Richard House - The Kills

He considered Geezler’s proposal and found no argument against it. Go to a trade fair on Navy Pier, wander about, speak with the handlers and exhibitors, then report back in the evening on how it went. Just return with his impressions. Five hundred dollars.

He rehearsed the conversation with Cathy, played through how he would introduce Geezler, and how he would ridicule the man’s dull concerns and intensities, that entire ramble about his work, that fuzz and fuss about woods and forests. Even as he rehearsed this he winced, slightly superstitious about laughing at the man.

* * *

The story as Santo tells it goes something like this: He’s a unit manager, in Amrah, four nights on, one night off, which is how and where he first met Gunnersen. He’s used to the heat, but this was something else. Insanely fierce. And the wind, when it picked up, carried a dry scent of desert, burnt land, a thousand-plus miles of waterless Arabian plains and rock. He started as part of a team that cleared the roadside trash, which is burned on the spot or bundled into skips to be taken to one of the burn pits, and worked his way up. Work isn’t anything he has to like exactly, but endure. Even now the work bothers him in ways he can’t describe. Too much junk, too much dust, broken concrete, stuffed shopping bags, too much crap to properly know what’s being hidden. These buildings, he shakes his head. They clear them out, knock them down, and then build these superhighways right through them. A superhighway crashing right through some medieval sun-scorched slum. He splays his hands to describe the scene. Broken furniture, mattresses, you name it, TVs you’d sort of expect, but fax machines (who uses those?), PCs, game consoles, office furniture, beds even, you name it, all out on the roadside, doorways opening to unpaved roads. There’s no need to mention the water bottles. Always, everywhere, those ribbed plastic bottles.

He says things that aren’t entirely true: You smell what’s there. You get a nose for trouble. You learn the difference between someone running because they’re frightened and someone running because they’re the root cause of trouble. You get a nose for these things. You get to know the people you work with. You get close.

Fatboy wants to buy DVDs. He’s wearing one of the armoured vests supplied by HOSCO. He’s ready and he begs, literally begs, to be brought along. As soon as he’s in the vehicle he’s asking these stupid questions, the way he does. The boy can nag. He wants to know about the vests, how good they are, how effective. Like if you were shot in the chest would the vest protect you? How about the stomach? At what range? All of these questions none of them can answer. Then it becomes obvious that Fatboy has a gun with him. Something no one’s happy about, because the regulations are clear about contractors carrying guns, or rather not carrying guns, even though they can buy them easily enough, or sell or trade them on when they leave, because contractors are dying daily out here and the law is against them when it explicitly states that they Can’t Legitimately Protect Themselves. Guns aren’t allowed for non-combatants. No, no, no. On account of the gun and the questions, they change their minds about taking Fatboy with them and leave him in the vehicle, mulling, and tell him they’ll bring the DVDs right back, whatever’s new, whatever they don’t think he has, and plan to speak with him later about the handgun and about how he needs to behave if he wants more of these trips. Behave and Shut the Fuck Up. The point is made and the men walk off, and leave another guy, Samuels, for company, no one thinking that the weapon might be loaded or what kind of damage one bullet might make in the confines of a metal bucket like a Humvee. Barely into the market, Santo and his accompanying guard hear a contained report. A shot. Unmistakable. Back in the Humvee Samuels has blood specking his face, arms, shirt, and he’s freaking out, he’s screaming like he’s the one who’s hurt. And Fatboy has shot himself in the gut, although this isn’t so easy to work out at this particular moment. It’s an unbelievable thing, the interior of the truck is a canning-factory mess, sticky, black and red, just nasty, and Fatboy is crumpled like some strings have been cut; hands are sopped to his elbows and worst of all his face, his expression, like he doesn’t believe it, like this can’t be happening.

* * *

Santo will tell this story to the men at Camp Liberty who are curious about Rem, because they want to know who they’re working for and why he keeps so much to himself, and Santo seems to have an idea.

Rem won’t go to visit the boy before he’s shipped out, there’s a two-hour opportunity in which he makes himself scarce. Fatboy wants to see him, but Rem won’t visit and won’t say his goodbyes. He doesn’t do much other than look like he’s going to cry every time Fatboy’s name comes up, this ox of a man, brought low over this wounded skinny boy.

It’s like this thing comes at you, and you don’t even know it, and you’ve no idea what it’s going to do to you. Santo can’t explain himself. He wants to find meaning in this, but knows there’s a limit to what can be taken from such an event. The story is simple and not so rare, and he doesn’t do much at the end of telling it but shake his head. Fatboy. Stupid Fatboy. No harm to anyone but himself.

* * *

Wednesday. Up before Cathy, Rem took an early walk to the lake, a habit now in case Nut might be at the shoreline, then returned only to skulk out the house again and head downtown with a half-planned notion, two birds, one stone. He left without explanation. No tall tales about Paul Geezler or shared jokes about the man’s manner or his work. No hint on what he would be doing today. Just a plan to attend the expo, report back as requested (although he still wasn’t sure what the man wanted) and earn in one day what had taken three weeks in the previous month. Plus, if he returned with brochures and information it might be enough to quieten Cathy. Two birds. Prospects for the early summer weren’t looking good. At some point he’d need to speak more formally with Mike and Jay and the others about putting the business on hold. He might have to explain about Matt.

Riding the train, Rem made a decision about Coleman.

* * *

Posters along Grand advertised tickets for the expo at twenty-five dollars. A crisp wind blew from the shore, cold and without aroma. Wagons and trailers for a film production blocked the sheltered roadway under Lake Shore Drive, and Rem picked a route between the idling vehicles, the gathered onlookers, expecting to be challenged. The city stopped at the pier, an abrupt wall of glass towers behind him, ahead a clean rolling blue that stopped the running argument in his head.

His phone trilled in his pocket: Coleman — 1 voice.

Rem found the entrance to the expo through a fixed fairground, a hotdog and souvenir stand right beside the stairway. As soon as he’d mounted the steps he realized that he was out of place. Dressed in jeans and trainers and a hooded top, he cut a scruffy figure, a slouch among men in pressed suits, military uniforms, and military fatigues. Men with heads shorn to express discipline.

The exhibition space, a long glass-topped gallery sectioned by two parallel aisles of open booths, stretched the length of the pier. In each booth the company names and logos were stencilled large across the walls, every one of the small kiosks dressed with carpets, counters, and tables, little sets busy with leaflets and brochures. And why hadn’t he worn his suit?

Rem had a list from Geezler of the HOSCO partners, the subdivisions, and the subsidiaries. The companies he needed to check out.