Fiona Maazel - Woke Up Lonely

Then he spoke to his dad, “Wake up, boss,” which was the appellation Wayne preferred but never got. When he began to come round, Thurlow tried to diffuse wake-up panic with the facts: “You had a seizure, but you’re fine.” Only he wasn’t having it. He said he’d broken his skull and needed to go to the hospital. Normally, it was hours before fluency with the language returned, and sometimes, for how long it took, Thurlow wondered if maybe Wayne didn’t have a tumor lodged in his brain. But today, he was all rebound. “I could probably get a doctor to come,” Thurlow said, but Wayne said no, it could not wait, his head was broken. The man tended to exaggerate — over the years he’d claimed six heart attacks and three strokes — but it wouldn’t do to ignore him. Ignore him, and he’d just have another seizure from the upset. To be fair, he was slurring his words. And one of his pupils appeared larger than the other.

Thurlow said, “It’s possible you are just experiencing a postseizure headache.”

Wayne said, “Do I look like the sort of man who can’t tell the difference between a headache and hematoma? Call an ambulance — I need to get out of here.” He winced in pain and then seemed to pass out from it.

Dean arrived, breathless. He took in the scene and said, “Where’s two through six?”

“How should I know?” Thurlow shook his head with disgust. So Dean had left guards on duty. But where were they now?

“He all right?” Dean said.

Thurlow nodded.

“Wayne’s a tough old bastard.”

“He wants to go to the hospital. Says he broke his skull.”

Dean gripped his lower lip between thumb and index finger. A thinking man’s pose. He had a set of formulas that helped him determine risk-to-benefit ratios so that when he spoke, it was never knee-jerk.

“Not good,” he said. “Downright stupid. Chances of hematoma: slim.”

Thurlow glanced at the hostages, hoping they agreed with Dean and would indicate as much in their bearing or demeanor. What he did not hope was that they would volunteer advice out loud, which Anne-Janet did, saying, “Not to overstep, but you’d best let him out,” the others nodding and maybe even weeping because, if nothing else, watching someone have an epileptic fit was terrifying.

Wayne looked peaceful, but his breath was short.

“Call an ambulance,” Thurlow said. “And, I don’t know, tell the feds not to shoot anyone when they come out.”

Then he kissed his father on the cheek. He probably would not see him again, though he knew Wayne would be fine.

An hour later, a knock at the door. Norman.

“How is my father?” Thurlow said. “What’s the news?”

Norman flipped through a notebook. “Dean handled it. Ask him.”

“I’m asking you.”

Norman palmed the back of his own neck like he might slam his face into the desk. He said, “I thought I was the one dealing with the negotiator. Dean let one out and got nothing in return. Good job.”

“He’s not one, he’s my dad.”

“Just trying to get with the lingo,” Norman said. “Now that we’re all criminal.”

“You weren’t around, Norman.”

“You could have called.”

Was this really the time to be discussing his hurt feelings? Thurlow said, “You should know and tell the others: Vicki is out. She was bugged.”

“I heard.”

“She won’t be the last, either.”

“Naturally.”

“So, can you find out about my father?”

His face blanked just long enough for Thurlow to realize he wasn’t listening. “Fine,” Norman said. “I’ll check it out. Sorry.”

“You’re sorry. Since when is ‘I’m sorry’ our panacea of choice?”

This time, Norman did not hesitate. He said, “‘Self-indictment will be considered adequate restitution for mistakes made in dereliction of duty, so long as the derelict is earnest in apology.’”

Thurlow snorted. Norman said, “I’m sorry. I’ll look into it. ”

“Norm, look, I know this day hasn’t produced yet, but let’s make it happen — right now, okay? Let’s get this tape filmed. How hard can it be just to hit Record? I’ll talk about the Helix; we’ll grow tenfold! Can’t you round up the crew and get us going here?”

But no. Norman looked like candle wax come down the shaft. He was melting, drooping.

“Norm, come on, cheer up, things will change once the ransom tape is out — you said so yourself. When have I ever let you down?” But the look on his face stayed put, and it was as if the specter of their history together scared out all the breathable air in the room.

“We just got word from the money,” he said, which was what he called Pyongyang. He pulled up a website, and there it was: a plaint from the North Koreans. Apparently, they appreciated how the Middle Eastern clubs communicated worldwide and, to similar effect, had usurped back-end control of websites unlikely to attract big notice. Today’s effort had been dumped in noise on the Birdhouse Network.

The message said they were not happy. They were concerned about the safety of their investment. They wanted reassurance that the Helix had not been imperiled by this hostage situation, and they wanted this reassurance in the form of words Thurlow was to speak on the ransom tape. They had instructed him to pay tribute to the most beloved leader Kim Jong-il but to do so in a way that would not expose their relations. By way of subtlety, Pyongyang had suggested he say, “In the tradition of the most beloved leader Kim Jong-il, and though I cannot speak with half as much wisdom as he, and though the DPRK is the most blessed and enlightened nation on earth, the ascendancy of which I cannot even hope to broach with what feeble ambitions are mine and my people’s, nonetheless, hello.”

Norman read over his shoulder.

“These people have some nerve,” Thurlow said.

“Maybe they just want what’s been promised them.”

“I promised to try to make them look good, that’s all. Everyone’s been promised something.”

“Great,” he said. “I’ll be sure to pass that on.”

Thurlow wanted to shoot him a look of such authority, it would crush the revolt in his heart. Except why bother? He noticed Norman’s Helix boutonniere was brass, not silver, only they had never ordered brass, so it was all clear. Clear like Vicki — one by one, down they went. Norman followed his eye—“You must be kidding”—and he wrested the pin from his lapel. He plunked it in Thurlow’s hand with the insolence of a kid surrendering his gum to the principal. Thurlow examined it with a magnifying glass he kept in the desk, and when he was satisfied the silver was just tarnished, the button was a button, he squirreled it away among other contraband, including a sunburst, a class ring, and an ivory cameo heirloom his new TC had cried about for an hour.

“What do you want me to write back?” Norman said. “Tell Pyongyang that everything is fine and not to worry.” “You should know a couple tanks just crossed the river. There’s kids giving the National Guard balloons and pie outside the stadium.”

“So much for the stealth of night,” Thurlow said.

“So much for everything,” Norman said back. He tossed a crumpled sheet of printer paper on the desk, which he’d obviously snatched from the garbage. It read:

If my wife comes here with Ida.

In exchange for the hostages, Ned, Bruce, Olgo, Anne-Janet, I request. I demand. The Helix requires.

On behalf of the Helix, I demand that for the release of the four detainees, Esme Haas and daughter Ida present themselves at my door for cookies and milk. Tea and cookies. Hot chocolate and pfeffernüsse, because what little girl can resist the spicy, chewy, finger-lickin’ euphoria of the German pepper cookie?