Louse (11 page)

There is no reason for me to believe that any of this information is incredible. It makes perfect sense. There is nothing I know of Poppy that wouldn't suggest he is capable of such contradictions to simultaneously set up a group opposed to him and his enemies.

But where does this leave me?

Why should I care who wins and who loses and who's allied with whom? All I can see for the time being is my body at the hands of Dr. Barnum should I report this incident to him or Mr. Sherwood or even to Poppy, especially since I would have to speak to Poppy, to utter the words that would give it all away. If I remain silent, and it is true that Mr. Blank will hide this moment in time from Intelligence and Internal Affairs, as long as I am complicit, why shouldn't I remain silent? Then again, what if he can't? What if he can't hide this and it's all a bluff? What then? What will I say to Dr. Barnum when he is interrogating me and there is nothing to say? Then again, what will he ask when he already believes that I have taken part in a plot against him and all else? Won't the questions be the same, as well as his methods?

There is a knock at the door.

I quickly slip the document into the filing cabinet, shut the drawer firmly, and walk across the room. When I open the door, I find Mr. Crane standing before me; the entire domestic staff lumbers down the hall to the off-duty elevator at the end of the wing.

“Will you be going to the viewing, Mr. Louse?” asks Mr. Crane.

“Yes, of course,” I say, looking at my watch nervously. “But first I must stop and see the collections official.”

“Well, it's on the way,” says Mr. Crane as I step into the wing and get swept up by the crowd.

“Yes, yes it is.”

“Mr. Louse?!” Mr. Lutherford says, greeting me from behind. “I understand you had a fainting spell.”

“Hope you didn't fall into harm's way,” says Mr. Heinrik, who is beside Mr. Lutherford.

“Thank you, Mr. Heinrik,” I say, although I can feel his sarcasm resonate with every breath and can imagine his eyes meeting Mr. Lutherford's with the secret jokes they have between them. If they only knew what I knew they would truly have secrets between them.

The silver doors of the elevator open.

We step into the silver interior.

We descend toward the twenty-third floor.

“I understand Ms. Berger has been to see Dr. Barnum,” Mr. Crane says to Mr. Lutherford.

“She's the first to be corrected in this matter,” says Mr. Heinrik.

“It should be interesting to see what he's done to her,” says Lutherford.

“I say she gets what she deserves,” says another behind us. “She was very devious!”

“Clandestine!”

“I understand the Head Engineer is involved on some level.”

“Is that so?”

“It's the newest news.”

“It's rare to have someone so high up represented.”

“I've always been suspicious of that one, however.”

“How so?”

“He's a loner. A recluse.”

“Has anyone ever seen him?”

“I once had to deliver a note to him.”

“And?”

“He wouldn't open the door.”

“You see!”

“He spoke to me over the intercom. He was very rude. Broke every rule. Ignored protocol.”

“I believe they will find whatever they expect to find with that one.”

“With this Ms. Berger too, no doubt.”

“And that Blank.”

“Yes, that Blank.”

“It is only a matter of time.”

“Yes, only a matter of time.”

The elevator comes to a halt.

The doors open.

We file out into the staff gaming room.

The room opens up long and wide and is decorated in the greens and reds of the casino downstairs. The ceilings are vaulted, the chandeliers crystal, all the tables rosewood and unblemished felts. A huge mosaic of Union cavalrymen with rifles chasing Indians with spears wraps around the room. In the background and foreground are Indian tribes ascending over mountains and down into plains where they are huddled into encampments. There are pioneers on trails and miners panning for gold; trading posts covered in buffalo pelts and blankets; military forts and rodeo shows; Christian missionaries and evangelist preachers; railroad tracks and chain gangs; cowboy saloons with dancing girls and poker players; oil rigs spouting black velum and creeks littered with rotting cattle; fields of broken skeletons, skulls mounted on sticks, wild horses vanishing
onto horizon lines above which are the glowing white hands of God descending from space.

