The Flower
I
Washington, DC
Agent Johnson pulled his face away from the eye pieces of the iris scan and stood in front of the chrome door, waiting. Over the years the fancy gadgets and procedures of the NN had become a part of everyday life for him—no different than brushing his teeth, or washing his hair—minor inconveniences that were forgotten with repetition.
“Palm print please,” a voice not quite female said from the speaker just above the eye scanner. Johnson slid his hand into the space-age mold, his large fingers almost overflowing the indentations. Even after years of the routine he still got a chuckle: the first line of NN palm-scanners had to be replaced after Johnson was recruited, because of the size of his hands.
“Verbal confirmation please,” the woman/computer voice said from the speaker.
“Agent Johnson.”
Two seconds passed and the silver door slid sideways into the wall panel at what seemed to be speed of light. “Thank you Agent Johnson. Have a nice day.”
The room was dome-shaped, the walls, floors, and ceiling all one piece.
The entire room was made of one material, like that of a theater screen, only much more durable. The room was completely bright white yet there was not a light fixture to be seen. In the middle of the room was a small crystal podium and now Johnson walked to it, pushing a number of buttons on its display, and then laying his hand in another analysis scanning mold.
The light from the room dimmed to black, the whiteness evaporated, and in seconds Johnson was surrounded by the dark walls of what seemed to be a different room. Brown was the color of this room. To both sides of him were several people seated in bench rows behind a wooden partition, like a jury. In front, at a raised desk something like a judge would sit in, was a man he knew well, a man he spoke to weekly, a man who had no name. There was only enough light to see the people’s mouths—darkness covered their eyes like veils. The hologram was so good that Johnson often felt like he was before judge and jury.
But in this court there was no Lady Justice holding her scales, no lawyers, no doorways: only a meeting of people who were the first line of defense against evil in the world. They knew each other not, but trusted each other completely. The people in the jury boxes never spoke, only observed. They weren’t really there anyway—they were just agents scattered across the country in different buildings and rooms all projected there by one hand touching an analysis mold.
The speaking and orders were left to the “Voice,” the man sitting in the elevated wooden podium in the foreground. He leaned away from the edge of the light, so that even his mouth receded into the darkness. Was he looking at something? Maybe a computer screen?
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Finally he spoke and his voice thundered down, surrounding Agent Johnson, penetrating him, the loud bass vibrating throughout the room and echoing long after it left the leader’s lips. Surely it wasn’t his real voice. Johnson had never heard something so low and inhuman, something so threatening, but so full of truth. Just another cruel trick of technology.
“Agents have confirmed the location of Kazar in a small village in Syria,”
The Voice boomed. “The interrogation of several of Numar’s agents leads us to believe that there is a large-scale attack planned on U.S. soil. Specifics have not yet been compromised; we lost several good agents acquiring this information.”
A three-dimensional picture popped up in front of Agent Johnson. Floating in mid-air was an image of Kazar, his rap sheet, and a map of Syria.
“There is good intelligence that leads us to believe that Kazar has the entire plan on paper, either on his person or one of his men,” The Voice continued. “You are to retrieve these documents. Kazar’s meddling has elevated him from petty information dealer to a genuine terrorist threat. You are also to eliminate him.”
“I understand,” Johnson replied, his voice small in the emotionless room.
These conversations were never long or friendly and Johnson started to pull his hand from the podium, but stopped short when The Voice spoke again.
“What of Dr. Sebastian Jesup?” The Voice boomed.
“We have been unable to locate him,” Johnson replied.
”He must be acquired. If he falls into the wrong hands, it could mean the end of the NN, the end of the world, the end of everything. He still possesses half of the plans for the device?”
“Yes, in his head,” Johnson answered. “He only blueprinted the first half.
Our psychological profile on him leads us to believe he would never put the other half on paper. He fled in fear of his own invention after completing only half of the layout. He has become very paranoid and is convinced it should never be built. He also claims that angels came down from heaven and gave him the idea for the device. Even if we don’t know where he is, nobody else does either.”
The Voice was silent. Johnson started to pull his hand away again.
“What of the one called Swivel?” the Voice thundered.
“He’s out there somewhere. I haven’t made him a priority. I imagine he’s just trying to blend in, trying to be a normal teenager. Personally I don’t think he is a threat to anyone. He’s had a rough way to go.”
“But he’s not just a normal teenager, is he?”
Johnson chose his words carefully. “He’s quite exceptional sir.”
“And what of your last dealing with him?”
“I was unable to acquire him. That was in September I believe. I took him too lightly.”
The Voice was silent, but Johnson could feel it thinking, digesting his statements.
