Jack O'Connell - Word Made Flesh

Gilrein pulls in a trembling breath and manages to say, “You miserable bastard.”

“This miserable bastard just saved your lousy ass, Gilly,” almost yelling, then getting hold of himself, bringing it back down to friendly and quiet. “It’s just a building, all right? It’s been empty for ten years and it’s been ruined for the past three. We just took it over, okay? Christ’s sake, it’s just a building.” A pause and then, voice even lower, “You ever think it might do you some good to—”

“Don’t even say it.”

Oster nods, holds up both hands, lets some time pass.

“We’ve got to talk, Gilrein. There’s some things I’ve got to ask you and there’s some things you’ve got to ask me. So let’s just do it.”

“And if I refuse?”

Oster smiles, pats his shoulder.

“Then I put you out of your misery.”

Gilrein stares at him, pushes open the door, and says, “Could’ve been anyplace else.”

Oster shrugs and says, “No, Gilly. It just couldn’t.”

Oster presses a bell and in a minute there’s the sound of dead bolts sliding out of the loading apron and into the hollow of the door. Then the panel rolls up on its tracks and they step into a dim concrete foyer filled with stale beer smell, cigar smoke, dim lights, and a faint trace of country and western music.

Just inside the foyer, set up like a reception desk, is a short section of industrial conveyor belt. Behind the desk, perched on a fold-out aluminum step stool, is a young cop named Danny Walden. He’s dressed in jeans and a red corduroy shirt and he sports a sparser version of Oster’s mustache.

Walden nods to Oster, smiles at Gilrein and says, “Been a hell of a long time.”

Oster hands over the Ithaca, which Danny mounts on a wall rack. Then Oster takes his department.38 from a hip holster and puts it on the desk, followed by a Heritage.25 that he pulls from an ankle rig. He straightens up, puts a hand on Gilrein’s shoulder and says, “A brother officer just got the shit kicked out of him by a couple of Kroger’s assholes. What do you think about that, Danno?”

Walden puts the handguns into a file cabinet behind him, shakes his head and says, “I think that’s something we’re going to have to look into.”

Oster extends his hand to Gilrein’s far shoulder and starts to pull him down a short, fat corridor and deeper into the factory. Walden calls from behind, “It’s good to see you, Gilrein.”

Oster is wearing steel-toe engineer’s boots and there’s an echo as the heels slap the floor. They take a left down a longer but narrower corridor and the sound of the music gets louder.

“Wait till you see what we’ve done to this place,” Oster says. “I mean the damage was unbelievable. The rear of the building is still demolished. Looks like a quarry back there. But, you know, who needs it? There’s still plenty of room.”

They come to a set of swinging double doors painted pumpkin orange. From his coat pocket, Oster pulls a thumb breaker that he’s modified into a key chain. He unlocks the doors and opens them, steps through into the main work loft of the printing mill.

He says, “Welcome to the Houdini Lounge.”

The place is lit by a few dozen fluorescent fixtures hidden behind an enormous American flag suspended from the ceiling. The oil-scarred concrete floor is squared by high brick walls. One wall houses a bank of small windows, but the majority of them have been boarded over, giving the whole room a sickly, claustrophobic air. The loft is part frat house, part pool hall, and part old-time garage all rolled into one gritty, sweaty package. There’s a makeshift plywood stage at the close end of the room and a chunky stripper is trying to perform to a Waylon Jennings tune off a flashing Wurlitzer juke. There are folding felt-topped card tables clustered beyond the stage, and a half-dozen poker sessions are in progress inside blue clouds of smoke. One full wall is blocked off by an endless bar made of cherry-stained plywood. The front face of the bar is bedecked with aluminum beer cans. There are no stools; everyone stands or leans. Spray-painted across the length of the wall behind the bar, in a loopy kind of child’s attempt at a cursive scrawl, are the words PEOPLE DISAPPEAR.

There’s a clutter of rec room games — Ping-Pong, air hockey, pinball — seemingly plunked down with little thought given to traffic patterns or the necessity of unrestricted arm movement. An extensive Universal weight-lifting system is parked beside two large-screen televisions that sit side by side. One screen is showing dim images of a boxing match to a group of men crammed onto a green Naugahyde couch. The other is beaming a grainy black-and-white skin flick to a group of men crammed onto a matching red couch. Both couches are spilling a coarse, gray-colored stuffing from split seams.

Gilrein can put a name to half the faces in the room. The other half are familiar, like younger siblings of people he might have known at one time. The stripper is the only woman in the place. Everyone else is a cop.

Oster stands with his hands on his hips surveying the scene. He turns to Gilrein and says, “Bet it makes you miss it.”

“Miss it?”

“The camaraderie. You know, being on the job.”

Gilrein says, “I’m really starting to stiffen up here.”

Oster nods, concerned and brotherly. “C’mon upstairs. We’ll get you fixed up. You’re going to be okay, Gilly.”

They make their way through the room, Gilrein’s name being called out over and over, long-neck beer bottles lifted toward him, hands clapping down on his bruised back. At the far end of the hall he follows Oster up a set of stairs to a large office lit by candles and smelling of harsh incense. The room is outfitted with a wooden desk, a leather couch, and what looks like a padded hospital gurney. Hanging in a corner is a heavy bag for boxing workouts. And reclining on the couch is a small, elderly woman dressed in what, at first, looks like an old nun’s habit.

Oster snaps on a wall light and says in a loud voice, “Wake up, Mrs. Bloch.”

He closes the office door and adds, “Couple of Light White Sparks for my friend and me, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

Mrs. Bloch goes to the desk, opens a drawer, and removes a label-less bottle and two clear plastic tumblers.

“Da ist nein eis,” she says in a thick, dry accent, maybe Eastern European. “Der ma’jine brook e’gein.”

And that’s when Gilrein notices her face. Mrs. Bloch has no eyes. Or rather, where her eyes should be are two flaps of skin bulging from below the forehead to above the cheekbones. It’s as if two smooth tumors have grown over the eyes like fat pancakes. It’s possible the skin was grafted onto the face for some unknown but horrible medical reason. The skin is just slightly darker than the rest of the face, but there’s no evidence of any stitching or scarring where it melds into the original tissue.

Gilrein stares down at the floor and Mrs. Bloch comes to him and hands him his drink, then goes back to the desk, opens a new drawer and takes out a small case, about the size and shape of a cigar box, but covered in deep blue felt. She opens the top of the box back on its hinges, puts her hands inside and fiddles with something.

There are two large plate glass windows cut into the long walls of the office and facing each other. The inner window looks down over the club below. Oster moves in front of it, sheds his leather jacket and drops it on the couch, then starts to unbutton his shirt.

He turns to Gilrein suddenly and says, “I’m sorry, have a seat.”

Gilrein walks to the opposite end of the couch and sits down slowly. He takes a sip from the tumbler and tastes something like rum but with an additional medicine flavor.