The room is generally crowded, but conversation does not rise above the hush of whispers. The slot machines don't ring, the pit bosses don't bark, the staff members are not allowed to get impassioned when they win or lose. If they do, they are escorted to the outer wings and lose their privileges for a period of time.

As the others continue on to the Great Hall, I am intercepted by Mr. Dulcimer, a tall and skinny cleaning foreman from the fourteenth floor. He always latches onto me ostensibly for the sake of company, but really for the deliberate intention of being persistent. He thinks—because of my position on the thirty-third floor—I always know more than he does. As much as I would love to avoid him, I'm afraid that if I'm uncooperative he'll think he is being shunned and make a complaint.

“Have you heard the latest, Mr. Louse?” Mr. Dulcimer whispers.

“Of Ms. Berger?” I whisper back.

“Yes, of Ms. Berger,” says Mr. Dulcimer. “Everyone's talking about it.”

“What have you heard, Mr. Dulcimer?”

“Well, I've only been able to pick up bits and pieces thus far, but I've learned that she is new to the Sales Department and was demoted from the ranks of Internal Affairs. I'm not sure why, but for her part in the scandal at hand, no doubt. As you know, they don't demote anyone from Internal Affairs unless a serious offense has been committed. And so you know a very serious offense has been committed, Mr. Louse. You, of course, remember the incident when Mr. Doolittle was excluded for his deviousness?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” I say.

“Yes, of course,” he says. “And the time Mr. Trillstein from Detentions created his own misfortunes?”

“Yes, I remember, Mr. Dulcimer. I remember very well.”

Mr. Dulcimer shakes his head in such a way that a small bit of loose flesh dances about under his chin. “It's all very serious business, Mr. Louse. They are not going to look upon this lightly.”

“No, I imagine not, Mr. Dulcimer,” I say as I notice Ms. Lonesome sitting at a blackjack table across from me, directly under the belly of a horse saddled with a cavalryman whose bullet is careening toward a young Indian woman with a baby in her arms. Ms. Lonesome and I are facing each other; however, because she's engaged in her cards she doesn't see me.

“Mr. Louse,” Mr. Dulcimer continues.

“Yes, I'm sorry, Mr. Dulcimer,” I say, turning my attention back to him.

“There is more, Mr. Louse.”

“Please,” I insist, “go on.”

“You're familiar with Mr. Moorcraft, the Head Engineer, I assume?”

“Yes, Mr. Dulcimer, I have heard mention of the Head Engineer.”

“Well, Intelligence has begun an extensive search for him. It is really quite thrilling, and by far the most dramatic event known to the Resort Town of G. The Head Engineer is known to be threatening G. with a cache of explosives sizable enough to destroy us all. It's treason, Mr. Louse! Treason!”

“Yes,” I say gravely, thinking of my role in this. “That is a new development,” I add.

“Intelligence is looking into it.”

“And the best of fortune to them,” I say.

“Indeed,” says Mr. Dulcimer. “They say that Mr. Moorcraft is clever and has the ability to walk invisibly and silently among us. It would be the greatest catch should anyone turn him in. Internal Affairs reports a total and complete absolution for anyone leading to the arrest of the Head Engineer.”

“I will keep that in mind, Mr. Dulcimer.”

“As you should, Mr. Louse. As we all should.”

Mr. Dulcimer stands before me a moment longer; together we look over the activity of the room. I notice Ms. Lonesome make a bet and then glance up to the hands of God. As she looks down, she looks across the room and meets my eye. Her gaze remains fixed on mine and then she looks back down to her cards.

“Well, Mr. Dulcimer, you'll have to excuse me,” I say looking at my watch. “I have an appointment with the collections official.”

“Please, Mr. Louse, I don't want to keep you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dulcimer.”

“Good fortune to you, Mr. Louse.”

“Good fortune to you, Mr. Dulcimer,” I say turning away from him.

“Oh, Mr. Louse. I almost forgot,” Mr. Dulcimer says.

I turn back to him.