“The NN doesn’t take anyone lightly, least of all you Agent Johnson.
Could it be that this Roman Swivel has become more powerful than you once thought?”
Johnson inhaled a reluctant breath but said nothing. His mind flipped through memories from Bravo.
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“Agent?” The Voice was louder now.
“Possibly, sir. Possibly.”
“Then you have your orders. Eliminate Kazar and stop whatever threat he has devised. Then acquire this Roman Swivel. He was one of us before and will be again. He would be a puissant ally indeed.”
“And if he refuses? I mean if I can’t physically bring him in?”
A long silence.
“Eliminate him as well. God be with you on your journeys, Agent Johnson.”
With that the dark courtroom melted away and Johnson stood alone at the crystal podium once again, in a cloud of white, still with his hand on the scanner.
He exited the room, remembering times he had felt better about his orders.
II
January’s one good attribute was that it gave birth to a new year. And even that, to some, could be a bad thing. The month had a stone-cold heart, showering the area with its deceptive tricks:fluffy white bits of heaven purifying the earth, only to turn brown and slick over a day’s time; the fervent traffic of the mall, reduced to a faint shuffle of occasional feet; Christmas trees, once the center of hope and joy, massacred to their last rotting places; ponds, frozen for a duck’s eternity; the stead blow of pins and needles out of the northwest; nights requiring several thick blankets; days of thermometers struggling to make it past twenty.
Back to the institution, to the days of boredom and repetition. Graduation floated millions of miles away, like Venus in the springtime telescope.
The red Mustang sat on Roman’s curb for almost two weeks, leaving only for the occasional change of clothes or makeup refill. But as the new school year prepared to take its spot at the starting block, Heather and Roman’s long nights began to shorten like the flames of a dying campfire. Soon Heather would be sleeping in her own bed and Roman would be mopping hallways in the midnight silence.
I now understood why Roman had been so hesitant to be with Heather.
Love, with all of its smiles and gifts, in the end left you defenseless. It took away a bit of your logic and reason, replacing those attributes with dreams and selflessness. For the first time, Roman was vulnerable. For the first time you could see right through him.
And while my first thoughts of this were of regret, and my stomach hurt from watching their public smooching sessions, I more often than not found myself smiling at his happiness and cheering somewhere inside for it.
I showed up on Roman’s doorstep on the Saturday after break ended and school had started up again. Heather’s Mustang sat in the driveway; their sessions were being caught up on the weekend. I entered without knocking.
Roman sat on the couch in only his underwear. Heather sat on the bed, covering herself with the bedspread before I could get a good look. She picked up her clothes with one hand, keeping herself wrapped with the other.
“Damn it,” I said snapping my fingers.
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“Nice try pervert,” Heather said as she walked over and kissed Roman, and then went into the bathroom.
“Why is it that if I want to see her naked I’m a pervert, but if you want to you’re romantic?” I asked him.
“She’s funny like that.” Roman stopped and thought. “ It’s only romantic if she actually wants that person—the one that wants to see her naked—to see her naked.”
“Oh,” I said.
“What brings you out so early?”
“I’m on my way down to On Deck.”
“On Deck?”
“Batting cages. It’s pretty tight. I can only hit off those fuckin’ machines so much though. I need to see some live pitching.”
“You want me to throw to you?” Roman laughed out loud. “Do you know how long it’s been since I picked up a baseball?”
“I’m not asking ya to go out and throw for the Yankees. Just throw a little BP for me.”
Roman lifted up his right arm, making slow deliberate circles with his shoulder, like he was trying to resurrect a piece of antique farm equipment.
Heather emerged from the bathroom brushing her teeth, hair and body wrapped in towels.
“You should go. You don’t have anything else to do today,” she said.
“I’m glad you know my schedule so well. Fine.” Roman stood up. “Let me get dressed.”
Heather kissed Roman on the cheek leaving a white lip print of toothpaste.
I had to point to my own cheek before he knew it was there.
III
“Do you have a hole in your muffler?” Roman about yelled the words.
“Fuck I don’t know. I tried to go through a snow bank the other day, and I think maybe I ripped the whole damn muffler off,” I said blowing on my hands.
“The noise doesn’t bother me, it’s this goddamn heater.”
“Thermostat.” Roman responded. “We’ll take a look when we get back.”
“So, uh, how is it anyway?”
“How is what?”
“You know.” I pulled my hands away from the steering wheel long enough to make a circle with my thumb and index finger, and stuck my other index finger in and out.
Roman shook his head.
“Come on man. Guys talk about this shit. That’s what we do. Ya gotta give me somethin’.”
