Andrew Ervin - Extraordinary Renditions

Then it was his turn to speak. “I’m from Philadelphia.”

“Yo, Philly.”

“No. Nobody in Philly calls it ‘Philly’ except people who aren’t from there. It’s ‘Philadelphia.’” That wasn’t entirely true, but he liked the idea of messing with him. “And as far as being in Hungary, well I ain’t really seen shit yet.”

Some of the others nodded in assent.

“You’ll get your chance,” Doornail said. “How ’bout you?” he asked another man. “Where you from, soldier?”

The conversation went on like that, and they hung on every word. Doornail took tiny sips from the whiskey and pretended to get tipsy. Once they went around the whole group, he riled them with stories about the titty bars in Budapest and the hot-blooded Hungarian girls. “Goddamn! Springtime in Budapest is a glorious sight! Play your cards right, toe the line, and I bet your man Sullivan’ll hook you up with a pass to come visit.”

The other soldiers bought the fake camaraderie like a five-dollar blowjob. One of them asked Doornail how he got the name.

“Back in O-Town … I mean, Oakland,” he said, looking at Brutus. “I got it when I was a teenager, and it just stuck.” He practiced his little laugh. “When I was sixteen I moved into my own crib. Sure, O-Town had a bad rep, but I never felt endangered in any way until then. I get there and I can tell right away that some of the folks in the hood were waiting to fuck with me.”

The word “fuck” sounded funny coming from him, like when an American solider spent too much time with the few remaining Brits and started saying shit like “bloody” and “wanker.”

“It’s a predatory thing in Oakland, and I was the new kid. Like you men here.”

Brutus paid a little more attention. He watched Doornail’s eyes as he spoke, but he couldn’t get any read.

“Day I move in, I pick up this dead rat out back. Big sucker. And I nail it to my front door, bam bam bam. I wanted to send a message to the neighborhood. You know, don’t fuck with me. Sure enough, I get up next morning and the rat’s gone. Somebody came up and stole it right off my door. Now this is a tough neighborhood! But you know what? No one messed with me after that. People didn’t shy away. I mean, they couldn’t let me be a badass by crucifying a rat on my door, but they didn’t mess with me neither.”

When the staff sergeant knocked on the door, everyone stood to shake Doornail’s hand. “Next time, I’ll see you men up in the city,” he told them, and exited like a rock star.

2.

Brutus picked up the Fanon book and then put it back down in frustration. The unorthodox visit from the marines was little more than another thinly veiled threat, a demonstration of Sullivan’s far-reaching influence, of the width and breadth of his might. Army life consisted of continuing battles of the will and the establishment of petty superiorities over one’s fellow man. He witnessed the ill-natured competitiveness most often in the mess hall and on the shooting ranges. Sullivan was the reigning champion of the big-dick contests, none of which had been mentioned at the recruiter’s office on Broad Street, under the gaze of that Quaker-ass William Penn.

The constant threat of terrorist attacks on American targets at home and abroad required Brutus to carry his firearm at all times, and his needed a good cleaning. The army was training the goddamn Iraqi police there on the base. That was what they called it. “Training” them in the fine art of torture, to be sure. Private jets landed every couple of days on an airstrip built specifically for the base’s restricted zone.

Doornail’s story stayed with him longer than he would have preferred. The image of the dead rat lingered on the periphery of Brutus’s thoughts, slightly out of focus but vivid enough to unsettle everything around it. There was a lesson in it — something foreboding, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He was taking apart his weapon when someone banged on his door. He didn’t answer it, but the knock came again. “Private First Class Gibson? You’re to report to Sullivan’s office immediately.”

Probably just a couple knuckleheads busting his balls.

“Hold up.” He clanged the pieces of his pistol together loud enough that they wouldn’t think he was jerking off.

A pair of Latino soldiers stood in the doorway, sending an elongated, fun-house shadow into his room. An open window backlit their helmets like two metallic haloes — a carefully cultivated effect. Brutus made a show of keeping his hands out in the open. He had grown suspicious of cops long before his arrival in Europe.

“You Gibson?”

“Yeah.”

One of the soldiers shifted his weight, sending a blinding light directly into Brutus’s eyes and rendering himself invisible. “Sullivan wants to see you.”

“Right now?” He looked back at the row of metal that had recently been a pistol. Regulations forbade him from leaving without it. He could go to jail for having an unsecured weapon in a barracks room.

“No, when your gold-plated invitation arrives,” the other guy said.

The authorities there were just as witty in Budapest as they were in Philly.

“Hold up.”

Brutus considered putting the pistol back together first but decided to forget it. He grabbed his wallet from his desk and followed the M.P.s out, pulling the door locked behind him. A dozen minor infractions of protocol committed over the past few days came to mind, none of which warranted a personal summons from Sullivan.

Brutus refused to be the first to speak. He allowed the cops to feel that they had adequately established their authority. Unfortunately, they weren’t just fronting — he really was more or less at their mercy. There were all kinds of stories about out-of-uniform soldiers dragging men from their rooms, taking them behind the latrines, and treating them like Rodney King for a day. Brutus wasn’t about to make the first move.

Sullivan’s office was over in the executive suite of newer buildings on the western edge of the camp. Brutus’s sometime-girlfriend, a civilian named Magda, occasionally worked there as an interpreter. She spent most of her time in the restricted area, and wouldn’t talk about what went on there. He couldn’t even bring up the topic. The cops directed him into the back of a Humvee, which slid on the ice around the turns. Other soldiers watched without surprise as the three of them passed. Brutus read their eyes: he had had this coming for a long time.

Lieutenant Colonel Sullivan sat smiling behind his desk. Brutus had never even spoken to him, other than “yes” and “sir.” This ought to be good, he thought. He saluted and stood at attention. “Private First Class Jonathan Gibson reporting as ordered, sir.”

Up close, Sullivan appeared cross-eyed; he had the lazy eye of a sniper who had spent too many hours staring down the scope of a rifle either out in the field or from the roof of an embassy someplace. His bright green eyes glowed in violent contrast to the taut, ruddy complexion of his skin. A framed blueprint of a small military bridge occupied the entire wall behind him. Sullivan had overseen its reconstruction over a river in Serbia and was awarded a commendation from the highest echelons of SFOR. Young for a man of his rank, he had a reputation as a cunning, brutal officer. He was the biggest ballbreaker on the continent. It was said that his assignment to Hungary was a form of punishment, or possibly even exile. A soldier in his command had once died under allegedly crooked circumstances. Brutus had to stay sharp. Smile and nod.

“At ease,” Sullivan said. “Relax, Brutus.” His voice was calming in an authoritative way, kind of like how they portrayed Satan’s in old movies. Brutus remained standing. Sullivan saw the surprise on his face. “You don’t mind if I call you Brutus, do you?”