James Hynes - Kings of Infinite Space

Stanley Tulendij had a loose grip; his hand was very cool and dry, all papery skin and knobbly knuckles. His fingers reached nearly all the way around Paul’s hand. He may be the palest person I’ve ever seen, thought Paul. In direct sunlight, I’ll bet you could see the outline of the old guy’s bones. Why, he’s as pale as that homeless guy yesterday.

“Stanley Tulendij,” said the old man. “A privilege.”

“Paul Trilby.” He gave a wince of a smile. “All mine.”

Paul tried to let go, but the old man leaned forward in the seat and grasped Paul’s wrist with his other hand. The light in his eyes brightened, and he looked past Paul to the men around the table. “Oh, he’s good,” said Stanley Tulendij. “I like this young fella.”

“Might could be he’s one of us,” said the Colonel, behind Paul. “Don’t you think so, boys?”

“Absolutely!” declared Bob Wier. “Praise Jesus!” He smiled broadly, but his eyes were anxious. He looked as if he were about to break into a sweat.

“I suppose,” said J.J., glowering at Paul.

Paul tugged his hand free. The old man winked at Paul, and Paul felt the temperature drop in the room, the way it sometimes did when Charlotte was present.

“Hey!” chirped Rick, coming in with a Styrofoam cup of coffee. “I see y’all have made your own introductions.” He leaned past Paul and gingerly set the cup in front of Stanley Tulendij. Then he clapped Paul on the shoulder, putting Paul between him and the man behind the desk. “This man is a titan in fleet management, Paul,” he said. “I’m honored just to be in his presence.”

“Pah!” Stanley Tulendij flapped his pale hand. “Just did my job is all.” He put his hands on the armrests and pushed himself up out of the chair in a smooth, swift motion — so swift, in fact, that Paul took a step back, afraid that the old man was going to float right over the desk at him.

“You’re not leaving?” said Rick, sounding relieved. “I thought you might sit in.” The Colonel, J.J., and Bob Wier all glanced at each other, Paul noted, while Rick maneuvered to keep Paul between himself and the old man. Stanley Tulendij was taller than he’d looked sitting down; he had long legs and a short torso, like a man walking on stilts. This disproportion, and his preternatural paleness, gave him a rather spiderish look as he glided around the end of Rick’s desk. As he passed, his jacket gave off a strong whiff of thrift store disinfectant — an odor Paul knew well — and beneath it was something both sharp and sour, like the smell of excrement. Stanley Tulendij paused in the doorway to take his leave. One at a time, Bob Wier, J.J., and the Colonel rose from their seats, shook his hand, and sat down again. Stanley Tulendij gave a puppetish wave, his bony hand wobbling as if on a ball socket.

“I’ll be seeing you,” he said, looking at Paul, and Paul felt the chill again. He watched the old man’s strange, arachnid gait as he walked out the door and down the aisle.

Somebody clapped his hands once, and Paul turned to see the Colonel sitting erect in his chair, grinding his palms together. His eyes were aglow. “Well!” he said. “It seems giants still walk among us.”

“Yessir,” said Rick, rather distantly. He had moved behind his desk, and he was staring warily down at his chair. He shoved the backrest with the tips of his fingers, setting the chair spinning slowly in place. “I tell you what,” he said, “let’s put the meeting off till tomorrow. No sense crossing our bridges until they’re burned.” He looked up. “Y’all check your schedules and let me know what’s good for y’all.” He waved his hand, dismissing the team. Paul waited for the others to file out ahead of him. Bob Wier’s smile was drawn painfully tight, his eyes so sad he looked as though he might cry, and he gave Paul a thumbs-up as he passed. J.J. looked him sourly up and down, and the Colonel winked at him. Paul started after them, but Rick called him back.

“Get rid of this, willya?” Rick held out the still steaming cup of coffee.

Paul hesitated — toss it yourself, Rick, I’m a tech writer, not a busboy — until he saw the look on Rick’s face. He held the cup as if it were full of acid about to eat through the Styrofoam.

“Please,” said Rick, and Paul leaned across the desk and took the cup. As he left, Rick was still watching his spinning chair, as if counting the revolutions.

Paul ditched the coffee in the trash by the fax machine, then he went around Nolene’s cube to the side away from Rick’s door and rapped on the metal strip on top of the partition. From Rick’s doorway, he heard the tentative creak of a chair.

“So, Nolene,” he whispered, when he finally got her attention, “did you ever work with Stanley Tulendij?”

Nolene slowly lifted her gaze to Paul and regarded him coldly. Paul was on the verge of retreating when she lowered her eyes, visibly banked her anger, and looked up at him again. “Hit’s no secret. No reason you shouldn’t know.” She lowered her voice. “Most of the folks here are new in the five years since Stanley. .” She snapped her fingers. “But I worked under him for six months.” She closed her eyes and mastered herself again. “Let’s just say that Stanley was old school about women in the workplace? ‘My wife don’t let me tell her how to make biscuits, and I don’t let her tell me how to buy parts for a backhoe.’ ”

“So what does this mean?” Paul snapped his fingers. “Did he retire?”

Nolene put her finger to her lips. “They yanked him,” she whispered. She glanced around her and syllable by syllable mouthed the words, “Sex-u-al har-ass-ment .”

“Really!” Paul lowered his voice further. “Who did he harass?”

She turned abruptly back to her computer screen, and an instant later Rick sailed out of his office and up the aisle. She watched him go, then looked at Paul and slowly shook her head. She wouldn’t talk about it.

“At least tell me, did the Colonel and J.J. and Bob work for him?”

“Oh no! That’s the funny thing.” She glanced up the aisle. “They never did. They all come here since.” She kept her voice low, hissing at Paul across the partition. “And yet he comes around to see them every few months or so. In’t that the darnedest thing?”

“Huh,” said Paul.

“You know what else is funny about those three?” Nolene’s voice dropped so low that Paul had to lean over the partition to hear her. “As far as I can tell, they never do. .”

She broke off and nailed her gaze to the computer screen again. Paul looked up and saw the Colonel loitering by the fax machine, idly fingering the buttons. Nolene slowly shook her head.

“Right,” Paul said, raising his voice. “So, uh, when can I expect my first check at the new rate?”

“I dunno, hon.” Nolene clattered away at her keyboard. “That’s up to your temp agency, not the great state of Texas.”

“Okeydoke,” Paul said. “Thanks.” He started briskly up the aisle. Just ahead of him, the Colonel stepped back into his cube and turned in his doorway. He winked at Paul. “Professor,” he said.

“Colonel,” replied Paul, hurrying past.

Back in his cube, he almost e-mailed Nolene. They never do what? he wanted to know, his hands hovering over his keyboard. But he doubted that Nolene was so indiscreet as to commit gossip to cyberspace. He’d have to catch her alone again tomorrow.

Meanwhile, it was nearly quitting time, and he began to shut down his computer and tidy his desk. He swept a couple of pencils into his top drawer and let the drawer slide shut. After a moment he opened the drawer again and peered in at the litter of pens, pencils, paper clips, and pushpins. Something’s missing, he thought. He bit his lip and stared harder at the clutter in the drawer. Something was here that isn’t now, he thought. But what? To hell with it, he decided, and he let the drawer slide shut, glimpsing the mild yellow of a Post-it pad.