as he entered and with an elaborate, deliberately showy gesture, put a finger to his bracelet. He suspended the cuff’s functions, as one might at the theatre, or if they were having an affair. The act would have made the old Emory nervous. This current one shrugged it off.

“I’m Chief Supervisor Valient,” the man said. “Sorry we haven’t met but I don’t like to mix with you people.”

“Understandable,” Emory said. He stood, hands folded in front of him.

“I’m not going to ask how things are going. I know. This detail is punishing. I make it that way.” Valient interlaced his hands and leaned his large head back into them. “I can make it not so punishing, too. Would you have any interest in that, Mr. Leveski?”

“Please, call me Emory.”

“I can make your time here a little easier, Emory. Especially the night time.”

Emory’s stomach twanged. A guitar string, out of tune, running from his glottis to his anus, vibrated.
Why’d he suspend his cuff?

“Would you like that, Emory?”

“I imagine so,” he mumbled.

“Barter is technically against company policy, but helping each other out, that’s OK, don’t you think? I help you, you help me?”

“What did you have in mind, sir?”

“I want you to kill Jeffery Campbell. Make it look like a cave-in or some such thing. Can you do that for me?”

* * *

“Meet me at the service door,” Mortimer said via voice call, directly into Sylvia’s ears. She couldn’t tell much from his tone, as his default state seemed to be sour. He certainly enjoyed giving orders, bare of any niceties, fake or phony.

Seeing Mortimer just inside the service door didn’t give her any more clues. As usual, his face said he’d just bitten into a fresh Meyer lemon. He wore khaki cargo pants that appeared to actually have cargo in the various side pockets. Tools or meters or something, she couldn’t tell. His shirt was like a waist-length kimono, rough black silk, with a plunge deeper than she’d wear to the office. It tied on the side with a thin bow.

“That’s a wrap,” she said as she approached.

“What?”

“Your blouse. It’s a wrap.”

“It’s a Laotian war shirt.”

“That wrap. I love it.”

“Thank you. It provides great freedom of movement.”

“Ironic,” Sylvia said.

Mortimer pondered her for a moment, forehead like a freshly plowed field. “On you,” he replied. “Greater freedom of movement would be ironic on you.”

“Suit yourself,” Sylvia grinned. “But I don’t think you’ve got much more freedom than I do. I know you didn’t hire me for this job.”

“On that we are in full agreement.” Mortimer pushed open the dented, steel service door and motioned for Sylvia to exit.

Seven photographers greeted her with whirls and clicks.

“Miss Cho!” “Miss Cho!” several voices from several different directions. A gaggle of posters. She hadn’t seen one since the opening of her last film, more than a year ago now.

“What are you working on, Miss Cho?”

“Is it secret? Can you tell us anything?”

“Are you shooting inside? Is Jamie Grant in there with you?”

Jamie who? That actor that looks like a boy and girl simultaneously? Ah
, Sylvia sighed in her head,
the rumorous wind of the posters
.

She glanced at Mortimer. He smiled broadly, like this was a beautiful morning for touring the back forty. She’d never seen anything like that kind of expression on his face. He almost looked good with a smile. Fully human, anyway.

“Let’s take a walk, shall we?” He pointed towards the berm and the run-off gully that would be the most challenging aspect of the grounds re-design. It meant she’d be walking up an incline. Huff. They’d get some good shots of her.

Cameras buzzed. Men and woman, dressed for adventure, moved about, careful not to get within twenty feet or her or her boss.

“If you’ll excuse us?” Mortimer said to the press as they strolled.

The posters continued to shout questions, shuffle, side-step and trail the two. They crossed the driveway and started up the small hill.

“I’m thinking of covering this with artificial grass,” Mortimer said.

“You’ll lose some of the binding action of the real turf,” Sylvia replied.

“What if we add in poplars? Across the top.”

Sylvia looked up and down the length of the berm. The idea wasn’t bad. The short berm could stand with a little height. Poplars sent big roots everywhere. The trees would block wind, create shade, put oxygen in the air.

“Not bad,” she said. “Are they in your budget?”

“I’ve been growing them from cuttings for the last five years, on another property.”

“Huh.”

They reached the top. The posters stayed at the bottom, snapping photos of Sylvia against the hazy azure sky. She put her hands on her hips and straightened her back. She flipped her hair back, catching the breeze. If they were fast, they’d get a picture of it streaming behind her like a pennant.

“Over there,” Mortimer pointed to the front of the building. “I’m going to pull out the main walkway and put in a spiral. I want to fill it with lemon grass, mint, some other local herbs.”

“Really?”

“The main entrance is low traffic. Most people enter through the sides, close to the parking lot. A more circuitous path won’t injure productivity or cause much complaint. Especially after people realize they can clip some fresh Thai basil on their way home from work.”

“Wonderful,” Sylvia said without moving her mouth much.

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m not, I just…”

“This project has been in the back of my head for several years.”

“I see,” Sylvia said.

