The Milkman: A Freeworld Novel (7 page)

Chapter Nine

Sylvia held her eye glasses in her hand. A fresh pair, bought especially for this project. White whale bone. The interview subject would know they were cameras. Most people didn’t. This one would be shrewder than her typical victim and the glasses might create a barrier she didn’t need. She slipped them into her pocket.

Samjahnee extended another telescoping pole and unclipped three legs hinged at one end. Sylvia watched. One could tell a great deal about a person by the way they treated equipment. Samjahnee took his time, moved with precision, and seemed to follow a floorplan in his head. The workmanship impressed her. Serial killers needed the same skill set, but, whatever. He placed a globe-shaped camera on the tripod. He set another on the floor beneath it. Sylvia wanted a second video source angled up at the subject, as if she were perched high in a tower, looking down on the audience.

Emily Durante entered the dark room and stopped just outside the growing circle of cameras and lights perched on aluminum stalks. Mid-fifties, gym-trim, Autumnal brown suit with bright yellow blouse. Sylvia approved. A work costume, with just enough ‘hey look at me’.

Sylvia rose from her stool and held out her hand. “Very nice to meet you in person.”

Emily shook her hand and looked around. “Likewise. I’m a big fan. Love — I mean LOVE — Tobacco Road.”

“Thank you. Always nice to be appreciated.”

“This is a bit of a departure for you.”

“It’s good to stay fresh. I’d hate to keep doing the same thing over and over, you know?”

“Oh yes. One of the reasons I enjoy my job.”

“Please.” Sylvia motioned to the other stool. “You’re Vice President of Corporate Response?”

“For Great Lakes Dairy and Dairy Derivatives.”

“This is a departure for you, too.”

“I’ve never done a documentary film, no. Lots of interviews, though.”

“Good. This should be easy, then.” Sylvia glanced at Samjahnee, who nodded once. “What can you tell me about the Milkman?”

Emily exaggerated a startle. She gave off an ersatz chuckle, pressing four fingers to her lips, as if trying to hold back what had to be her well rehearsed and vetted statement.

“A myth,” she said.

“So you’ve heard of him or her?”

“Sure, like any good myth, the story has made the rounds. I’ve heard of the Loch Ness Monster, as well.”

“But the Milkman actually posts, to a site anyone can see, if they know the address.”

“We’re sure the findings are fabricated. And in many ways, that makes matters worse. This poor soul is presenting false data to the public.”

“Why do you think he does it, then.”

“I couldn’t say. Attention, perhaps?”

“But he’s remained anonymous.”

“Like I said, I don’t understand him. He’s troubled.”

“And yet you let him continue.”

“We live in a free society,” Emily said, maintaining a tight, practiced smile.

The real myth
, Sylvia said to herself. “If this Milkman is doing harm, though…”

“The dairy products of the Great Lakes region are thoroughly checked and tested. We don’t put out anything that would harm any of our fellow employees. We drink it, too. We serve the same milk, butter and ice cream that you get from our fine retailers to our families.”

“So there’s nothing wrong with the milk.”

“Not at all.”

“The Milkman posted a high bacteria count from two dairies this past August.”

“Unsubstantiated.”

“You tested the claim? To make sure there was no substance?” Sylvia watched Emily’s eyes. Would she admit it? That they monitor the Milkman and react?

“We test continuously,” Emily said. “There is no need for this so-called Milkman.”

“Perfect.” Sylvia clapped her hands. “You were awesome, Emily. Dead on perfect.”

“Thank you,” Emily replied, this time genuinely startled. “Did you get what you needed?”

“Plenty.” Sylvia rose. Emily followed.

“You are very quick.”

“I wish.” Sylvia pointed the best way through the field of electronics and trailed Emily out the door. The brightness of the hallway made them both squint.

“Can I ask you something off the record?” Sylvia bent in. She held up her cuff to show its lack of life.

“You can ask,” Emily said. “I can’t promise an answer.”

“Why is this film moving forward?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Who gains?”

“No one I know?”

