Yin and Yang at the Tavern
I
The Hawthorne’s dining room table was as long as the space it inhabited.
A monstrous piece of hand-carved solid oak, with a surface polished to the point of reflecting light better than most mirrors. A small army could have sat at it comfortably lengthwise and it had probably taken that same small army to move the table into the house. Roman thought the mansion might have been built around the table, viewing no visible entrance to fit such a large object through.
The chandelier hung a good distance overhead, streaming soft light from its crystal glass onto the emeralds that sat across from him. Could he ever get tired of those green eyes?
Dr. Hawthorne could not see his wife’s eyes, as they each sat far apart, at opposite ends of the table. Roman imagined the good doctor using an intercom or megaphone to talk with his significant other from that distance. Instead he read a medical journal as he ate—the act of eating seeming to be more of a nuisance than anything else. Even on a Sunday evening the man was dressed in a three-piece suit.
Gina wore a silk blouse, skirt, and high heels the likes of which were not purchased at the Collingston mall. She swirled the gold fork on her plate more than she used it to pick up anything to put in her mouth. A middle-aged woman like Gina didn’t keep her tight figure by being a proud member of the clean-plate club. Every once in a while Roman could see the pearls under her lips when she spoke or maybe smiled, but her eyes stayed back in the distance, hidden from the light of the chandelier. He could feel them though—on his face and clothes, studying and watching, like two hidden surveillance cameras of the NN. The hair on his neck stood up in quills, and suddenly Roman felt uncomfortable in the one of two pair of jeans he had to his name. He squirmed a little against the high back of his chair.
The Hawthorne estate was equipped with a full kitchen staff. Not only did they unfold the silk napkins and place them properly on your lap, and help to serve the five-course meal with sharp deliberate movements, but they also stood waiting at attention behind each of the family member’s chairs. The fellow behind Roman was as still as a likeness in a wax museum, but Roman was sure that if even one morsel fell from his plate, the servant would grab it out of mid-air in lightning quick fashion before it hit the floor.
All of it was a far cry from the little kitchen table in an Iowa farmhouse.
The table back home had one uneven leg that dad was always fixing. His father ate when he finally came in from the fields, wearing that day’s denim overalls. His mother delivered the casserole with his grandmother’s hand-me-down oven mitts on, and her dull blue apron tied loosely behind her back. The leftovers were given to the dogs.
The French cuisine Roman had prepared might not have been as impressive as he had once imagined. Heather probably ate better for a midnight snack.
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Roman’s anxiety lifted as he watched her though. Heather wolfed down her food with the speed and determination unrivaled by any mere mortal. Where did it all go? Heather had told him she was a runner—up at six AM five days a week.
Roman wondered if she was a runner because of her eating, or an eater because of her running.
Dr. Hawthorne closed the magazine, set it aside, and patted his mouth with all the finesse of a rich kid who’d just graduated from etiquette classes. He took his glasses off and rubbed the indentions where they’d sat on his nose. “So, Heather tells us that you’re a genius, Roman.”
Roman sat with his back straight, arms to his sides, trying to maintain his own etiquette, resisting the urge to wipe his brow. He blushed anyway. “I don’t know about that sir. I’m not sure you can put a number on intelligence.”
“Neither am I young man, but Heather says you do things that border on the unimaginable.”
“Daddy,” Heather began. “I’m sure Roman didn’t come over here to be put to the test like some circus side show”
“It’s fine Heather,” Roman said and then looked back at Dr. Hawthorne. “I see the same things most people do, I just process the information a little differently maybe.”
“For instance?” The good doctor was now leaning on the table, rubbing his chin.
“Daddy!” Heather said again.
“It’s perfectly fine.” Roman calmed her. “I see numbers in everything, that’s all.” Roman’s answer was not specific enough for the doctor. He took a deep breath. “For instance, when I walked in your front door the first thing I noticed was the staircase in the foyer. It has twenty-six steps. The tops of the fourteenth and the twentieth steps are off a couple degrees; they’re not perfectly perpendicular to the steps before them. I didn’t count them or study them, all of that just popped into my head when I looked at them.”
“I see,” Dr. Hawthorne said, still hungry for more.
“The little glass pieces on your chandelier.” All three Hawthornes looked up as Roman pointed. “There are exactly three hundred and thirty-nine of them.
They are all exactly the same size except for one, which is about an inch and quarter smaller than the rest.”
Dr. Hawthorne scratched the top of his head, losing count of the pieces around ten or eleven. “That’s amazing.”
“It gets to be a nuisance. I’ve learned to just tune it out, the way someone with color blindness or a walking defect, does.”