Roman looked out of the corner of his eye, lost in deep thought, like he was trying to solve a calculus problem. “It’s changed me. I don’t know quite how, but it has.”
“It’s changed ya alright, it’s turned that brain of yours into mush. With all your kissy face and sentimental shit. It makes my nuts hurt.”
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“Maybe, but it’s worth it.”
I looked over to see if Roman was joking.
He wasn’t.
IV
On Deck was actually a steel sports training complex, one hundred and eighty feet long on all four sides and sixty feet high. The floor was a green multi-purpose material like rubber. The batting cages hung on cables and could be automatically lifted, transforming the arena into any sports terrain: full-size basketball courts, volleyball courts, or a football, soccer or baseball field.
For the most part, whatever sport was coming up next was the one that On Deck’s training catered to. Football was over and basketball was in full swing so baseball was now the primary focus, except for that day. Somehow the grass fairies were in control of the entire building, running around in their little shin guards with their shirts off, chasing the zebra-colored ball around.
“I forgot they had soccer league here on Saturday mornings,” I said as we stood in the entranceway. “They should be done in twenty minutes. There’s room over there on the side to play catch. You wanna throw a little bit?”
“Okay,” Roman said. “Do I need to pay anything?”
Roman motioned to the guy standing behind the cash register.
“I’ve got a year’s membership here. I can bring in a guest once a month at no charge. Here, take this glove.” I pulled out my catcher’s mitt and another glove out of my bat bag.
Roman put the glove on, first opening the palm and holding it to his face so he could smell the leather, then running his fingers over the rawhide and pounding his fist into it. For a moment I saw that small boy waiting to throw to his father by an Iowa cornfield.
I did a series of stretches—starting with toe touches, torso twists, and pulling my elbow as far behind my head as possible for my triceps. Roman stood sixty feet away still looking at the glove and periodically giving it a fist. His arms swayed and his legs relaxed. He watched the soccer players, but his mind was excited for the ball with seams.
I threw him the ball—soft with an arch—and he caught it two-handed. He turned the white sphere over in his hand and smiled. A second later he threw it through the air, and it popped in my mitt a lot louder than it had in his. Back and forth the white pill went. With each catch, we backed up and soon we were one hundred and twenty feet apart. Roman was still putting the ball on a line, like a frozen rope through time.
I caught the ball and looked at him for a moment. With all of his surprises, his mind, his fight, his heart, and even his Little League superstar status back in Iowa—I was still at a loss for what I was seeing. I expected the weak rainbow arc of an untrained arm and the mechanics of a six-year-old girl. What I was seeing was quite the opposite—Roman’s leg raising waist high with perfect balance, followed by the pendulum motion of his long arms, and the whip of the ball into my mitt with seemingly little effort. Roman punched his leather palm twice, calling for the ball, hungry to throw it again.
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The grass fairies finally fluttered away, leaving their game scoreless, something which happened far too often considering the running they did. The batting cage made its slow descent from the ceiling, and when it reached us we pulled the net from its resting place above the metal pipes, starting at opposite ends and working around towards the middle. I dragged the L-screen over. Roman carried the bucket of balls.
He stood behind the screen, sixty feet away—a distance I would have told him earlier was too far for his ability—but now I had seen him play catch. The look in Roman’s eye was the same as on that night in the Hollow, the same as when he told the story of Agent Johnson, a look not of a friend ready to serve up home runs, but of a warrior on the mound ready to strike me out.
I gripped the wooden bat lightly in my hands and swung at the air a few times, touched the end of it to the outside part of the plate, then rested it just above my right shoulder. Roman threw. The first pitch was right down the middle. I was late but hit the ball hard to the right side. The next pitch I did the same. The third pitch ran in on my hands. I tried to get around on it but the ball hit the handle and dribbled lazily back to the L-screen. The sound was awful, the sound that every hitter has heard more times than they wanted to admit. And now I held in my hands a broken bat, splintered from where my hands gripped it to halfway up the barrel. It was a composite bat that I had owned for over a year. Composite bats weren’t supposed to break like that.
“Sorry about that,” Roman said. “My control is a little off.”
“It’s not your control. I’m just late. You’re throwing pretty fuckin’ hard though, ya know that?”
“Really? No.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You’re chucking it up there pretty good. You puttin’
everything you got into it or what?”
“No. I’m just throwing.”
“You need to come out for baseball,” I told him. “We need pitching bad.”
“Yeah right. I haven’t thrown in years, since Little League.”
I grabbed my aluminum bat out of my bag and took my stance again.
“Give me your best stuff.”
