Going Shogun (22 page)

Or, I could get out right here, walk
back to Bingo’s, tell her that our fugitive days are about to start, and ask
where we’re going first.  My paranoia is reaching LX’s level and I’m starting
to see why he’d already gone over the edge last night.  I even take my hand off
the door handle as a precaution, and try to wipe it down with the edge of the
t-shirt.

No traces
.

I’m so relieved that I get
lightheaded when we turn on Bradbury Street and there are no signs of those
ominous black sedans.  At the same time, my obsession with wanting to know what
they know leaves me asking myself why.  Why haven’t they come?  Why didn’t they
track us down last night? 

Even if Forklift was trying to
convince LX that there was no proof of
anything
that he killed
Shoobocks, Board Agents don’t leave any question unanswered, and with their
capabilities, there aren’t too many they can’t find an answer for.  LX would be
the primary suspect since it was his place, but every person that had ever been
in there and left any detectable genetic residue would be found and
questioned.  They would look for Cat, possibly even track down the tattoo
artist that gave her the smiling Cheshire over her unmentionables.  They would
look for anybody that stopped by for a beer and sat on the couch.

I go over every move we made, every
move that I can remember, everything that we touched and then tried to wipe
clean while we were scrambling to get out.  Did I get the stereo dial?  Did
Forklift get the keyboard?  Did Forklift leave a boot print in the blood as he
was leaning over Darrell Grubb’s body?  Did one of us remember the doorknob
when we left?

We couldn’t have gotten out of there
cleanly enough for them to overlook us.  It’s not possible.  Not in any way. 
Part of me wonders if I’ll even see Forklift at Wishful Thinking,
if
I
make it there.

Something isn’t right.  And it worries
me. 

I don’t know how long I’ve been
stuck in analytical mode, because the cab driver is practically shouting at me
now.  “Thirty-seven dollars!  Yo, brain-drain, thirty-seven dollars!  You
getting out or what?” 

He rips the fifty from my hand when
I reach over the front seat and tell him to keep the change.

I get out.  Stand there in front of
my building, knowing I need to go in, but unwilling to take that initial step. 
This is my first time facing whatever comes next, alone.  I took down the man
in the blue shirt, that ridiculously large Board Agent, by myself, but Bingo
and Forklift were in the room with me, and it was filled with people who were
on my side. 

I hate that I have to do this part
on my own.

Be brave.  Be brave like you were
last night.  Remember what Bingo said.  Confidence looks good on you.

It takes a gargantuan amount of
willpower to get myself across the sidewalk, up the stairs, and into the
building.  Inside the elevator, my finger hovers over the “6” button.  I take a
deep breath and push it.

It’s an agonizing ride up.  Dawdling
and measured by the
bing
of each passing floor.  What if they’re inside
my apartment?  What then?

Nothing.  Nothing then.  You’re
done.  It’ll be over
,
I think.  The thought is terrifying, but at least it would be an end to this lunacy.

The elevator chimes its death knell,
signaling my floor, my doom.  The doors slide open.

I stand so long, they start to slide
closed again.  I fling my arm out to stop them, step into the hall, and inspect
it up and down.   Nobody.  Empty.  Quiet.

I turn to my left, and walk about
twenty paces to my door, like I’ve done every day since I moved in.

Why is it so
quiet
in this hallway?

My keys slide into the lock, and I
hesitate.

I can’t.  I can’t do it.

You have to.

My hand turns and the deadbolt
disengages without my permission.

Gravity and uneven hinges slowly
open the door for me.

A half-empty soda bottle sits on the
coffee table next to a copy of
Ascender’s Weekly
.  I sniff at the
man-scent that comes with an unkempt bachelor pad.  It smells the same.  No
aroma of unfamiliar cologne or anything like that.  The white takeout carton
from last night’s Cheesecake Meatloaf lies open and empty on the table, spread
wide like a shark’s fossilized jaws down at the Oceanarium.  All my shoes are
lined up neatly beside the door.