“Make no mistake about it Roman, what you have is a gift not a handicap.”
“Thank you sir.”
“And with a powerful gift like that you should be able to write your own ticket, Roman,” Gina’s voice chimed in finally from the end of the table. “I mean you could do or be anything you wanted. What are your plans for the future?”
“It’s not that simple, mother,” Heather started to answer for him.
Roman cut her off, sensing the onset of world war three. “I guess, Mrs.
Hawthorne, the problem is I just don’t know what I want to be or do.”
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“You’re going to college though right?” Dr. Hawthorne asked.
“Not as of yet sir, no.”
“That’s just a shame Roman.” Gina voice was not particularly kind. “In this world to be somebody, to be anybody, you have to get that degree. Nowadays maybe even two or three.” Gina dug in again.
“It’s a waste of time for him mother.”
“I’m sure something will come up, Mrs. Hawthorne. But thank you for your concern.”
“Let’s go out on the balcony and look at the stars Roman,” Heather said.
“It’s overcast.” Roman responded.
“Let’s go look at them anyway.”
“It’s a little cold for the balcony isn’t it?” Gina said rhetorically.
Heather shot Gina a look of disgust Roman would have thought was impossible on a face as beautiful as hers. Roman’s personal butler pulled the chair back as he stood, and Dr. Hawthorne gave Roman a firm handshake.
“Thanks for having me sir.”
“The pleasure was all mine, young man.”
Gina continued to sit in her chair.
II
They stood on the balcony outside Heather’s room. Roman leaned against the railing looking out over the vast Hawthorne estate. The Olympic-size pool directly below was drained for the season. The Jacuzzi sat to its left bubbling and gurgling, steam escaping its soft brown cover. On the opposite side of the concrete pond stood the pool house, a structure that Roman believed his own house could easily fit inside of. In the distance was the maintenance shed and servant’s quarters, both draped in the same beige color as the mansion itself. Beyond that were the tennis court and the gazebo, and on the horizon where the grass ended the forest began. The forest went on for as far as the eye could see, and miles away where Dr. Hawthorne’s property ended, the Hollow began.
Heather put her arm through Roman’s, laying her head on his shoulder for more than just warmth. She looked up at the night sky just in case Roman was wrong about the clouds. But it was gray and thick, matching the mood of the forest, which now nothing more than bare sticks and branches. The threat of winter seemed very weak next to Roman. She could have stood there with him forever just watching and waiting.
“You have a beautiful home, Heather. I’ve only been to places like this in books.”
“Thanks. It was a great place to grow up. So much room to run and play, to swim every day in the summer. All of it comes with a price though. I would have gladly traded this for life on the farm like yours, if it meant not having to deal with my mother.”
“She just cares about you.”
“She does care about me but it goes too far. She forgets that we’re two different people. I’m not her and never will be.”
“Your father seems very nice.”
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“He is, but did you catch him reading during dinner? He does that every night. Don’t think for a minute he’s catching up on some new medical procedure.
It’s his way of escaping my mother, so he doesn’t have to listen to her nag me.
The only one true flaw my father has is not standing up to her. I guess I don’t have it so bad though, huh? At least I still have them around.”
“There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about my parents. What I wouldn’t give to just talk to them, even if it was for ten minutes. To hug my mom one more time, to play catch with dad. There’s never a day that I don’t see their faces somewhere.”
“They say time heals all things.”
“Agent Johnson wouldn’t agree. And he’s right in a way. I’ve spent that last six years of my life trying not to think about them, about it, because it hurts.
But now I’m to the point that I force myself to, just so I can remember what they look like, or how they sounded when they laughed.”
“Do you ever think about him? Johnson I mean.”
“Some days more than others. If he really wanted to, he would have found me by now. He’s probably got bigger fish to fry at the moment. He’ll get around to me eventually I suppose.”
“What will you do?”
“If you’d asked me that three months ago the answer would have been simple—run. After I left Bravo I always imagined myself drifting from place to place every few months. I never thought the first place I came to would be the hardest to leave. But now everything is different. Collingston feels like home, as odd as that might sound. When you come down to it, there’s really only two options: avoid the problem by running or solve the problem by fighting.”
“I don’t want you to run.”
“And I don’t want to leave you.”
“Can you beat him? The way you fought Johnny that day, I can’t imagine anyone being able to beat you.”
“We’re talking about two very different people. Johnny’s a bruiser fueled by rage. Johnson’s a trained killer, a master at every kind of warfare. Besides, I have a feeling it won’t be just him next time.”
“I thought you said the NN agents always work alone?”