Sylvia turned. She wanted to face Emily square. “This film will make money, but not gobs. Docues never do. It’ll be an underground hit, lingering for years and generating tiny deposits. Who gains?”

Emily smiled again. This time, Sylvia thought it different. More real around the corners of the mouth and under the eyes.

“You are asking the wrong question,” Emily said. “Or should I say, the right question in the wrong way. It’s not who gains. It’s who loses.”

* * *

“I don’t want to call him,” McCallum said out loud. His cuff picked up his voice, cleared away some of the ambient noise and sent it over the airways to his assigned economist.

“Not your call,” Clement returned.

“Then I won’t.”

“You know what I mean. It’s not your call not to call him.”

“Couldn’t you hold out for, I don’t know, hold off? Drag your feet?” McCallum sat in the pursuit vehicle, pulled to the side of the road, watching the cars go by. They got slower and slower the longer he sat there. The flat black vehicle always had that effect on drivers. They were all doing something wrong.

“We’ve been hitting the pause button for more than a month. You don’t think this guy’s good for the Vasquez murder,” Clement said.

“I think this is someone who buys those mouse mazes for his garage because be can’t stand the thought of the spring loaded steel bar breaking a little varmint’s neck. I bet he catches flies in his hands and lets them out the door.”

“Wow. So the whole multiple stab thing is—”

“It ain’t right.”

“I wish I could help. Fact is Leveski’s worth 90 grand a year at his current post. The chain-gang stint is a 50 grand pull. If the company stops paying salary, drops his medical to basics and cuts his cuff, it’s a net gain. The company will save about ten thousand dollars a year for every year the poor schmuck’s in detention.”

“Fine.”

“Sorry.”

“Not your fault. I just hate calling HA. I’ll talk to you later.”

McCallum shook his cuff. He clicked it on the steering wheel and brought a workscreen up on the vehicle’s monitor. It glowed blue between the driver and passenger seats. He flipped through Emory Leveski’s case file, found his Human Assets manager and put through a voice call.

“Whelen,” a voice answered.

“Walter Whelen, this is Detective Eddie McCallum, Ambyr Systems Security.”

“Yes, Mr. McCallum, I’ve been expecting your call.”

“How do feel about transferring Emory Leveski to a restrictive position.”

“I’ve got just the opening for scum like that. I’m happy to do anything I can to get a killer off the streets.”

“Well, he hasn’t been convicted of anything yet.”

“Yes. I’m sure you’ll get that part worked out. Pick him up as soon as possible. We’ve got an opening.”

“Thank you.”

McCallum gave his left arm a wide, vicious shake. He sat for a moment. The trees near the car held one leaf for every hundred they had last month. He could see the coldness in the air, the hazy light, the growing grayness. The holiday seasons would start in a few weeks. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s Eve. He was about to ensure Emory Leveski didn’t share any of that with his family.

He poked his screen and requested Emory’s whereabouts. A map appeared, with a small red dot inching next to a road.
He’s moving too slowly
, McCallum thought. He asked the computer for the signatures within two meters. ‘Lillian Leveski’ and ‘Elizabeth Leveski’ appeared, next to dots alongside Emory’s.

“Taking the baby out for a walk. Great.”

He put the flat black, six-wheeled armored car in drive and pulled out into traffic.

* * *

Emory tensed a little every time he saw a security car or a uniformed patrolman. He knew he was being ridiculous. He talked to security and nothing happened. They never even asked about the Milkman. He needed to start calming down, enjoying himself. And his first order of business would be ignoring the frighteningly black pancake that had just lumbered by. The small ASS on the side, in the color of blood, wasn’t going to bother him at all. He was out for a stroll with his lovely wife and beautiful baby.

“You don’t see a lot of those,” Lillian said.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he lied. In their neighborhood, with its white sidewalks, trimmed lawns and cozy box houses, the machine looked like a bullet hole in a stuffed bear. The vehicle stopped and the red lights began to flash. Emory felt each strobe throughout his nervous system.

“Oh crap.” Lillian knew. She knew before Emory could assimilate the scene.