Nothing.  Nothing is different. 
Everything untouched.  Everything is sitting right where I left it.

The shades are drawn so I open them
to let more light in, to aid in the inspection.

I slink around the apartment scrutinizing
everything, looking for any signs, searching for any clues.  It’s all the
same.  Not a single thing has been moved.  I pick up a couple of plants, a
couple of picture frames.  Their silhouettes of anti-dust are undisturbed.  The
ketchup bottle that I used on the meatloaf sits exactly where it was the night
before.

I hurry into the bedroom and pick up
my phone.  It’s cruising along, half-charged, which means they could’ve found
me if they’d wanted to.  But they didn’t come looking.  Or at least they
haven’t been here, in my apartment.

Why?  Why aren’t they looking for
me?  Am I really safe?  Did we do it?  Did we get away?

I tell myself yes.  It has to be. 
There’s no other explanation.  Somehow, we made it.

It’s relieving and I feel a bit
ridiculous for going LX.

Hah
.  That’s a new one.  Going LX. 
I’ll have to tell Forklift about that one.  Maybe he can add it to his
vocabulary.

I glance at the clock and see that I
have thirty minutes before our shift starts.  I have an internal debate on
whether or not to call Forklift to check in on him.  In a strange bit of
serendipity, kismet, psychic providence, the phone rings and vibrates in my
hand.  It spooks me so much that I launch myself at least six inches backward. 

A quick check of the caller ID
reveals that it’s none other than the man himself.

I answer, and he starts to chatter
on in his typical nonsensical conversation, firing questions at me, blasting me
with good-natured gobbledygook.  Translated, it goes something like, “Wanted to
check on you.  You won’t believe how wild this sheila was in bed, can’t wait to
tell you about it.  Is everything cool with you?  What does Bingo look like
naked?”

I tell him I’m fine, everything’s okay
but I’m a bit freaked out, I have something new to add to his lexicon, and what
Bingo looks like naked is none of his business, but she’s definitely a good
kisser. 

I leave out everything else.  The
shower, the sex, the waffles.  The memorial in the bedroom.  The fact that I’ve
decided to Rescind for her if we make it through this.  The fact that we’ll run
if anything goes wrong. 

I tell him I have to go.

“Hey,” he says in a reassuring,
non-Forklift tone, “you’ll be fine.  R10 is so close, you can touch it with
your fingertips.”

He hangs up before I get a chance to
question him about what happened to it being so close
we
could touch it
with
our
fingertips.

I take off the clothes that once
belonged to Bingo’s father.  I fold them neatly on the bed.  It seems more
appropriate than tossing them into the heap of unwashed laundry in the corner, and
then I get dressed in my Wishful Thinking uniform.

White dress shirt.  Red tie.  Black
pants.  Green apron.

I put my phone in my left pocket completely
out of habit then think better of it.  I pull it out, remove the battery, and
toss it onto my sagging mattress.

Precaution, precaution, precaution.

I rush out the door, down the
elevator, and catch the 2:45 bus to what might be my last shift ever at Wishful
Thinking.

Chapter
16

We all have those times in our lives
where we feel like we’re going too fast for the road we’re on.  Yet we keep
pushing on that gas pedal, going ever faster, feeling that excitement, or that
trepidation, and we wind up bouncing and skidding off the edge, hurtling
headlong into that tree that we know is coming, but aren’t prepared for.  Some
of us get to wake up before we hit it, some of us don’t.

Knowing that you’re flying out of
control toward an inevitable ending, but being unable to listen to your inner
self to pump the brakes, to steer the car in a different direction, is a
strange feeling.  Especially when you don’t know if the tree will be there or
not.

