Slant (19 page)

What about my family? Would they be involved?" "They have to undergo the same inspection as you," Marcus says. "If they pass, they go." So Beate isn't going, Jonathan intuits. "What about their chance to choose?" "In our group," Marcus says, "the head of household bears the brunt." The emergency chime on Marcus's pad sounds and Marcus pulls it out, angling it away from Jonathan's eyes. It is a text message; Marcus reads it swiftly, his face a practiced blank, and puts the pad away. "Something's up," he says. He gives Jonathan a look that can be interpreted either as disappointment or a kind of apologetic sorrow. "Jonathan, I've never placed you anywhere but in the sly spin, have I?" "Never," Jonathan truthfully acknowledges. He cannot blame Marcus for his present situation. "What's just happened--what I've just learned--puts us deeply in need of someone like you. The opportunity is even better for you. You can move right

/ SLANT 115

into a position of influence. I'll vouch for the fact that you're capable and you're ready." Jonathan does not feel comfortable leaping into the dark, and dragging Chloe after him . . . But he remembers her stiffness in his arms. Whenever he has touched her in the last month, she has seemed secretly annoyed. Her respect for him, her desire for him as a man, has faded, buffeted by the pressures of children and the stalling--he supposes--of his career. She is disappointed in her life. She is disappointed in him. A wild flare of anger and fear rises. Marcus is watching him. Marcus always seems to know the inner workings of his people; that's why his career has never faltered. He always keeps his teams together--and he always chooses his people well. "Are you in charge?" Jonathan asks. "No. But I'm close to the top, and those above me are the best. I've never seen better." Jonathan blinks and his left eye stings. It's been a long night. He wipes the corner of his eye with the knuckle of his forefinger, then stares at Marcus. "Say yes, and you'll have one last chance to back out--think it over for tonight and call me tomorrow evening. After that, after you've learned what we're up to, you're in. No backing out. Ever." He has been looking for a change, any change, to regain Chloe's respect, to win back her need for him. But everything he has considered seems ridiculous-moving to Europe, even China, starting over again. He can't let go of what they've already gained in the world. He believes Chloe values their security very highly, and would think even less of him if he jeopardized that. "The gold ring, Jonathan." Marcus fixes him with a patriarchal and steady gaze. "Never steered you wrong, Jonathan." "Better contacts, references?" Marcus smiles. "Best you've ever seen. Solidarity. Real support in tough times, and the times are going to get much tougher, believe me." "My family will get.., better contacts, better opportunities?" "If they make the grade, Jonathan." Marcus nods. "You know their quality better than I." "Yes," Jonathan says. "I'm sure they will," Marcus murmurs, but looks away. "Yes." Marcus looks back sharply. "Is that your answer?" Jonathan blinks. He did not mean it as an answer, he thinks, not precisely an answer, not yet at least. But Marcus is growing restless. Marcus does not like prevarication and delay. Either you know your mind or you don't. "Yes," Jonathan says. Marcus smiles. He is genuinely relieved. "Welcome aboard."

116 GRG BAR

They shake hands. Jonathan for a moment does not know who he is or what he is doing; there is such a pressure of withheld anger that he fears he might go home and beat someone--or more likely, kill himself. He is so in love with Chloe, so desperately in need of her, and she has given him so little of what he believes he deserves, despite all. The pent-up shock of this realization makes him a little dizzy. "Go home and rest," Marcus says. "This takes something out of all of us." "What's the next move?" Jonathan asks. 'I'll get you together with some people. Patience," Marcus says. "I've waited four years so far to see this happen. We might have to wait ten more."

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/ SLANT 117

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19

Jack Giffey believes in being very gentle with women. (It's the women who have been cruel to him--a small dark voice tells him; but actually, he can't remember any cruel women--why is that?)

He is gentle with Yvonne. She is surprisingly elegant in his bed, anticipatory and supple and enthusiastic without seeming a slut. She keeps her eyes on his eyes, she watches his motions with intense interest; it has been some time since he has felt the urgency of a younger woman, and even among her age group, Yvonne is a pistol, a classy pistol indeed. He feels very lucky, like a sacrificial victim given the pick of a town's beauties before his ritual comes to its inevitable end.

Giffey does not enjoy tongue kisses, but oddly enough, he enjoys using his lips and tongue everywhere else. He read somewhere years ago about men of his type, the particular molecules they enjoyed and which spurred their own satisfactions, but that was chemistry not sex and he really does not care what the reasons are.

Yvonne lets him know, without resorting to specifics, that few men of her acquaintance are so generous. Giffey feels proud and within an hour they have completely exhausted each other.

"You are some lady," Giffey says as they lie back. The room is not expensive and does not have much in the way of comforts, but he keeps a bottle of bourbon in the cupboard and there is ice in the small ancient enameled refrigerator, and he offers her a drink. He feels very mellow toward her and even a little protective.