Roman fired away. His pitches got on me quickly, the likes of which I’d only seen from a mechanical arm. Some I hit. Some I missed.
I batted nowhere near .400 that day.
V
Freddy Flowers wore a suit only at night. During the day he wore jeans and a T-shirt, often mud-covered from countless hours in his many green houses.
He made several stops during his workday, the three local flower shops, sometimes the two in Champaign, and often the one in Decatur.
The name of his company was The Lone Rose. He didn’t come up with the name himself; the previous owner Stan Williams had done that. Freddy had worked for Stan, delivering flowers since his high school days. Eventually Stan retired and sold the business to Freddy for a curious one-fourth of what it was 210
worth. Three days after the transaction was completed, Stan died after an unfortunate roofing accident at his own house.
Under Freddy’s ownership, The Lone Rose systematically undercut the price of its competitors, running every flower shop within a fifty-mile radius of Collingston out of business. And it became the major supplier for landscaping companies in the area, making profits in excess of two hundred thousand per year, which was about a third of Freddy’s income.
Collingston enjoyed the fruits of Freddy’s reign. The Flower employed over a thousand people, a large number of them from the local rehabilitation center, workers who’d been injured on their old jobs and were unable to return. He was a financier of the local Boys and Girls Club, built a new conference center for the library, was the biggest contributor to the Police Benevolent Association, and provided the yearly budget needs of two soup kitchens.
His major farm and offices were ten miles north of Collingston. It covered over thirty acres of land, giving life to a sod farm, a tree nursery, and twenty large-scale greenhouses. Freddy pulled into the parking lot behind the wheel of his Dodge Ram 3500 extended cab, fully loaded, fully pink pick-up truck. At night he drove a pink Mercedes.
The workers knew it was inspection day as soon as Freddy bypassed his office and went straight to Greenhouse One. There was anxiety in the air, the nervous heartbeats of greenhouse keepers. The pace of gardeners accelerated at the sight of their master.
Freddy entered Greenhouse One, walking down the aisle with arms extended, fingers caressing the greenery as he passed, his eyes inspecting every plant. Esteban Ramirez stood in the corner, swaying back in forth in place, saying Hail Marys repeatedly, and watching his job hang in the balance.
Freddy stopped on occasion to smell certain flowers, or to feel the texture of certain leaves. He smiled at the lavender fragrances and the beauty of the plants—the beauty of his children. He made his way up the second aisle, but his smile inverted to a frown in front of a row of orchids. He rubbed his temples, retrieved his inhaler, and squirted a long spray of mist into his mouth.
“Esteban!” Freddy said with the sound of a grieving father.
Esteban made the sign of the cross and hurried to his employer.
Freddy hung his head, shaking it back and forth, leaning against the flower counter. Upon arrival Esteban stood at attention, moving his eyes up and down the group of plants trying to find the reason for his boss’s despair.
“I’ve had such a good morning Esteban, but now my entire day is ruined.
Do you understand that my day is ruined?”
“Señor, I don’t know...”
“Silence.” Freddy lifted his head up and grabbed one of the orchids off the table, petting it like it was a cat. “This plant is suffering, Esteban. Do you see the brown edges of its leaves? Do you see the way its once strong stem sags like the scrotum of an old man? This plant is in pain. My child is dying.”
“Señor, a thousand apologies, maybe I got the fertilizer amount wrong.”
“So what you’re telling me is that you’re starving this beautiful life form.”
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“Please Señor, I’m sorry. There are thousands of plants in here. That is the only one that is not perfect. Please Señor.”
“Oh, oh. So just because you fouled up one that’s okay, is it? How many children do you have at home Esteban?”
“Seven, Señor.”
“So if you feed six of your children, and one dies then you feel you’ve been a good parent?”
Esteban hung his head.
“I’m going to give you a chance to save this plant. If it dies, you will no longer have a job here and if anything else even looks like it’s sick, I’m going to turn you into fertilizer.”
“Muchas gracias, Señor. Muchas gracias. I get to work on it right away.”
Freddy brought the orchid to his face, took a deep breath, and kissed it. He handed it to Esteban and walked out of the greenhouse.
Esteban again made the sign of the cross.
VI
Johnny the Killer sat in the back seat of the Caprice Classic with a roll of duct tape on his lap. He stared out the window watching as the dead trees January stood frozen in the darkness. He dreamed of sitting at his old school lunch table with his friends. He dreamed of baseball.
Boochie drove, eating a hoagie sandwich, the mustard and mayonnaise escaping from the buns and sticking to his fat cheeks. Next to him Bobby smoked a cigarette and slouched in the seat like they were on vacation. Boochie’s lips smacked and Bobby’s lungs wheezed—the back and forth sound of some very wrong orchestra.
