The Unfolding, page 25
Bo steps in. “The shift in the political waters has its own riptide. The fracture on the right, the extremism, will find its voice or voices and will roll in; then like a rip current, it will pull away from shore, sucking and drowning those voices as it does—they will be lost at sea. And while it may appear that we, the party, are lost at sea, the sea level itself will be rising and the tidal wave, initially imperceptible, will build and slowly roll in. There will be a seamless transition unfolding in the corridors of power, a slow turn to the right that no one sees coming. In the name of what it means to be an American, we will spearhead the development, within the military and outside it, of separatist soldiers who believe that they are following the true wishes of their leaders culminating in the erosion of civil liberties under the guise of protection. This combined with the withering of local law enforcement, economic setbacks, and failing infrastructure will become part of a picture that coincides with a period of economic, social, and political unrest; the destabilization in this country will give rise to rogue nonpoliticians.”
“If I’m hearing you right,” the judge says, “what you’re outlining is a coup of sorts that will sweep across this country largely unnoticed until it is too late—until the American people have been decimated economically, intellectually, and spiritually. It comes together on a decision day that results in the emergence of a new America.”
“Yes,” the Big Guy says. “And no one will read it as an inside job. It’s a new American dream.”
“There comes a point,” Bo says, “where there is no going back, a moment of great faith, of activation, a call to arms.”
“This is for the common good,” Kissick says. “Let’s be very clear that what we’re talking about is a return to American values—family, home, the right to succeed.”
“This is serious stuff,” the judge says. “The kind of thing that costs people their lives—we are respected men, good men, our loyalty must be unquestionable.”
“I declare us brothers—like a blood-bonding ceremony. I once knew a guy who had a rabbi come to his house for his son’s circumcision, and because my friend wasn’t circumcised, he felt bad that he wouldn’t understand what his son experienced, so he asked the rabbi to make a little cut on his dick. My friend reported that it hurt like hell and he couldn’t scream because all the relatives were right outside. The guy used a blade on him,” Bo says.
“Look, I don’t want to step on your party plans, and as you know, I’m not really here in any official capacity, just a ‘guest,’ ” the General says. “But FYI, you can go with some kind of private military contractor, but you’re gonna need an internal interface. It’s not so much a show of force as invisibly rocking the boat in such a way that either no one notices or the rocking becomes lulling, and soon it’s something you desire and can’t live without.”
“What’s the rollout?” the judge asks
“At least fifteen years,” the Big Guy says. “Any faster and our cover will be blown; slower and it’s too late.”
“Do we take it all at once?” the judge wants to know.
“The more invisible we are, the more powerful,” Kissick says.
“Lie down in peace, rise again to life,” the General says.
“That’s your second Bible quote of the day,” Tony says. “Are you a religious man?”
“I was raised in a house of prayer.”
While they are talking, Metzger is roasting one marshmallow after another in the fireplace, perfecting a toasty brown skin and then pawning them off on the others—the General seems to have an endless appetite for them. Every now and then Metzger loses his focus and one goes up in flames. When that happens, his face lights up; the glow of the flame reflected in his dark-rimmed glasses gives him the look of a demented jack-o’-lantern.
A distant thrumming noise, which at first could be dismissed as a car engine or an old oil furnace or maybe a generator of some sort, starts to hum louder and louder until the windows are actually vibrating.
“You don’t get earthquakes here, do you?” Kissick asks.
“Nope,” the Big Guy says.
The judge grabs a knife off the table and is going for the door. Bo grabs a fire iron and is just behind the judge. Metzger pulls a decorative sword from China off the wall and they head outside. “We’re under attack,” Kissick yells, holding a snowshoe out in front of himself as if it were a shield.
The din increases. The men can’t hear one another, and the visibility is down to zero, the air spinning like a night tornado.
On the side of the house near where they were shooting the heads off the mannequin, two helicopters land as if falling from the sky, the doors slide open, and teams of heavily armed soldiers disembark. There are flash-bangs, heavy white smoke, and then, kapow, bright white floodlights go on as if a switch has been thrown.
The men are face-to-face with twenty soldiers.
“I am one hundred percent going to die,” Kissick says.
“I told you,” Eisner says. “He fucking doped us. It’s coming on. Strong.”
“It’s not dope, it’s real, we are busted,” Kissick says.
“Our toast is burnt,” Metzger adds.
“I already have a fucking record,” Eisner says.
“For what?” Kissick asks—after all, he’s the one who’s been doing the vetting.
“Gambling,” Eisner says. “I was a professional player for a while and then I lost my touch, but it didn’t keep me from playing. And cheating, that’s what the record is for, robbery.”
“How did I not know that?”