118 GREG BEAR

"I don't normally like liquor," Yvonne says. "But it seems right. Let's make it a toast--to you." "Thank you," Giffey says. While he is up getting the glasses poured, Yvonne sits up on the bed with the covers draped just over her knees, and he appreciates the flow of her breasts and the twin rolls of her bunched tummy. Giffy does not like tummies that are artificially taut. Yvonne has sufficient numbers of the lovely flaws of un-tampered nature to almost convince him that there is nothing he'd like better than to spend more days and of course nights with her, many more. "What do your friends call you? Do they call you Jack?" Yvonne asks, scratching her nose with a fingernail. "My best friends call me Giff," he says. "But very few people on this world ever call me Giff." "May I?" Giffey brings the glasses over, ice clunking within the pale brown bourbon. "What would Bill think if I let you call me Giff?" he says. Yvonne narrows her eyes. "I need you, this," she says. "It's none of his damn business." "Sorry I brought it up." "That's all right," Yvonne says, and gives him dispensation with a wave of her glass, then takes a sip. "I wish I could do more," Giffey says. "I'm not asking for more," she says. He feels his deep layer of occasional honesty rising to the surface. He knows he can't suppress it; he cares for this woman a little, and he will not deceive her. "What I mean is, you move me like no woman I've met in years." fur"I have that effect on some men," Yvonne says with such innocent truth- ess that Giffey knows she is not boasting. "I just wish they were quality, like you. Why can't you stay a while?" "I'll be here, but I'm going to be busy," Giffey says. "Backwoods business, probably," she says. Giffey grins but does not nod. "I know all about what men do here to make money. We've brought the hard times on ourselves. I wish to God I could just pack up and move to Seattle, get a job there." Giffey shakes his head. "Bad idea, unprepared." "We've talked about this already," Yvonne says. "We have."

She is interrupted by heavy knocking on the door. Giffey is up and has his pistol out of a drawer before the third knock. The knock is followed by a loud male voice. "Yvonne, this is Rudy. We know you're in there with somebody."

/ SLANT 119

"Go to hell, Rudy, I am not yours to bother!" Yvonne shouts back. She stands on the bed and looks for her clothes. Giffey bunches them up in a fist from the chair and throws them to her.

He is standing naked with his gun in one hand, and she tilts her head to

one side and closes her eyes. "Dear sweet Jesus," she whispers. "Bill's friends?" Giffey asks softly. "Yeah."

"Will they hurt you?"

"No," she says. "They are such clucks."

"Will Bill hurt you?"

"They don't tell him," she says, exasperated. "The bastards think they're

watching out for me. They think I'm Bill's property." "I see. You've been here before." "Haven't you?"

Giffey chews this over for a moment, and then his wise old smile returns. "Not for some time."

There is this other woman, whose name and face he can't quite recall. He shakes that cold little sliver of memory out of his thoughts.

Yvonne sees his expression and her face wrinkles in disappointment. "I'm sorry," she says.

"They tangle with me and they are going to be hurt. You get dressed and

get out there. It's been a pure pleasure, Yvonne."

"For me, too, Giff."

"Yeah, well, call me Jack," he says, and retires with his clothes and gun to the bathroom, shutting off the light. He hopes Yvonne is smart enough to close the door and let it lock on her way out, before the men decide they have to do something more.

He hears them talking on the walkway outside. He doesn't hear the hotel room door close.

There are two men and they sound like they're about Yvonne's age, maybe younger. He hopes they do not come into his room.

Footsteps on the room's threadbare carpet. Giffey's senses become very keen, in the dark behind the bathroom door. Whoever is in his room--just one person--is taking it slow and easy, looking things over.

"I don't want to hurt you," the young man, Rudy, says. "I just want to talk

things over. Let me know where you are." Giffey keeps quiet. Quiet is spookier. "Come on. Just talk."

Yvonne tells Rudy to get out of the room, they should just leave. "This bastard isn't worth it," the other young man says. "Let him go."

"Yeah. Well, he should know something, that's all. You listening? Where are you, you fucker?"

"Rudy," Yvonne whines, "he's a pro. Federal army. He'll kill you."

120 GREG BEAR

Giffy cringes.

"Pro what? Pro federal woman-stealer? Talk to me, or I'll shoot through the goddamn walls!"

Giffey holds up his pistol and pulls back the automatic target seeker switch. It makes a small sliding click. Through the door or the wall, it won't be very good, but it will give him a better chance if the man decides to jump into the bathroom. Some of these young Ruggers are just crazy enough to do a thing like that.

"Around here, we don't mess with another man's woman!" Rudy says, his

voice hoarse. He's not happy with this quiet.

"Oh, Rudy, 0z, h-leeze!" Yvonne says.

"I'd go home if I were you, Mister, back to fucking District of Corruption or wherever you call home. Leave this town to the good people, the ones who know better than to--"

"Rudy," the other man calls. "Let's go."

Rudy thinks this over. He hasn't come any closer to the bathroom door.

"Yeah, crazy bastard," Rudy murmurs. The footsteps retreat.

Giffby stays in the bathroom for ten or fifteen minutes, listening. He can't hear a thing outside the room, though car and truck noises from the street could mask some sounds. There's a couple of minutes of almost complete silence, and slowly, he emerges from of the bathroom.

tie feels like a crab scuttling out from under a rock with gulls wheeling overhead.

The room is empty.

When he is sure the hall and the street outside the building are clear, he packs up everything in a small suitcase and leaves. Giffby does not want any-

knowing where he is, where he be, after that.

might

or

tomorrow

or

e is furious with himself for losing sight of his goal. This could have