There are two parts to my
predicament.  One, I think about how Forklift said he needs this as his own personal
form of absolution.  For himself, and especially for his dad, and it doesn’t
matter how weird he’s being about it, I believe that part.  There was enough emotion,
enough truth behind the feeling in that statement that I can get behind it,
even though I can’t entirely buy into it.  And then two, like I’ve said a
thousand times, now that Lewis & Clark are onto us, trying to eliminate the
competition, there has to be an ending to this game that I don’t know how to
play, this game that has no rules.

There will definitely be a winner,
and I can only hope that I’m on the right side of the field, with Forklift’s
help.

The bus stops about a block away
from Wishful Thinking and I have to dash down the street.  I fly through the
doors, run up to the time-clock, and log in with a minute to spare.

2:59.

The sense of expectancy feels like
I’ve got my feet in the blocks at a track meet, waiting on that fake gun to
fire. 

I check the schedule to see who
we’ll be working with tonight.  Fireball, Doobar, and Flake work seven days a
week, so their names are always at the top of the sheet.  Dorna is so
crazy-protective of her secret recipes that she won’t trust any new hires to
help in the kitchen.  Breaker is on dishwashing duty.  I cringe, because he
earned that nickname for a reason.  Seashell is the hostess, which means
there’ll be sufficient crowd containment when people start lining up.

I scan down the list of servers, reading
the names.  Forklift and myself, followed by Trinket, which is good, because
she’s been here longer than any of us.  She’s fast, and she’s helpful.  And
then damn it, Stream and Honker.  It means that the rest of us are in for a
long shift because we’ll have to pick up their slack.

Forklift agitates up to me.  “Time
to roll the rock,” is all he says.  He smiles a tooth-filled smile, pats my
shoulder, and steps out onto the dining room floor to confuse his first table
of the day.  I’m comforted by the fact that it feels like the
right
Forklift.

The rest of the afternoon creeps by. 
People are likely out enjoying this rare weather, instead of flocking to get
inside a restaurant with clean air and bizarre delicacies.  It’s not
necessarily a good thing because it gives me more time to build up panicked
anticipation over our upcoming R15 activities later tonight.  I pick up a few
tables here and there, a couple of two-tops and a three-top that leaves me an
awesome 39% tip.  I get that small rush of familiar excitement then think about
how a couple extra bucks won’t mean a thing in a few hours, regardless of the
outcome.

Fireball doesn’t get a second glance
whenever I walk by the kitchen window and see her sweating over the flame
grill.  I feel nothing now.  Not even the slightest hint of longing. 

Bingo is my main go-to.

Stream and Honker ignore the rest of
us, too caught up in trying to keep up with one table each.  It’s hard not to
feel sorry for the poor shmucks.  I attempt to offer a few words of advice on
how to manage better, like carrying condiments
with
you to avoid
multiple trips, but they give me dirty looks and stay in the weeds.

Whatever.  Their call.

Forklift is busy as usual. 
Customers request him every day he works, and the rest of us have figured out
that they must be entertained by his impermeable parlance.  The other servers
grumble sometimes whenever they’re on a shift with him because he always picks
up more tables than they do.  I try to get him aside a few times to ask about the
plans, or ask if he thinks we really got away with being inside LX’s place and
aren’t being hunted, but he says things like, “Can’t parlay, in the racecar
with five four-legs packed with hometown hotcakes,” which means he’s working five
tables populated by adoring, local fan-girls.

Then about 5:45, right before the
dinner rush is starting to pick up, Trinket walks over to me as I wait on two
Raspberry
Pâté
entrees and says,
“Check this out, Brick.  Somebody called in an order for fifty extra-large Butter
Tea Brownies.  Seashell said she specifically asked for me.  Glad she did,
because I got a full match.”

We call it a
full match
whenever we’re lucky enough to get a 100% tip on a bill.  It’s so uncommon that
we have a spot on the break-room bulletin board dedicated to the 1
^st
place ribbons we give out whenever it happens.  I’ve seen eight of them get tacked
up there since I started at Wishful Thinking.  One of them is mine.