“They do for the most part, to stay invisible. I’m sure the cemetery incident has him thinking. They’ll risk their cover to complete an objective if they have to.” Roman looked into her eyes and smiled. “Let’s talk about good things.
Who knows, maybe Johnson has decided to let me be.”
For the first time Heather could hear hesitation in his voice, a lack of confidence in the statement. She brushed it off just as Roman did and kissed him, wanting also to think only about good things.
III
As Roman opened the door to his house, the pain in the back of his neck was unmistakable a familiar pain that dissipated almost as quickly as its inception, its effects first numbing his fingers and toes and then immobilizing his limbs.
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This time was different though. His eyes were not heavy and his vision was still intact. Roman lay flat on his back looking at his own ceiling, unable to turn his head to see his attacker. It must have been a slightly different cocktail—
not taking him all the way to unconsciousness.
The monstrous agent scooped the fragile janitor off the polished hardwood with little effort despite the dead weight of Roman’s arms and legs. Roman imagined himself swinging and kicking but the poison in his blood had different ideas; even his power of speech was gone. Johnson propped his paralyzed protégé in the rocking chair facing away from his bed, careful to prop the janitor’s head so that Roman could see him. As his weight shifted on the wooden chair Roman heard a small creak and was surprised his ears were still working.
Satisfied with the positioning, the agent walked backwards eyeing the incapacitated teenager in front of him. Johnson reached into his suit coat, producing a case of cigars and plucked one out of the silver case. The flame from his lighter was like that of a blowtorch, stretching at least six inches into the air.
Johnson puffed several times, a thick cloud of smoke billowing around his face; and when the end of the cigar glowed red, he pulled it from his mouth and smiled.
“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that during our time together you’ve never seen me smoke a cigar, much less carry them on my person.
You know something’s not right here but you can’t quite put your finger on it.
And you’d be correct in your assumption, but I’m not going to give anything away. You’re a smart guy right? A so-called genius. I’m confident that you’ll figure it out, probably even within the next ten minutes.”
Roman’s eyes wandered away from the agent as he spoke, and focused on the couch next to the agent. On it was a gray blanket that covered two heaps, bodies maybe.
Johnson took a drag from the cigar and smiled again.
“On to business then. I’ve brought you a little going away present, a memento of things past, if you will.”
Johnson ripped back the gray covering exposing the lifeless corpses beneath. His father’s skull was stapled back together with what looked like industrial grade steel and his mother’s torso was sewn shut from her midsection to her neck, mimicking the look of a zipper. Both with the same frozen looks they died with.
Roman closed his eyes tight and could hear the air blow out of his nose in faster intervals.
“I brought mommy and daddy along to help me prove a point, Roman.
You see, the world is full of great injustices, like the ones that killed them. Like the ones that killed my wife and son. The problem is that it seems I haven’t gotten through to you quite yet. Either you’re part of the solution or you’re part of the problem. Either you’re trying to stop the injustices of the world, or you are part of those injustices.”
Johnson looked at Roman’s parents on the couch and sucked on his cigar again, this time savoring every ounce of the smoke. He squinted through the fog in front of his face and replaced the gray tarp over the corpses. Johnson threw the half-smoked cigar to the floor and stomped it a second later with the heel of his 155
shoe. He walked over to Roman, leaned over the young man and smiled. The presence of the agent’s torso and shoulders covered Roman with a shadow, blocking out nay light from the lamp on the stand next to his door. Roman’s right eye blurred and burned from a drop of sweat from his own forehead.
Johnson’s smile vanished now as he was right in Roman’s face, spit flying and teeth gnashing. “Don’t you see? You have a power to stop evil in the world.
To prevent things like this from happening.” Johnson nodded to the couch. “But instead of that you run and hide like a coward, uncaring or unwilling to help. I’m here to change all that. You will become an agent and fight for the freedom of those who can’t fight for themselves, or everything and everyone around you will be destroyed.”
Johnson’s voice quieted to a pleasant tone, like that of father to his child.
“And oh yes, I know about your new friends. Your cafeteria buddy that thinks you’re the best thing since sliced bread and the oh-so beautiful blond that you can’t wait to stick your humper handle into. They’ll be the first to go.”
Roman tried to cry out, but his lips didn’t move.
Johnson stepped back, calming completely to the demeanor Roman had seen in their days at Bravo. “Besides, you saw the Jesup File. Whether it was on purpose or not is immaterial. You saw it. In fact every bit of it is probably filed away in that computer brain of yours. You can’t be allowed to walk the streets with that knowledge, Roman. You can’t be on the loose with information about something so powerful. You haven’t told them about it, have you?”