“Do you?”

“I’m not going to interfere.”

“No, you’re not,” he said. “You’re not going to help, either, are you.” He jutted his chin down at the posters, adjusting their cameras and tapping into their wristbands.

“That’s not my fault,” Sylvia said.

“Sure it is. They’re here taking pictures and writing posts about Sylvia Cho, the movie director. Not Sylvia Cho, the landscape architect. No one cares much about
that
art form. Not even you.”

Sylvia turned and put a hand on Mortimer’s shoulder, as she would with an old friend or child. “You don’t know me and shouldn’t presume to. Yes, the company arranged a marriage between me and landscaping, but I came to love it.”

“Until something more glamorous came along.”

“Nothing ever came along. I went and got it. You of all people should understand that. Things don’t come along. You need to dig, haul and water. You need to plan, prepare and create. Oh and then get lucky. It’s all the same, you know. Movies, books, painting, creating a natural space around some completely unnatural office complex. All art is the same. It’s a struggle between acceptance and understanding, leading to moments of supreme reward— those rushes you get when it’s right and you know it. Four or five other people whose opinions really matter know it too. That’s all you can ask for. It’s all the same.”

Sylvia put her hand over her eyes to shield the sun. She peered at the lawn in front of the building.

“The herb garden idea is inspired,” she said. “But have you thought of maybe an onion design instead of a spiral? It would give people the option of walking directly to the front doors, or taking a little detour.”

“An onion?” Mortimer asked.

“You know, a bulb shape, with parallel lines. Walkways in this case.”

“Interesting.”

“I’m sorry,” Sylvia said. “I shouldn’t have presumed to know you either. I thought you were simply an asshole. Being an asshole for your art, that is highly different and wholly acceptable.”

“I thought you were a pretentious prima donna,” Mortimer said.

“There is that,” Sylvia said. “In general, you should go with your first impression.

“Did you send for these people?” Mortimer pointed to the posters.

“I’ve been obfuscating my location for the last few months. The secrecy built a buzz wave. When I finally surfaced—”

“You posted your location?”

“When I fin—”

Sylvia’s wrist tingled. She pumped a small smile and tapped her bracelet. “Yes?”

“What is that?” Gavin Stoll’s voice. Odd. It couldn’t have been much passed eight o’clock in the L.A. catchment. Much too early for movie producers to rise.

“What is what?” she sailed back.

“On your waist,” Gavin spat. “You look pregnant, which we both know could not possibly be the case as I told you to take care of the matter six months ago.”

Sylvia glanced over at the coterie of posters, watching her through palm-sized monitors linked to fruit-sized, and fruit colored, cameras.

She waved and smiled.

* * *

The two guys in the waiting room didn’t talk. Sitting with their arms on their knees, heads hung low, as if slurping out of an unseen trough, they glanced at each other every few minutes, wanting to talk, wanting to ask ‘what the fuck is he doing here?’

Or so McCallum figured. He knew this kind of young men. Guilty of so many things they weren’t sure what to say or do that wouldn’t make their situations worse. They knew he was an op and an op shouldn’t have been in this waiting room after hours, so the whole scene poked them, pinched them, refused to let them sit back and own the room as they would their pub or street corner or back car of their train.

McCallum let them squirm. He tapped through messages on his cuff, called up the news, and waited.

“Ed?” came a voice from behind the door. McCallum stood and walked into the exam room. He could hear the young men sigh in relief.

Dr. Majum sat on a stool next to the exam chair, under the bright light dome, next to spit the sink and tray of picks and loops and brushes. Short, thin but sturdy, McCallum’s records said she was 72 years old. He’d checked, because it was hard to tell. She’d been his dentist for all his life, but she didn’t seem ancient. At least not anymore. It seemed to him like he was catching up to her.

“I really appreciate this.” McCallum reclined into the chair and closed his eyes. Too much light.

“It’s my pleasure,” Dr. Majum said. “I mean, who doesn’t want a security operative owing them a favor, right?” She chuckled.

McCallum smiled.

“So you’ll be away for your scheduled appointment?” She fastened a bib under his chin.

“That’s the plan. A last minute thing.”

“Not, I take it, official business.”

“No,” McCallum said. “My pleasure, I guess you’d say.”

Dr. Majum produced a small mirror and pick and began to look around inside McCallum’s mouth.

“Next week I’ll mark you down as having made your appointment. Nobody wants to be out of compliance. Not even ops, I imagine.”

He nodded. The only acknowledgement he could manage.

“Those two yokels out there are in the same boat,” Dr. Majum said. “They didn’t show for their mandatory well exams. Who knows what they were doing. They both got hit with a garnish for more than they bring home in a month. That got their attention. I’m going to retro them. Claim it was a clerical error.”

McCallum leaned over the sink, spit and returned. “That’s nice of you.”

“Not at all. I’m going to have them clean my gutters.” She put her hand over her mouth and feigned a startled expression. “Not that I should be telling you.”