“I was given this letter to give to you. For after the viewing.”

I cautiously take the envelope from Mr. Dulcimer's hand. “Who is this from?”

“In all honesty I don't know, Mr. Louse. He was in a rush to tend to some duty. He saw you coming and asked me to hand you this.”

Mr. Dulcimer smiles candidly and shrugs his shoulders. “In any case, Mr. Louse…” And then he turns away from me looking complete. He sees Mr. Dean, a well-mannered sales representative, enter the room and follows after him.

I stuff the envelope into the inside pocket of my jacket.

Mr. Hamilton, the collections official, is very stern, a thin, gaunt man with thick salt and pepper hair receding above a patrician brow. His complexion and attire make him a well-suited figure for the gaming room: His nose looks like a waterlogged strawberry; he wears a green felt tie that pinches his Adam's apple and turns his cheeks ruddy. He sits behind a window much like that of a bank teller in one of Poppy's old Western films. The window is oval, has vertical metal bars and a slot just large enough for a small pair of hands.

“Good evening, Mr. Hamilton,” I say as I approach the counter.

“Good evening, Mr. Louse. I will only be a moment,” he says brusquely. He turns away from me and anxiously clicks his tongue as he tabulates my figures.

Two short lines queued up for the cashiers on either side of Mr. Hamilton's station make an elaborate cacophony of whispers.

“She must be connected to him.”

“Yes, I know.”

“If the threats are what they say they are!”

“Oh, if the threat is what they say it is!”

“Far be it for me to say she set a new precedent, but…”

“This must be the first time.”

“What if she claims it wasn't her at all?”

“Denial of her actions will only reap a more stringent reprisal.”

“And you can just imagine.”

“Oooo, I don't even wish to think.”

“It should be quite spectacular.”

“He will go to great lengths.”

“Especially in light of the circumstances.”

“I only wish this line would move faster.”

“Shall we?”

“Yes, I think we should.”

“We'll…”

“After the…”

“Yes!”

And with that, a good portion of the crowd drops off in the direction of the Great Hall.

“Here we are, Mr. Louse,” Mr. Hamilton says, looking away to the others drifting into the corridor at the end of the gaming room. He looks back to me and hands me a receipt with a queer smile on his lips. “Good fortune to you, Mr. Louse,” he says appropriately, and shuts his window before I have the chance to thank him.

“With the current interest rates holding at 19 percent…,” it reads. It is apparent that my punishment has been levied. I now owe twice as much as I did a week ago but less than two months ago. In short, my debt has been nearly doubled.

I remove a pen from the inside pocket of my jacket and sign the dotted line, indicating that I have updated my files. I remove the borrower's copy, and insert the trustee's copy into Mr. Hamilton's deposit box.

When I turn around I find Ms. Lonesome behind me.

“Good evening, Ms. Lonesome,” I say.

“Good evening, Mr. Louse,” she says.

“On your way to the Great Hall?” I ask.

“Yes, Mr. Louse.”

“Do you mind if I join you?”

“No, not at all.”

Ms. Lonesome and I follow the others through the corridor leading to the Great Hall.

“I understand tonight's viewing will be unlike any other,” she says.

“Yes, that's what I've heard,” I confirm.

Ms. Lonesome occasionally looks at me as we walk. She has put her hair up into a bun since I last saw her. With her hair up, she is poised in such a way that when she talks the tendons in her neck revealed by the open collar of her blouse become attenuated. They flex and stretch into the small triangle of flesh just below the dimple of her trachea.

“I hope they find Mr. Blank and Mr. Moorcraft before any damage is done,” Ms. Lonesome says.

“Yes,” I say.

“Yes,” she says.

She looks at me, expressionless, as if to punctuate her last statement with cold conviction. But she is not convincing. Her features are too soft, her cheeks too round. She almost looks ridiculous acting in such a manner. However, I do understand her compunction to do so. The pulse of red lights from the surveillance cameras spreads across the pale pink pallor of her lips.