Roman tried to shake his head no, but it was useless.
“I didn’t think so,” Johnson said as if he heard the answer in Roman’s head.
“Time. What an awful concept. I know we’ve touched on it before in our conversations. What a dilemma you’re in. Time, which is supposed to heal all things. But in your case it never lets you forget—it can’t fast-forward quickly enough through your life to wash away the past. You’re still right there in Iowa, standing on the porch holding that smoking shotgun, aren’t you? On the flip side of the coin time is running too fast. Every day you spend here with your friends could be your last. But you can’t slow it down, can you? It just picks up momentum like that train you jumped from. It’s burning you from both ends, laughing at you.”
Roman shut his eyes. A lone tear escaped down his cheek. His self-pity was stopped short by commotion on the front porch. There were several knocks on the door.
“You in there, Roman?” Tony asked.
“Is everything all right?” Heather’s voice was worried.
Johnson pulled the Kimber from the holster inside his suit coat.
“It seems time is not done playing tricks on you, my friend. What are the chances of your friends showing up at this exact instance? The sad part of the story, and the end of the story mind you, is that when you fail to answer they’re going to turn the knob and walk right into the room. All because when you got home you failed to realize what was on the other side of your own door. It’s not locked you know. I hit you with the dart before you got a chance.”
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Johnson gripped the gun with both hands, bent his knees slightly and aimed at the door.
“You’re either with us or against us, Roman. Last chance.”
Roman’s will seemed to overtake the effects of the paralyzing agent in his blood stream. His lips began to move. I’ll go. I’ll go with you. What were yells in his head came out only in puffs of gibberish.
“If you can’t decide, I’ll have to decide for you.”
The door opened.
The silenced shots of the Kimber flicked through the air.
Roman willed his head finally to turn, just in time to see the blood from the back of Tony’s head splatter the lampshade and send a crimson cast through the room.
Heather stood alone now in the doorway, paralyzed as well, not from the poison in a dart, but from fear.
Johnson aimed at her and pulled the trigger.
An instant before the bullet tore through her, Roman’s power of speech returned enough for him to shout.
“No!”
It was too late; Heather’s body lay sprawled in the doorway, her legs on the porch, her once-blonde hair spread out on the living room carpet.
IV
A 1989 Caprice Classic sat parked in the back lot of the Tavern. The car was paintless, primed in gray, with sand marks in several areas around its base and door as evidence of the freshly removed rust. A few scattered cars littered the parking lot but the busy time had passed, and with it the random foot traffic that made its way into the watering hole.
Bobby Dukes sat in the passenger seat of the Caprice and smoked yet another cigarette. His eyes were fixed on the back door of the Tavern. Sensing he was down to the butt, he pulled another white stick from the top of his ear, poked it into his mouth without seeming to open his lips, and lit it from the glowing end.
His fingers worked on their own, trained by repetition, not needing to see to perform the task. He took his attention off the door briefly to peek at his watch.
He pulled the collar of his black leather coat up around his neck, cold even though the back window was steamed up.
Boochie Anderson sat in the driver’s seat with sweat dripping down the sides of his face. The perspiration almost seemed to flow from the tattoo on his bald head—a green image that looked like the wild branches of a thorn bush stretching out in every direction. His huge stomach pressed against the steering wheel and his lungs pulled hard for oxygen as he struggled to reach for a handkerchief in his back pocket. He grabbed the steering wheel with his free hand, leveraging himself to pick his wide bottom off the car seat. After finally wiping the sides of his face, Boochie let out a horrid mucous-filled sigh, a sound that might have come after an average-sized person had been running wind sprints. A few more deep breaths and his air recovered. He reached for the console and flipped off the heat.
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Bobby crossed his arms in front of himself trying to stay warm, but never lost his concentration on the back of the brick building. The ash from his cigarette crumbled to his lap.
“He’s late,” Bobby said keeping his mouth closed tight like a ventriloquist.
“Which one?” Boochie replied.
“Johnny the Killer.”
“He’ll be here.” Boochie’s gaze drifted away, discovering a king-sized package of Kit-Kats snuggled between the dash and the windshield. The candy had somehow eluded the black hole between his lips for the last day and a half.
“Can you turn the fuckin’ heat back on? Christ. It’s twenty degrees out.
My body’s not used to this cold yet. Not even December and it’s freezing. I swear the first chance I get I’m goin’ to Miami.”
Boochie picked up the Kit-Kats, noticing the softness of the once-hard candy. “Hey, you think these would still be all right to eat? The heater melted
’em.”
“Since when do ya discriminate between solid and liquid type food? Just turn the goddamn heat back on.”
