Darren Lemke - Gemini Man

When she’d complained, they’d said they were working shorthanded, very sorry for the inconvenience. The inconvenience ? They had no idea what inconvenience really was. Dammit, this was coffee . She needed coffee to help her face another day full of things that everyone said couldn’t get worse actually getting worse. What the hell was so goddam hard about making a cup of goddam coffee? It wasn’t goddam rocket science. Hell, it wasn’t even government admin.

“Hey!” she said finally as the barista got started on yet another order that wasn’t hers.

“Yes?” The woman looked up with a perfect corporate smile.

“My coffee ?”

“Coming right up!” the barista said with perfect corporate cheer as she handed a cup to someone else. Again.

“Yeah? When? ” Lassiter demanded.

The barista’s corporate smile faltered slightly. “Just a few folks ahead of you, then I’ll be happy to—”

“Jesus,” Lassiter turned away, fuming. This was hopeless, she thought; if she had to wait, she might as well do it sitting down. She took a step toward her usual table, then froze.

Some woman—some bitch was sitting in her chair, at her window, looking at her lousy view of downtown Savannah. All the morning regulars knew that was her place. Who the hell did this bitch think she was?

Then she turned around and Lassiter found out.

“Surprise—I survived.” Agent Zakarewski gave her the thousand-watt smile of someone who didn’t suffer from gingivitis, constipation or high blood pressure. “Sorry.”

In Del Patterson’s opinion, the best thing about DC bars was how perceptive the bartenders were. They knew when you didn’t want to talk about the game or complain about your kids or your ex or the job (which he couldn’t even admit to having). They just served you drinks, made sure you didn’t run dry, and let you go to hell in your own way. Going to hell was a very lengthy process and DC bartenders knew better than to interrupt you while you were building up momentum.

When the can of Coca-Cola appeared on the bar in front of him, Patterson thought he had to be seeing things—a pesky hallucination from a guilty conscience, which always picked the goddamnedest times to wake up and tug his sleeve. He closed his eyes. You’re a day late and a dollar short, he told his conscience. Now get lost and don’t come back without a warrant.

But when he opened his eyes, the can was still there, and none other than Henry Brogan was sitting on the stool next to him. This was no hallucination—as guilty as Patterson’s conscience was, it didn’t have this degree of wattage.

“You know better,” Henry said, sliding the glass of whiskey over to himself.

Patterson gave a short, humorless laugh. “Surprised you give a shit.”

“Well, a bunch of assassins did try to kill me on your watch,” Henry said, chuckling. “But that doesn’t mean I want to see you drink yourself to death.”

Yeah, that was Henry, Patterson thought, feeling worse. The man was full of integrity and decency, qualities Patterson was pretty sure were innate. He had no idea how the DIA had managed to get their hooks into someone like Henry but he was pretty sure everyone involved would burn in hell for it, himself included.

“The Gemini lab’s been dismantled,” Patterson said. “The cloning program is history.”

“And Junior?” Henry asked. His voice was light but with an undertone that let Patterson know there was a lot riding on whether he liked the answer.

“Junior’s untouchable,” Patterson said. “No one will bother him, ever. And we checked—there are no more clones.”

Henry nodded. “What about you?”

Patterson dipped his head noncommittally, suppressing the urge to tell him to stop being so goddam decent. “Internal Affairs called. I’m looking at charges. But if I bury Janet, I can make a deal.”

“She earned it,” Henry said.

Patterson nodded glumly. He started to say something, thought better of it, tried to say something else and still couldn’t find the words. He took another breath.

“I’m really sorry, Henry,” he said finally, and winced at how utterly lame that sounded.

But to his surprise, Henry offered his hand and said, “Take care, Del.”

Goddammit, Henry was going to beat him to death with decency, Del thought as he took it. “You too.” He placed his other hand briefly over Henry’s. “And, uh, happy retirement.”

Sitting on a bench in the middle of the City College campus, Henry thought, What a difference six months makes.

Not a phrase from which songs were made—it was too sensible, too realistic, lacking in lyrical drama. But people didn’t live in songs. It took time to recover, for bones to knit and wounds to heal, for bruises to fade and fears to subside. Twenty-four little hours couldn’t possibly cut it. Even six months might not be quite long enough to recuperate completely but it was a pretty good start.

Another good start was the name on the passport he was holding: Jackson Verris. Henry had initially been surprised the kid had decided to keep the surname. But after a little more thought, he realized it wasn’t all that surprising. Having a lousy father wasn’t a rare thing. Personally, Henry figured the lousy-father rate at fifty percent, give or take, and hoped he wasn’t underestimating. He had firsthand knowledge about lousy fathers and he’d still been Henry Brogan all his life. You were who you were. He wasn’t his father and Jackson Verris wasn’t his.

Like the man said, what’s in a name? Probably the same as what was in life—whatever you put into it.

Okay, he was getting way too heavy now, Henry thought, and slipped the passport back into the manila envelope with the rest of the paperwork. Maybe it was the environment influencing him to get cerebral, although City College wasn’t exactly an ivory tower. Ever since Budapest, however, Henry had acquired a more conscious respect for higher education; it was something he wanted for Junior. Correction: Jackson.

“Hey,” said a familiar voice behind him.

“Hey, yourself,” Henry said as Danny sat down beside him. “Good to see you. Congrats on the promotion. I hear the DIA’s got big plans for you. Think you’re up to it?”

“After you?” Danny laughed. “I’m pretty sure I can handle anything.”

There were a few more lines around her eyes, Henry noticed; some from laughing, more from worry, reminding him of Jack Willis. Although he was sure things would come out a lot better for her.

“How about you?” Danny asked. “How have you been?”

“Just got back from Cartagena,” he said. “Settled Baron’s estate, scattered his ashes in the Caribbean. All I want to do now is put some good in the world, you know? I’ve just got to figure out how.”

Danny patted his arm. “You’ll get there. How are you sleeping these days?” She was still smiling but her voice had turned serious; it went with her smile-worry lines.

“Better,” Henry said truthfully.

“No ghosts?”

“Not for a while,” he said. “I’ve stopped avoiding mirrors, too.” He was starting to feel a little uncomfortable now. Danny would have told him that after all they’d been through together, neither of them had anything to feel ill at ease about. No doubt she was right about that but he still found it difficult to talk about certain things and no matter how close they were, he probably always would.

But before he got stuck trying to find a way to change the subject, the subject changed itself. “Speaking of mirrors,” he said, looking past her with a grin.