James Hynes - Kings of Infinite Space

“Well, I guess he has,” said Rick. He leaned around Colonel and caught Paul’s eye. “Good work, Paul.”

“Huh,” Paul said weakly, waving a finger.

“In fact,” Colonel insisted, “now that we got a gap in the ranks, as it were, we ought to think about calling in the reserves and plugging them into the front lines.”

“Calling who?” said Rick. “Plugging what?”

“We have a permanent position open,” Colonel said, pushing back from the desk, “now that Ms. Haddock has swanned off to ‘find herself,’ or whatever the hell.” He made a pair of quotes in the air. “And we got a first-rate man right here, ready, willing, and able.” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder at Paul.

Rick worked his tongue around the inside of his cheek.

“Seems to me,” Colonel continued, “a smart manager would take this here lemon”—Colonel flicked Olivia’s resignation letter with a finger, sending it airborne a few inches—“and make lemonade.” He stepped back. Paul shifted restlessly against the table.

Rick ground his palms together. “When you’re right, you’re right,” he said, as if to himself. “No use crying over burnt bridges.” He lifted his eyebrows unsteadily in Paul’s direction. “You interested in a permanent job with us, Paul?”

Before Paul could answer, Colonel said, “Of course he is.”

“I’ll get the personnel honchos on it.” Rick’s hands fluttered over his desktop. “Paul, you come see me this afternoon.”

Colonel nodded at Paul, and Paul said, “Sure.”

“Back to work,” said Rick, and Colonel grabbed Paul by the elbow and marched him out the door.

“Not a word,” Colonel hissed in Paul’s ear, as Nolene watched them retreat up the aisle. Colonel steered Paul into his own cube and planted Paul firmly in the chair in front of his desk. Colonel took his own chair and leaned towards Paul with his hands tightly folded.

“Where is she?” Paul whispered. He clutched the rolled-up RFP on his knees. “What did you did to her?”

“I didn’t do a goddamn thing to her.” Colonel’s eyes blazed across the desk. “And I don’t know where she is. What’s more, you don’t know where she is.”

“No, I don’t,” murmured Paul. “But I know what I saw.”

“Paul,” said Colonel, “when you left my house Friday night, you were drunker than a whole boatload of sailors on a three-day liberty. If I told you that you saw Elvis, Jimmy Hoffa, and baby Jesus step out of the mothership on South Austin Avenue and sing the ‘Hallelujah Chorus,’ could you tell me I was wrong?”

“No,” said Paul miserably.

“Goddamn right you couldn’t.” Colonel caught himself and glanced to either side. Paul followed his gaze and saw just the eyes and forehead of J.J. over one wall of the cube, and the eyes and forehead of Bob Wier over the other.

“Git,” snapped the Colonel, and J.J. and Bob Wier dropped out of sight. Paul twisted the RFP between his hands.

“Now there’s only one question you should be asking yourself, Paul.” Colonel pinched his thumb and forefinger so tightly together that they turned white and pointed them across the desk at Paul. “Is your life better this morning than it was last week?”

Paul could scarcely bear Colonel’s burning gaze, but he couldn’t look away. In spite of himself he thought back to a week ago, when, just about this time of the morning, he was gazing down at the gray, sunken features of Dennis, the Dead Tech Writer.

“Tell me true, Professor,” breathed Colonel. “You get points for honesty.”

“Yeah,” gasped Paul finally. It felt like his last breath. “It is better.”

“ ’Nuff said.” Colonel unpinched his fingers. Without taking his eyes off Paul, he heaved a sigh and settled back in his chair. Then he stood, gestured for Paul to stand, and met him in the doorway. He put his arm around Paul and gave him a manly squeeze.

“Relax, Professor,” he said, as he gently shoved Paul up the aisle. “You just got tenure.”

“WHERE’D SHE GO?” Preston asked Paul a few minutes later. He slid Olivia’s ID badge across Paul’s desktop and then stepped back, filling the doorway of the cube. Behind him Ray, from Building Services, was cleaning out Olivia’s cube, collecting her personal effects — her FOLLOW YOUR BLISS coffee cup, her lumbar pillow, a little bouquet of imitation daisies — in a cardboard box. Preston draped a large hand over the partition on either side of Paul’s door.

“What’s this?” Paul glanced at the badge.

“Found it on the security desk this morning,” said Preston, watching Paul.

“Didn’t you hear?” Paul returned his gaze to his monitor, where he was paging through the revised RFP. “She quit.”

“That’s what I heard.”

“She must have left it on her way out the door.”

“On a Saturday?”

Paul glanced at the badge again, noting its little, square picture of an unsmiling Olivia Haddock. “Maybe she didn’t like long good-byes.”

“Maybe.” Preston shifted in the doorway, blocking Paul’s view of Ray in the cube across the aisle. “You know why she quit?”

Paul stared hard at the text on the screen, every word gone blurry. “Check with Rick.”

“I did,” Preston said. “He says you saw her after he did. Says you was supposed to meet her here Saturday morning.”

Paul paged down to the next section. He was slouching in his seat, but it was getting harder to feign boredom with Preston looming over him.

“Look, Paul.” Preston lifted one of his hands. “I ain’t accusing you of anything. It’s just, we need to know where to send her stuff.” He stepped aside just enough to give Paul a glimpse across the aisle. Ray stood with the box curled under one arm, his other hand digging through the shadows at the back of Olivia’s desk.

“She’s got a home phone, right?” Paul lifted his gaze to Preston. “Call her up.”

“She ain’t there neither,” Preston said. “Phone’s been disconnected.”

Paul pushed himself up in his seat. “I give up,” he said. “Where is she?”

“So you wasn’t here Saturday,” Preston said, “when she resigned.”

Paul swiveled in his chair, hunched forward, and clasped his hands between his knees. He was aiming for a look of exasperated sincerity. “No, I wasn’t here Saturday,” he said. “I was home, in bed, sleeping off Friday night, if you really want to know.” He looked up at Preston with wide eyes. “I didn’t come in until Sunday. Colonel let me in.”

Preston scowled. “Colonel.”

“Yeah.”

“He let you in.”

“Yep.”

“On Sunday?”

Paul gave Preston a look of sincere exasperation.

“Be real easy for me to check if Colonel’s badge was used yesterday,” Preston said.

Paul hadn’t thought of that. It was getting difficult to hold Preston’s gaze, and he began to wonder if there might not be a surveillance camera in the lobby and a tape somewhere showing a pixilated image of him and Olivia crossing the lobby on Saturday morning. But then, plucking up the courage of his conviction that this was all a dream, he reminded himself that none of what he remembered from Saturday morning had really happened. For all he knew, Colonel was telling the truth, and all the tape showed — assuming there was a tape — was Colonel and Paul scooting across the lobby on Sunday. Or, for that matter, Elvis, Jimmy Hoffa, and baby Jesus.

“I thought you weren’t accusing me of anything,” Paul said.

“No, I ain’t.” Preston sighed heavily. “I’m sorry.” Preston glanced over his shoulder. “It’s just. . remember what we talked about t’other day?”