Boochie flicked the heat back on, his pierced tongue licking the dark mushy chocolate from its wrapper. Boochie’s face could have set off any metal detector within a mile radius—not only did metal occupy his tongue—but his top lip was pierced in several places, and his eye lids, his chin, and both ears dawned an array of silver. Boochie wiped his mouth after consuming the melted chocolate, paying careful attention to the rings that decorated his face.
A silver Corvette entered the parking lot and pulled up next to Bobby Duke’s side of the Chevy. Johnny the Killer rolled down the window.
“You’re late,” Bobby said.
“I had a couple last minute sales. Sorry.”
Bobby reached in his coat pocket, producing a thick wad of money folded in half and held together by a rubber band. He tossed it through both windows onto Johnny’s lap.
“Not a bad week kid. Freddy likes your progress. Keep up the good work.”
“Is that it?” Johnny said trying to imagine how much money he was holding without actually counting it.
“No, that’s not it kid. The Flower wants to make sure you’re on the up and up, so he wants you to hang around and help us with a little problem we got here.”
“Problem?”
“Yeah kid, a fuckin’ problem. Like this guy sitting in the Tavern. He owes The Flower some jack.”
The back door of the Tavern opened and out came the last patron of the night, wheeling himself down the newly constructed handicapped ramp.
“That’s our man.”
Johnny and Bobby exited their cars. Boochie followed at a snail’s pace, trying several times with no success to pull his pants up over his barrel gut. The man in the wheelchair was at his van, putting the key in his door, but was stopped just short of unlocking it.
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“Joe. How’s it goin’ Joe?”
Joe swallowed hard, eyes big. Johnny had seen that look on freshmen at the high school. But this was an instance he did not welcome the sight.
“Look Bobby,” Joe blurted. “I told Freddy I’d have the money by Monday. He knows I’m good for it.”
“Being good for it ain’t the problem,” Boochie Anderson said, still winded from the short walk.
“No that ain’t the problem,” said Bobby. “The problem is you’re late. Two days late. Monday makes you five days late. You’re a fuckin’ computer programmer or some shit aren’t you? And you don’t have the fuckin’ money?”
“Software designer. I design interactive CD-ROMs for kids.”
Johnny looked down at the ground and shook his head, wishing himself somewhere else.
“You hear that Boochie?” Bobby asked.
“I hear it.”
“Mr. Computer Man wants sympathy ’cause he makes kids happy. Boo fuckin’ hoo. Guess what Joe? We’re fresh out of sympathy. But I will make you a deal. If you can walk to that light pole and back we’ll forget the whole thing.”
The man in the wheel chair looked down at his abnormally short legs and shook his head. “Bobby please. You know I can’t.”
“Boochie,” Bobby said lighting another cigarette.
Boochie grabbed the limp man out of the chair and held him so his stubs touched the ground.
“Now walk cock sucker,” Bobby said.
Boochie let go and Joe fell to the ground like a normal person faints, catching himself with his hands against the gravel parking lot. Joe began to crawl only with his arms.
“That don’t look like walkin’ to me Joe. Does it to you Boochie?’
“Nope”
“Take care of him, Johnny.”
Johnny stood still.
“I said beat his ass Johnny. This guy might not be able to use his legs but there ain’t a fuckin’ thing wrong with his head. In fact he uses his head all the time to bet on football. Lost twelve large last week alone. You shouldn’t feel sorry for this asshole. Nobody’s holding a gun to his head making him bet.”
Johnny walked over and stopped just short of the man’s head.
“Go ahead Johnny,” Boochie encouraged.
Johnny looked at Boochie and then at Bobby. Then at the man.
“I can’t do it Bobby.”
Bobby took the cigarette out of his mouth, and brushed Johnny off to the side. “Let me show you how it’s done kid.”
An onslaught of kicks ensued, blood splattered over the gravel and Bobby’s boots. At the end of it the crippled man picked one of his teeth out of the rocks, and begged for his life. Bobby pulled the gun out of the back of his jeans and lifted the man’s head up. He shoved the gun in Joe’s mouth and pulled back the hammer.
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“Come Monday Joe, there ain’t gonna be no walkin’ contests.”
With that Bobby let the man’s head fall back into the gravel. He turned and looked at Johnny. “It’s alright kid. Nobody can do it the first time. It’ll come eventually. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Johnny followed Boochie and Bobby to the vehicles, looking back at the man who lay almost lifeless on the ground. Johnny’s legs were jello and his stomach rested in his throat. Johnny exited the parking lot behind them, but when they were out of sight he drove the Corvette back to the Tavern