Geezler moved his steak to the centre of his plate. He gripped his knife, pen-like, held the meat in place with his fork, then cut the meat into equal sections. Done, he laid down the knife.
‘I’m not sure what we do about this. It might be something that can’t be addressed. I don’t know if it’s too global. For everything to work properly you need good foundations, which means building the territory from scratch. Cut down the old wood. Plant a new forest. Start over. But, like I said, we live in departments.
‘I can do something about more local issues. And for that I need people who can be my ears and eyes. I can’t do this myself.’ He stuck a piece of meat with his fork, lifted it to check that it was cooked to his liking. ‘I want to look at how we do things — I want to know our day-to-day workings in specific, intimate detail. I want to see how our services work, and at what temperature. Understand what’s lacking. What we’re getting wrong.’ He looked square across the table. ‘I need to know how we do business. Does this interest you?’
Rem cut into the steak Geezler had ordered for him. Rarer than he liked, salted and seared, the meat had a good rich taste, but as he chewed he felt a vague wave of disgust at the texture, at how the meat gave, uncooked, easily to his bite.
‘It doesn’t matter that you don’t know our procedures. It’s probably better not to know. All I need is someone to interact with our operations and report back. How does this sound, Mr Gunnersen?’
Rem said he wasn’t sure what he was being asked, and for a moment Geezler appeared disappointed, as if Rem had missed the point of the discussion, just hadn’t appreciated the general thrust.
‘I’m not asking you to do anything other than observe. That’s all I’m asking.’ Geezler set his fork beside his knife.
* * *
Rem stood at the front of the carriage and watched the train lights skid along the rails. A friendly comfort to the bump and jostle of the first carriage on the last train. Two calls on his mobile, one from Jay, the other from Mike, both asking for news on Matt as neither had heard from him in over a week, but really asking after money. As he looked out at the city he thought of Nut, lost or stolen.
He considered Geezler’s proposal and found no argument against it. Go to a trade fair on Navy Pier, wander about, speak with the handlers and exhibitors, then report back in the evening on how it went. Just return with his impressions. Five hundred dollars.
He rehearsed the conversation with Cathy, played through how he would introduce Geezler, and how he would ridicule the man’s dull concerns and intensities, that entire ramble about his work, that fuzz and fuss about woods and forests. Even as he rehearsed this he winced, slightly superstitious about laughing at the man.
* * *
The story as Santo tells it goes something like this: He’s a unit manager, in Amrah, four nights on, one night off, which is how and where he first met Gunnersen. He’s used to the heat, but this was something else. Insanely fierce. And the wind, when it picked up, carried a dry scent of desert, burnt land, a thousand-plus miles of waterless Arabian plains and rock. He started as part of a team that cleared the roadside trash, which is burned on the spot or bundled into skips to be taken to one of the burn pits, and worked his way up. Work isn’t anything he has to like exactly, but endure. Even now the work bothers him in ways he can’t describe. Too much junk, too much dust, broken concrete, stuffed shopping bags, too much crap to properly know what’s being hidden. These buildings, he shakes his head. They clear them out, knock them down, and then build these superhighways right through them. A superhighway crashing right through some medieval sun-scorched slum. He splays his hands to describe the scene. Broken furniture, mattresses, you name it, TVs you’d sort of expect, but fax machines (who uses those?), PCs, game consoles, office furniture, beds even, you name it, all out on the roadside, doorways opening to unpaved roads. There’s no need to mention the water bottles. Always, everywhere, those ribbed plastic bottles.
He says things that aren’t entirely true: You smell what’s there. You get a nose for trouble. You learn the difference between someone running because they’re frightened and someone running because they’re the root cause of trouble. You get a nose for these things. You get to know the people you work with. You get close.
Fatboy wants to buy DVDs. He’s wearing one of the armoured vests supplied by HOSCO. He’s ready and he begs, literally begs, to be brought along. As soon as he’s in the vehicle he’s asking these stupid questions, the way he does. The boy can nag. He wants to know about the vests, how good they are, how effective. Like if you were shot in the chest would the vest protect you? How about the stomach? At what range? All of these questions none of them can answer. Then it becomes obvious that Fatboy has a gun with him. Something no one’s happy about, because the regulations are clear about contractors carrying guns, or rather not carrying guns, even though they can buy them easily enough, or sell or trade them on when they leave, because contractors are dying daily out here and the law is against them when it explicitly states that they Can’t Legitimately Protect Themselves. Guns aren’t allowed for non-combatants. No, no, no. On account of the gun and the questions, they change their minds about taking Fatboy with them and leave him in the vehicle, mulling, and tell him they’ll bring the DVDs right back, whatever’s new, whatever they don’t think he has, and plan to speak with him later about the handgun and about how he needs to behave if he wants more of these trips. Behave and Shut the Fuck Up. The point is made and the men walk off, and leave another guy, Samuels, for company, no one thinking that the weapon might be loaded or what kind of damage one bullet might make in the confines of a metal bucket like a Humvee. Barely into the market, Santo and his accompanying guard hear a contained report. A shot. Unmistakable. Back in the Humvee Samuels has blood specking his face, arms, shirt, and he’s freaking out, he’s screaming like he’s the one who’s hurt. And Fatboy has shot himself in the gut, although this isn’t so easy to work out at this particular moment. It’s an unbelievable thing, the interior of the truck is a canning-factory mess, sticky, black and red, just nasty, and Fatboy is crumpled like some strings have been cut; hands are sopped to his elbows and worst of all his face, his expression, like he doesn’t believe it, like this can’t be happening.
* * *
Santo will tell this story to the men at Camp Liberty who are curious about Rem, because they want to know who they’re working for and why he keeps so much to himself, and Santo seems to have an idea.
Rem won’t go to visit the boy before he’s shipped out, there’s a two-hour opportunity in which he makes himself scarce. Fatboy wants to see him, but Rem won’t visit and won’t say his goodbyes. He doesn’t do much other than look like he’s going to cry every time Fatboy’s name comes up, this ox of a man, brought low over this wounded skinny boy.
It’s like this thing comes at you, and you don’t even know it, and you’ve no idea what it’s going to do to you. Santo can’t explain himself. He wants to find meaning in this, but knows there’s a limit to what can be taken from such an event. The story is simple and not so rare, and he doesn’t do much at the end of telling it but shake his head. Fatboy. Stupid Fatboy. No harm to anyone but himself.