After the first couple of drives, Johnny never asked where they were going.
He really didn’t care to know. But as they pulled up to this house his stomach began to hurt. The front porch was adorned with a handicap ramp and the van that sat in the driveway was all too familiar.
Bobby knocked hard on the front door yelling Joe’s name. Both of Johnny’s new friends had their guns drawn and urged him to do the same. Johnny refused though, citing that it wouldn’t be necessary.
They heard Joe wheel to the door, which opened immediately. He smiled as he welcomed his guests in, trying to small-talk them. His injuries were healed but Johnny thought it odd that he showed no fear. Maybe the smile and talking was a diversion; or worse, maybe it was a way of pretending.
“Let’s cut the shit, Joe. You’re down big again. A week late with no returned phone calls. The Flower is not happy. What gives?”
The greeting charisma had now left Joe all together. “Look fellas. I’ve checked myself into GA. I’m doing real well too. I know I have a debt to pay and I will, but I’ve got to get myself straight first. Freddy’ll get his money.”
Bobby reared back and punched Joe in the face so hard it knocked the cripple backwards out of his chair. Bobby pounced on the man, straddling him with his gun aimed at Joe’s forehead.
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“Look you little invalid, I’m sick and fucking tired of monkeyin’ around with your sorry ass. You’re gonna pay one way or the other...now.”
“Bobby, I swear I’m dead broke. Every last dime has gone to Freddy. I need some time. Please, I beg you.”
Bobby looked at Boochie who leaned against the wall and shrugged his shoulders. Boochie looked around the room at the big screen TV and other expensive fixtures in the room. Bobby shook his head, reading the fat man’s thoughts.
“Johnny get this stump to the car,” Bobby said.
“What’s that?” Johnny responded.
“Tape this fucker’s mouth shut and carry his ass to the car.”
Johnny complied.
Boochie and Bobby ransacked the house taking anything worth value that would fit in the trunk. They’d be back later for the big stuff and the van.
The Caprice pulled into The Lone Rose green house entrance, bypassing the office and the glass houses, stopping a good mile down the cold gravel road just short of the giant wood chipper and the fertilizer piles.
Bobby exited first, and opened Joe’s door. He dragged the legless man out of the car by one arm, dropping him in the snow and walking toward the wood chipper. Joe lay in the cold snow, crying. Bobby waved Boochie and Johnny over. Steam rose from all three of their heads.
The wood chipper was a monstrous structure with an arm that traveled fifty feet into the air like a crane, and the blower hung directly toward the ground off of it. Underneath the blower laid a pile of what was the first stage of fertilizer. The compost had a reddish tint to it. At the bottom, where Freddy’s men stood was the actual mechanism, several blades that chopped up what was supposed to be organic plant material. The large funnel-shaped mouth was big enough in circumference to shred an entire tree into sawdust in a matter of minutes.
It was below freezing, but somehow Johnny was hot. Boochie stood with no coat on, like he was on a beach. Bobby sucked hard on his cigarette, stepping back and forth for warmth.
“Let’s go, Joe. If I have to come over there and carry your ass, I’m going to make you suffer before all this ends.”
“I’ll go help him,” Johnny said as he started back to the car.
Bobby stuck his arm out. “Let him come on his own kid.”
Joe began to scoot, sinking his fingers into the snow-covered ground, pulling himself with his arms, his legs useless. The sobs of the man were loud like that of an infant and as they went on they became garbled from his tears and snot.
Boochie dragged him through the snow for the last ten feet, after Joe stopped of exhaustion. The fat man stood Joe up on his stump legs and held him by the hair. Bobby pulled out his gun and held it to Joe’s forehead.
Rivers of tears had trailed down Joe’s face, but now it seemed that the well was dry, or maybe just frozen. Joe begged repeatedly for his life, saying he would get a second mortgage on his house and sell his van. It was too late though.
Bobby had made up his mind.
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“You want me to shoot ya in the head first, Joe, or ya just wanna go straight into the blades?”
“Kill me now. Just shoot.”
Bobby tucked the gun into the back of his jeans and smiled.
“What are you doin’?” Johnny asked.
“See kid, he wants to go out like a little bitch, like a coward. So we’re gonna put him in there nice and slow, stumps first, so he can feel it.”
Johnny wished he could wake up from the nightmare. But his breath filled the air reminding him of the harsh reality. How had his life come to this? “Maybe we should just let the guy have one more chance, Bobby. He’s got a good job.
He’ll come up with the money.”