McCallum crawled out of the driver’s side without hurry. He paused and looked at the three, like he might ask for directions or if he could come in for a beer.

“Mr. Leveski,” McCallum said as he walked towards them.

Emory hadn’t even been aware they’d stopped walking. He glanced down at the stroller. Lizzie, bundled tightly under layers of coat, hat, and blankets, gazed around, equally interested in everything.

“Mr. Leveski,” McCallum said. Emory recognized him. He didn’t imagine he’d ever forget the man’s face.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve got to ask you to come with me.”

“No,” Lillian said. Her voice twisted the sound, working it into a soft howl.

“Right now?” Emory asked.

McCallum nodded. He pointed to the black machine.

“Oh God, Em. Oh God.”

“Shush,” he said carefully. “We’ll be OK.”

“No we won’t, Em. Not at all.” Lillian looked at McCallum. “Where are you taking him? Why? Why are you taking him?”

“The company will be in touch, Ma’am.”

He walked to the car-tank-thing. Emory glanced back at his wife and baby, stopped on the sidewalk. Lillian stood pole straight, shaking, mouth contorted, so red it looked like a flare. Her eyes sealed up from the salty gush. Her tears seemed to flow into his own eyes. The whole scene blurred and curved. He didn’t see anything inside the car. A cold, black plastic cave. He grabbed his knees as the door crunched closed and rolled onto his side.

You’ll see them again
, he drilled into his head, ramming the thought through collapsing thatch and timbre.
You’ll see them again real soon.

Chapter Ten

Sylvia loved the stinging cold. She never had a chance to wear anything like this white ermine trimmed cape. It made her feel regal, taller, even more in control than usual. The softness was pornographic. People must live up north, she thought, just so they can wear sumptuous wraps of fur and fleece. Which also concealed bulging bellies. Like hers. Her subject, Mr. Killington, wouldn’t have cared, but her opinion of Samjahnee remained out of focus. Blurry ideas, colors and shapes, lacking sharpness. He could ignore it or he could be reporting her measurements back to their boss pro temp pore.

She also loved her white boots, even though they were a size up, because her feet and legs had taken on a mild sausage like quality. Were she not busy and on location, this would be causing a mild panic. She wanted to have a baby, not change shape. Like she wanted to have a baby and not impale her career. Like she wanted to make a documentary the company didn’t want made.

She pushed her bone glasses up her nose. The pressure on the bridge activated the cameras in each lens. Samjahnee’s rig automatically recorded everything upon which she cast her gaze.

She stared at the farmer. He looked, as the phrase went, right out of central casting. Sylvia chuckled to herself. The idiom had become relevant again. She could call an Ambyr Entertainment division and have them send her a dozen sea captains, ollies, hobbyists all gussied up, or farmers. The latter would all look like this guy. Thin, leathery creases down the sides of his face and across his forehead, the kind made either by a half-century outdoors or an iron. He leaned back against a green tractor. Its jellybean cabin sat between two rear wheels a few inches taller than the man. The curvature gave off a spike of reflected sunlight that made Samjahnee grumbly. He kept moving the cameras, even as Sylvia ran the interview, trying to keep the flares from interfering with his shots.

“He’s an asshole,” Nathan Killington of Killington Dairy said.

“So there is a Milkman,” Sylvia returned.

“Somebody’s trying to make us look like chumps.”

“You don’t believe the Milkman’s serving a greater purpose.”

“He’s trying to destroy what we’ve got because he doesn’t understand it. When you find him, he’ll turn out to be some asshole kid who doesn’t know any better.”

The left side of Sylvia’s lip curled. “You know better, don’t you.”

“My grandfather owned this farm before the Buy-Ups. My father fought for it during the Buy-Ups. I learned how to clean a shotgun at age six,” Killington said. “We defended this place with our blood and guts until we got a decent offer. We earned this deal the hard way.”

“The Milkman stands to upset that in some way?”

“He thinks we don’t know what we’re doing.”

“Maybe he thinks you know exactly what you’re doing.”

