Chuck Hogan - Devils in Exile

On feast nights, Royce hired a town car to drive them, insisting on traveling in style, even when the restaurant was only a couple of blocks away. The street-level dining room of the Berkeley Grill was once the commodities trading floor of a famous tea company, a room with massive Corinthian columns and mahogany paneling with green marble accents, and Royce favored a round table in the rear corner. They sat there in dress jackets, like gentlemen, even Termino, shoe heels sharp on the polished oak floor, drinking Budweisers and feasting on starters from the raw bar. The headwaiter, Sebastian, knew Royce by name and always sent over some new appetizer for a taste, and the chef emerged from the kitchen for a handshake and a laugh. Royce placed five identical orders — ten-ounce Kobe cap steak, medium rare — then everyone and everything else went away, the entire city retreating as all the energy in the room was sucked toward their round table. For the remainder of the meal, their round table became the city, the only place in it that mattered.

Before the steak arrived, Royce slipped off his new wristwatch and passed it around. Not a wristwatch, he informed them, but a “Big Crown Telemeter Chronograph.” Maven took it in his hands and felt the new leather of the strap, the fluted top telemeter ring of the oversize face, then turned it over and viewed the Swiss gears working inside the see-through crystal back. He passed it on to Glade, and it found its way around to Termino, who barely looked it over, returning it to Royce.

“Got one just like it,” Termino grumbled, the others laughing at him.

Then Termino pulled back his sleeve. He did have one just like it.

Royce passed out three black boxes labeled ORIS. Three identical timepieces. “I hear any of you call it a watch, I’m taking it back.”

Maven buckled his, admiring the oversize stainless-steel casing, the solid feel of it on his wrist.

“Retails for two grand, in case you’re wondering,” said Royce. “I did better than that, of course, but it’s the thought that counts. And here is the thought. We are at the top of our game right now. A game no one else could play — not at this level. Look around at these people here. These civilians. They call us heroes, right? But they’re afraid of us. You can feel it. They were much more comfortable with us over there, protecting them and their wealth. Not back here looking to get some of that for ourselves. The country-club door is closed. But — we’ve been to the other side. We’ve seen it. We know, and they know, that all this civility is a construct. A fantasy, and a pretty thin one at that. Our presence here is a reminder they don’t want to get. Because if it all started to go south stateside, who would be running things? We would. This round table right here. Be running everything . And I happen to believe that day will come. That the pendulum will swing back, and all the warriors who got civilized out of the power structure will reclaim their glory. But, for now, we have to dwell in the shadows. Like kings in exile. Waiting for the day.”

Maven had heard variations on this theme from Royce before, but never so bold a call for revolution. Glade said, “To the exiled kings,” and everyone drank.

“They say, ‘Work hard,’” continued Royce, “but what they mean is ‘Obey.’ They got from us what they needed and now have to find ways of keeping us out. They want us to come back and be good little checkers on their board, plodding along one space at a time. But they forget that the warrior in us got activated. We come in like bona fide chessmen, badass rooks and bishops and knights, breaking all the rules, jumping their kings, and they’re like, ‘Fuck was that?’”

Maven grinned at Royce miming someone getting ripped off. But Royce wasn’t looking for laughs.

“They want us tamed. They want us happy and distracted. To keep us in line. But look at us here. We defy .” He raised his bottle. “Tomorrow? Who knows what it will bring. But right now — tonight — we are the shit. Far as I’m concerned, this round table right here is running this city. Salud. ”

They left the steak house with bellies full of meat and blood full of Bud. Royce wanted to go someplace to get a decent cocktail, but he allowed himself to be outvoted and the Town Car took them up to Bukowski Tavern, a narrow bar on Dalton Street dangling over the Massachusetts Turnpike. A no-pretensions, cash-only bar to balance out the clubby steak house.

“Grunts with money,” said Royce. “Dangerous fucking combination.”

Glade and Suarez cornered up with Termino, making enough noise to clear out a pocket of space at the kitchen end of the bar. Maven settled in at a window overlooking the cars speeding below them. The collar of the bartender’s vintage RATT concert T-shirt was cut straight down to the midpoint of her cleavage, and it was worth the price of a draft just to watch her pour it. Royce let the “Wheel o’ Beer” spin and ordered a round of whatever came up.

“Glade tells me you’re all getting street bikes,” he said, sitting alone with Maven.

Maven nodded, swiping the foam off his upper lip. “We all caught the bug, watching these Harleys all day.”

“We’ll go up to New Hampshire, get them there. No sales tax, and they’re used to seeing cash.”

Maven nodded again, the matter decided with inebriated certainty. “No Danny tonight?”

Royce threw Maven a close stare that made Maven wonder if his voice had said something other than those three words. Maven didn’t know why he had asked in the first place.

“She calls you Gridley.”

Maven nodded, eager to elaborate. “Turns out we’re from the same town. Couple of years apart.”

“I know why she never went back. What about you?”

Maven shrugged. “I did go back, once. My sister’s funeral. Half sister.” His grip on the bottle grew tighter. “Nothing for me there.”

Royce saw something in Maven’s expression that pulled him closer. A darkness that intrigued him. “What’d you think about that, back at the restaurant?”

“Yeah, it was great, the meal—”

“No, I meant, what we talked about. What I was saying.”

“Oh. Yeah, it was interesting.”

“I’m not looking for fucking feedback, Maven. I want to know what you think .”

“About what you were saying?” Maven shrugged, not knowing how to say this. “It’s kind of dangerous, I guess.”

“Dangerous.”

“... Unless I missed something.”

Royce backed up, ready to take another run at it. “Look, the other guys, Glade and Suarez — I know my rap is wasted on them. You’re different.”

Maven shook his head.

“Sure you are. This, here in the States, it’s Candy Land. This is a dream. A fantasy compared to over there, which was reality. Cold reality. But here comes the bitterest irony. Over there, in the real world, you had power. A rifle in your hand, a flag on your shoulder. Over there, you were a king. But back here in fantasyland, you’re like anybody else. Only less so, because you’ve been gone so long, you’re a couple of steps behind. See? All backwards. In reality, a king. In fantasy, a peasant. A dangerous fucking peasant. A peasant who knows what it is to be a king.” Royce leaned closer again. “That seem right to you?”

Maven tried to inhale a little sobriety, feeling over his head here. “No, but — we’re winning, right? We’re beating the system.”

“Absolutely we are. For now. But what happens next?”

“Next what?”

“It’s just common sense. Things can’t go on like this forever, right? Things are going to reach a critical mass at some point. Then what? Do we call it a day? Or is there another stage in the evolution?”