Greg Rucka - Alpha

The Uzbek, personally, and with a growing passion, wanted the man dead. But that was bad business, at least as of now. Still, it was only at his master’s order that he took the meeting, this last time, that he went to meet Mr. Money face-to-face to assure him that what he desired would come to pass, and come to pass quite soon.

But not in a restaurant; the Uzbek had refused that, and refused (and marveled at the man’s arrogance to even suggest such a thing) a second time when Mr. Money had offered to meet in his own home. It had been the Uzbek himself who had finally arranged the place and time for their meeting, an evening soccer match between FC Dallas and Toronto FC played at Pizza Hut Park.

In the cheap seats.

“Twelve thousand people and change here,” Mr. Money said. “How is this better?”

The Uzbek shook his head. If the man didn’t see anonymity in a crowd, silence in the noise, it wasn’t worth explaining. In point of fact, he suspected that the man understood perfectly, and was simply annoyed at being asked to follow directions instead of issuing them himself.

“This will be our last contact,” the Uzbek lied. “After this, further communication from you will be ignored. All the channels you have used to contact us are, as of this time, closed. I have been told to relay that to you explicitly. Should the need arise, we shall contact you, not the other way around.”

“You were told? You were fucking told?” Mr. Money made a face, squinted out at the pitch, feigning interest in the game. “That man you work for, he should damn well have the courtesy to come in person, considering how much I’m paying for this.”

“He pays you the courtesy of sending me, sir. Were it my decision, you would have been ignored entirely.”

“I have a right to know what’s going on.”

“You do not.” The Uzbek paused, leaning forward in his seat to watch a corner kick play out right of the near goal line. The ball curled wide, then was headed out of play. He sat back once more. “You have a right to a result, that is all. Knowing how that result will be achieved only serves to compromise you.”

“I hope that’s not a threat.” The man squinted behind his tortoiseshell sunglasses, glanced at the Uzbek.

“It’s the furthest thing from it. But you have contracted for a result within parameters that you yourself defined. This result cannot be achieved hastily, and it cannot be achieved haphazardly. You must give us time to work.”

“I have given you time to work. I’ve given you the better part of a goddamn year to work.”

“The result, as I said, is not one that can be achieved in haste.”

“There’s an election coming up.”

“You’re an American. There is always an election coming up.”

Mr. Money grunted, resumed watching the game playing out beneath them, or at least feigned interest in doing so. Then he slapped his thighs with his hands, grunting again, climbing to his feet. The man squinted behind his sunglasses, glanced the Uzbek’s way. He was short, and growing old, and physically there was nothing intimidating or even powerful about him. But when he spoke next, he did so with the confidence of a man half his age and twice his size.

“You fuck me around, I will most surely fuck you back. You and your boss. Neither of you is as insulated and mysterious as you might think.” Mr. Money tapped at his temple with a long index finger. “You’ve got reach, but I do, too.”

“You have paid for a service,” the Uzbek said, looking up at him. “You will have your result.”

“I damn well better have it.”

Taking the last word, the older man began edging his way along the row to the aisle. The Uzbek watched until he was descending the stairs, then stole a glance at his watch before turning his eyes back to the match. If traffic was with him, he could stay until the half before catching his flight to Anaheim.

Gabriel Fuller ducks through a FRIENDS ONLY door on the northwest side of Town Square at six minutes past ten o’clock, out of sight and traffic and into a small, ten-by-ten-foot courtyard, walled by buildings on all sides. The sun isn’t quite high enough to beat the angle, and there’s shade here, and he puts his back to the wall to his right, to stay out of the way of the Friends moving back and forth.

He wrestles his hands free from his paws before pulling Pooch from his head. The end of his second shift already, and as the headpiece comes off and he tastes fresh air, he can feel his heart pounding and the sweat running down his back. It’s hot today, already hot, but that’s not why he’s perspiring, that’s not what’s making his heart race.

He cuts between a Royal Flashman and a Smooch the Baby Elephant emerging from the doorway opposite, makes his way down the stairs into the Gordo Tunnel. There are more Friends here, some in character, but mostly just custodial staff and service personnel. He nearly runs over a guy in a Star System Alliance maintenance uniform, mutters an apology to him, turns into one of the common areas, and then into the Gordo South changing area. Most of the characters are already out in the park, and the room is empty but for a single Betsy. She’s an Asian woman, and her unmasked head looks absurdly small as it pokes up from Betsy’s cartoon-width shoulders. He’s guessing she’s in her early twenties, and she’s just sitting there on one of the benches, holding the headpiece to her costume, staring into Betsy’s eyes.

“Fucking awful out there today,” she says, and Gabriel wonders if she’s talking to Betsy or to him.

“Tell me about it.” Gabriel drops Pooch’s head and the paws on the bench, begins to unfasten the buckles and tabs at his waist.

The woman sighs, rises with a supreme effort. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more…” she says, and her head is disappearing into Betsy’s, and her last words come out muffled, but distinct. “And close up this park with the bodies of these privileged dead…”

Gabriel Fuller, half out of his Pooch costume, stares after her, feeling an absurd flare of panic. Can she know? How can she possibly know?

But she can’t know, no one knows, he tells himself. Another out-of-work actor, that’s all, every other damn person working here is an out-of-work actor, calm down.…

The clock on the wall here is reading eighteen minutes past ten, WilsonVille Standard Time. He’s still on schedule, still on the timetable. He sits, pulls off the boots, then kicks his way out of the leggings. Then it’s the chest piece, and now he’s standing there in his sneakers and a body stocking that’s drenched with sweat. Dana once told him that she’d heard someone else say that some of the characters go naked inside their costumes, but she didn’t believe it, because if that went wrong could you imagine how quickly you’d get fired? The next day, Gabriel had taken her down to this same changing area and showed her one of the Pooch costumes in all its component glory, including letting her take a whiff of it. It had been freshly laundered, too, and it still smelled ripe.

No way would I ever want to be naked in that, he’d told her.

No way would I ever want you to be, she’d said, laughing.

He moves to the locker where he’s stowed his clothes, works the combination with quick presses of the keypad, listening to the chirp as each digit is acknowledged. He peels himself out of his bodysuit, glancing around once more. He’s on duty for another three hours today, and if a manager comes by and recognizes him, he doesn’t want to explain why he’s changing clothes or, worse, why it is he’s committed the near-?capital crime of leaving Pooch in pieces on the floor.