Killington folded his arms across his chest and narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sure where you’re going with this, Ms. Cho.”

“I’m not sure, either. I’m just trying to learn. You take a salary and benefits, like everyone, right?”

“Yep.”

“Even though this dairy has your name on it, you’re an Ambyr employee, assigned to this site. It’s a job.”

“A job I do well.”

“In the old days, your income would be directly tied to the product. If your milk wasn’t good, you’d go hungry.”

“The old days? You think milk was safer in the old days? Before market stability? Back then there was a reason to game the system. Like you said, you’d live or die by the price of milk. You could work your ass off and the price could drop and you’d be screwed. You’d do everything you could to produce more.”

“And now it doesn’t matter how much you produce?”

“No,” Killington popped. “We do a good job out here. We produce.”

“There’s just no incentive.”

“Well, there’s bonuses and your career track and hell, there’s pride in your work! You think we want to put out something bad? Something that’ll make people sick?”

“This isn’t about what I think,” Sylvia said. “But if you want to move down in the company or make bonus, you’ve got to produce.”

“Yep.”

“So some dairies — and I’m not implying yours — for some dairies there could be an incentive to let some little things slide. I don’t know, cleaning the lines less often or letting the milk sit a wee bit longer than it should. Huh?”

Killington stood. “We’re good people. We put out good product.”

“You speak for all the dairy farmers in the Niagara catchment.”

“No—”

“But the Milkman does.”

“That’s not right. I don’t think I like where you’re going with this.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Killington. I’m just trying to get a full understanding of the situation. I’m from Hollywood. You’d be amazed what I don’t know.”

“I thought we had an agreement. We’d talk about the Milkman.”

Sylvia glanced at Samjahnee. The pause made him look up from the small, flat monitor he held in his hand like a mirror, like he was going to brush his hair. He met Sylvia’s glance and gave her a thumbs up.

“How about you show me around.” Sylvia smiled and walked towards the farmer. His scowl didn’t budge. The cameras on her face got full load of it. “I’d love to see the cows.”

* * *

McCallum didn’t like being called into work. Some guys loved the overtime. Extra cash never hurt. Or so the saying went. The security business proved the phrase false time and time again. The company never called in more operatives because they thought an operation might go south, or they just wanted to be sure a movement went smoothly. No, if they called up reserves — paying not just overtime, but losing money the ops may have spent during that time in some bar or sporting event or dumping back into the economy through whatever passion they might have — if the company decided to take a double hit, somebody was going to feel the pain.

“I’ve got better things to do,” McCallum grumbled.

Davies, the uniformed op next to him grinned. McCallum grinned back. The kid stood at six foot two and 225 pounds. He wouldn’t have to do too much with Davies around. He leaned his shoulder against the concrete wall of the ally they guarded. The main team would raid the blood bank. They’d stop anyone from escaping out the back.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” McCallum asked.

“I’d probably be getting into a fight about now.”

“So this is just found money for you.”

“Something like that,” Davies said. “Any idea what we’re busting?”

“Brass said they’re running an unauthorized blood bank out of that garage.” McCallum pointed up the ally at a gray steel door that looked like it hadn’t been opened in five coats of paint.

“I don’t get it.” He cupped his hands together and huffed in two lungs full of warm air.

“Not everyone likes to give blood.”

“It’s about the easiest thing you can do.”

“Maybe for you. There are people who hate mandatory blood letting so much they’re willing to—” McCallum’s wrist tingled.

“Analytics at the Sergio. The new show opens Friday,” rang in McCallum’s ear. He hated ads pushed into ringtones almost as much as forced overtime. At least for Sergio’s it was self-advertising. He had less respect for people who announced they wanted to talk to you with “Have a Coke” or “When’s the last time you changed your furnace filter?”

“Excuse me,” McCallum said to Davies. He shook his wrist and strolled up the ally. “This is McCallum.”

“Eddie,” Aga Graber’s voice stopped the ad. She sounded like she was calling from beneath a pyramid. One she had built for herself 5,000 years ago. “Did I catch you at a wonderful time?”

