Warren Murphy: Balance of Power

Gloria sputtered and coughed. Remo squeezed the junctions of her jaws harder. Her mouth popped open wider. "Let's try this all one more time," Remo said and poured the rest of the decanter into Gloria's mouth. "Let's see what's in your system."

The liquid bubbled over her teeth. It sprayed. It dribbled down her chin and plastered her gauze drape to her breasts.

Abruptly, the woman stopped struggling. As Remo watched, a wild, happy glint lit her eyes. He released her jaw and she winked and smiled at him. She seemed unaware of the spittle running down her face.

"It good," she said, clapping her hands together.

"The ethyl chloride's in you too," Remo said. "Is that why you're involved in this? They got you with drugs?"

"Just a little drinkie now and then," Gloria said.

"Want to talk now?" Remo asked.

"Rather play feelies," she said. She raised her breasts toward Remo.

"Where is everybody?"

Coyly, she waggled a finger at Remo. Her face was twisted in a leer that she must have thought was a smile. "No, no, never tell." She giggled, then said, "All the niggies gone. Niggies, niggies, niggles. All gone to Washington to get blown up."

"Who's going to blow them up?"

Her face lit up. "Me. Gloria. And Robar."

"Estomago?"

She nodded. "The one with the big hose." She rolled her eyes appreciatively.

"Why do you want to blow them up?" Remo asked.

"Not just them. Everybody. All in Washington."

"I thought you loved the Afro-Muslim Brotherhood," Remo said.

She blurted a raspberry. "A game. Niggies got me sent to jail. Robar got me out."

"What'd you do to go to jail?"

She bent her neck down, then peered up at Remo as if she were looking over a fence. "Shot me a niggie and they sent me to jail."

"Poor little thing," Remo said.

"Poor Gloria," she said. She sniffed eloquently. Suddenly a tear blossomed from the corner of her eye. "Gonna blow them up; gonna blow everybody up."

"How are you going to blow them up?"

Gloria giggled. "With bombs, silly, Robar's got bombs. Lots of bombs. Let's play ficky-fick. Too much talk."

"First talk," Remo said, "then ficky-fick. Are the bombs in Hispania?"

She nodded. "At the installation. The girls put them together. Built the camp too."

"What girls?"

"The girls Robar got from the prisons. Like me. Only I didn't have to work at the camp 'cause I'm so pretty." She patted her platinum hair.

"When are you going to explode the bombs?"

"Maybe next week. Maybe never. Whenever the Russians say so."

"What's going to happen to Hispania?" Remo asked.

Gloria shrugged. "Who cares? Robar and me, we going away. El Presidente, he going to Switzerland. Who cares? We got lots of money and we get lots more when the Russians come into Hispania and take the island over."

"Where are the girls now?"

"All dead. We shot 'em. Bang. I like shooting."

"Then why didn't you shoot Barney Daniels?"

Her eyes opened wide. "Cause he got away and came to America. So we sent him a bomb, but he didn't blow up. And then we made him kill Calder Raisin so he would go to jail and rile up the niggles. But he didn't kill Calder Raisin. He can't do anything right."

"Just a deadbeat, I guess," Remo said.

"Good ficky-fick though," Gloria said.

Remo walked once around the room. "I only want to ask one more thing," he said. "What's so important about that map on the wall?"

"Dopey," she said, fluttering over to the map. "It's a bomb map." She pressed a tiny button on the desk below the map and an overhead track light came on, illuminating the map with an eerie green light

As the light glowed stronger, lines on the map began to emerge. Blue lines. Red lines. Dotted lines. And a thick, wobbling stroke from a jungle border of Hispania to Washington, D.C.

"El Presidente had it coated, so that you can't see the lines without this special light." She smiled. "He's so smart."

"A real whip," Remo said.

Gloria seated herself on the window sill. "You gonna stay and play with me?"

"No."

"Aw, c'mon," she teased, unfastening the top of her sari and letting the gauzy fabric unravel and flutter in the breeze outside the open window. "Nice jugs, huh?" she asked.

"Good enough for government work," Remo said.

She unravelled more of her sari, until a long stream of fabric floated in the wind like a white river. She stood up on the window sill and lifted her arms to her sides.

"Look, I'm a flag," she squealed, stretching out her arms to grasp the billowing sheath. "I'm an angel! I'm flying! Death to the niggies!" she shouted. "The angel of death is flying! Death to America! Ficky-fick forever."

Then her feet left the floor and she soared downward, down the sheer face of the building, her garment unwinding behind her in brilliant white streamers as she fell naked to the ground below.

Remo shook his head. "Freaking nutcase," he said. "Everybody in this deal is a nutcase."

Barney Daniels sat up in bed, rubbing the sore spot where the intravenous feeding needle had been taken out.

"Just a couple more days, Mr. Daniels," said the black nurse. "Then you'll be out of here. Can't happen too soon, either. If some of our regulars found out we had a white man here, I don't know what'd happen." She smiled at him.

"No," said Barney, shaking himself to life. "Now."

"Now, now..." the nurse began.

"Just once," Barney said. "Now. I'm going. Get Doc."

"Doctor Jackson is busy at the..."

"Get him in here." Barney's voice reverberated through the small private room. "Otherwise I'll run out front and tell the whole neighborhood that you're treating white folks. You'll never live it down."

"Just you calm down," the nurse said. "I'll get the doctor."

Jackson was harried and tired looking and Barney realized he could not remember a time when Jackson hadn't been overworked, overtired and underappreciated.

"What is it now, you honkey pain in the ass?" Jackson said.

"Sit down, Doc."

"C'mon, I'm busy."

Barney sat up and cleared a space on his bed. "Talk to me for a minute. We both need it."

Doc Jackson sat, his knees creaking as he bent them.

"Bad one?" Barney asked.

Jackson nodded. "Bullet wound. Some asshole went on a toot and shot his girlfriend in the face. I thought I could save her." He closed his eyes, the lids weighted by decades of sleepless nights and lost causes.

"Ever hear from your wife?" Barney asked.

"Sure." His grim black face cracked into a semblance of a smile. "When she wants more money."

"Your kid?"

"Ivy League. Majoring in revolution, relevance and hate. I'm not one of her favorite people. What's this all about anyway?"

Barney shifted on the bed. "No reason. I've just been thinking. Wondering how things might have turned out, you know, if Denise..."

"Stop it. Now. All the what if s and what-might-have-beens in the world aren't going to bring her back, no matter how bad you want her."

"I remembered, Doc. I remembered everything." There was such pain on his friend's face that Jackson could not ease it. All he could do was to spend this moment with Barney and listen to him.

"I remembered when things used to be important. Ordinary things, just living. Every day when I'd wake up, I'd be glad that I made it through again. Do you remember?"

"Me?" Jackson thought. "I don't know. I guess so. But everybody gets over being young. That's all it is. You get older, you see things differently. You expect less." He shrugged.

"Bullshit," Barney said. "There's not a day goes by that you — you personally, Robert Hanson Jackson — don't wonder what the hell you're doing here."

"Oh, really?" Jackson mocked. "What makes you think you know so much about me?"