“It’s always wonderful when you ring me,” he replied.

“Are you coming to the opening tomorrow night?”

“I’m going to try.”

“Try your hardest,” Aga said.

“What’s so large about this show that gets me a call from the gallery owner herself?”

The metal door at the far end of the ally smashed open, clanging like a broken bell.

“I’ve got an open slot.”

“That sounds like a relationship issue.”

“In the show.”

Two figures ran out from the back of the garage and towards the ops. Little light made it into the ally, so McCallum had to guess it was a man and woman. They ran stiffly and sloppily, looking back over their shoulders, barely managing any forward momentum. Davies continued to lean back against the wall.

“You want one of my pieces for the show?” McCallum asked.

“I always want one. Now I really
need
one,” Aga returned.

“I don’t have anything—”

“That acrylic on glass. With the girl. ‘Ghost’, I think you called it.”

“I stopped doing that stuff,” McCallum said. “Too kitschy.”

Davies pulled away from the wall and filled the alleyway with his frame.

“Out of the way,” a man’s voice shouted. Older, strained.

Davies ran at the couple.

“That’s not my best work,” McCallum said.

“You’ve always got an excuse. I don’t even know why you bother making up new ones. You should just say ‘insert excuse here’.”

McCallum smiled. “My dog ate that painting.”

Operative Davies slammed the man against the concrete wall, lifting him clear off his feet. Davies stuck out a leg and tripped the woman trying to pass behind him. She fell to the ground, stifling a yell. A tiny chirp leaked out as her knees and palms skidded on the pavement. McCallum took a few steps and stood over her. The woman’s crisp yellow hair cascaded forward. She wobbled to a stand, probably unable to see much of anything. McCallum figured her for late 50s. Thin, but not exactly in shape. She held her palms out, both dirty and bleeding.

He said, “Systems Security.”

“Pardon?” Aga said in his ear.

“Sorry,” McCallum said. “Working.”

“Out apprehending villains?”

“Like everything I do,” McCallum said, “it depends on your point of view.”

* * *

The supervisors stripped Emory, power-washed him with a freezing blue disinfectant that left him tomato red and numb. They shaved his head. No hair, no lice, the barber was nice enough to explain. His hair would be sold to wig makers. They gave him blue overalls two sizes too big, paper shoes, pajamas woven from a plastic he couldn’t identify and a pouch with a jar of toothpaste, an imminently breakable toothbrush and a bar of soap. His day turned out to be much better than his night.

He slept in a room with three other men, so the door squeaked all night, with them coming and going to the men’s room. The fact that this particular squeak had not been proceeded by the creeks of another bunk did not alarm him. The hand across his mouth alarmed him, and the ones on his arms and legs. He kicked and felt a sharp chop to his gut, someone trying to break him like a board. They rolled him off the bed and bounced him on the floor. They lost the grip on his mouth.

“What the fu—”

The punch almost took his head off. A hand behind him smashed his face into the mattress. Other hands jammed his pajama pants down. The searing pain prevented him discerning the first item inserted into his rectum. In the morning he’d guess the handle of screwdriver covered in margarine. It felt distinctly different from the four warm, fleshier items that followed. One after another, taking turns wrenching his arms, legs and head into useless positions. They performed quickly and efficiently, in assembly line fashion.

He didn’t look as they left. The lack of light made it kind of pointless. The lack of desire to face any of them, absolute. He kept his head buried in the bedding. The scent of disinfectant filled him. Clean, but not pure, the kind of chemical used on filth. The kind they hosed him with that afternoon. They must buy one kind and use it on everything, he thought. Sheets, floors, people— an economy he could respect. One order, one stock item, one lesson in how not to have it burn you and your buddies to the ground. He thought about that for a while, bent over his bed, spit soaking into the rough sheets. He thought about the supply-line efficacies of industrial disinfectant, anxiously hypothesizing the intricacies of comparative benefits.

“Sorry.” He heard from the bunk above his.

“What?” Emory raised his head.

“Sorry,” the voice doled out. “It’s just business.”