“I did community service,” Eisner says. “I taught poor children how to write fiction and then I taught guys in jail, the kids’ fathers, how to read. Maybe the record was expunged.”
“Identify yourself,” the General bellows to the soldiers.
“Sir, we have a mass casualty situation,” the first soldier out of the chopper shouts.
“There were no shots fired?” another shouts.
“Sir, we must have encountered something in the LZ; there is debris everywhere.”
“What the fuck?”
“Sir, please advise.”
The engines on the choppers are cut back, the thwomping blades slow to a dull spin.
“Gentlemen,” the General shouts to his friends. “This is what decision day looks like. What you have before you are two UH-60 aircraft and two highly trained private military contractor teams. I can get you as many of these men as you want for $1,200 a day per man. I’ve got 5,000 trained, and by the time you’re ready to go, I can double that. That, of course, doesn’t include time on the aircraft, which runs about $2,250 an hour just in costs. We have teams around the world that can be deployed with the drop of a geographical pin.”
“What is he saying?” Kissick asks the Big Guy.
“He hired these guys; it’s a party trick.”
Metzger cracks up. A high-pitched Appalachian tee-hee-hee escapes with a wheeze followed by a sputtering cough. “Holy mother of cows. If you could see the looks on all your faces.”
“Sir, I repeat, we have a mass casualty situation,” the first soldier insists.
The white floodlights make it impossible for the men to see past the soldiers.
“Did you know he was going to do this?” the Big Guy asks Bo.
“Not specifically,” Bo says, clearly enjoying the presence of these two massive helicopters. “But he did ask me for a lot of information—dimensions of everything, a map of the land, all kinds of crazy stuff. I just figured he was a security nut.”
The pilot kills the engines; the smoke and dust float off into the night. The front door of the bird opens and the pilot comes out. He looks out ahead of the chopper into the night and promptly vomits.
“Not good at vomit,” Kissick says. “Vomit begets vomit.” Kissick retches.
“What the fuck are you barfing about?” the General bellows.
“The bodies,” the pilot moans. “I can see the bodies with my night-vision glasses. We fucking tore them apart. There are heads everywhere.” The pilot falls onto his knees. “I so fucking shouldn’t say yes to things when I want to say no,” he says to himself.
“If there was a spare pilot among this group, I would fucking shoot you,” the General says. “I would write it off as friendly fire, collateral damage. Those are not real heads. Those are props from a game earlier today. Take a look. Do they look real or like 1960s go-go dancers?”
“I was born in 1984, sir,” the pilot says.
“You’re killing me,” the General says.
“I feel the same way, sir.”
“This is amazing,” the Big Guy says. “So much better live and in person than on a Ping-Pong table in the basement. Maybe we should give these boys a drink of Mary’s cocoa before they head back to wherever they came from.”
Kissick, out of his mind, makes a snowball and hurls it at one of the soldiers. “What you gonna do now, shoot me?” he taunts the soldiers.
“Is that a real gun or just a Nerf?” Metzger asks dryly.
The soldiers do not respond or react. They are brilliantly robotic and restrained, holding the line.
The General goes over to the pilot, who is now just out-and-out weeping, and pokes him with the fire iron. “Pull yourself together, man. There are no bodies.”
“Just in front of the chopper. Sir, you can’t see it but I can; there are heads that have been severed; there are parts of people.” The pilot vomits again.
“Stop,” the General orders. “You’re just chumming now.”
“Chumming?” the pilot asks.
“Burleying; your vomit is like an angler using fish parts as bait, bone blood, it draws sharks in the ocean, bears on land.”
“They’re all dead,” the pilot says. “No one is moving.”
The General wants to take out his pistol and put the pilot out of his pain—but there’s an additional fee for that, something like $250,000 for a pilot, so he puts his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Why don’t you come inside, soldier. Have a cup of Mary’s cocoa or maybe something a little stronger.”
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Palm Springs, California
1:00 p.m.
When Charlotte said she was coming home for Christmas, the Big Guy was so relieved that he didn’t ask questions for fear of jinxing it. That said, he’s surprised when she knocks on the door just after one p.m. with only one small blue suitcase in hand.
“Why didn’t you let me come get you?” he says.
“Then I’d have to tell you where I live.”
In his version he would have picked her up at the sober house. She would be ready to go, bags packed. He was expecting that this would be it, her last hurrah, graduation from the program. She’d wave a tearful goodbye to her counselors and the other residents. He’s been expecting all kinds of things but is afraid to ask questions for fear it will push her further away. For years Charlotte went along with everything because she didn’t have the strength to stand up to him. He should have paid more attention to her efforts; he should have noticed the clues.
He understands that now. After what she’s been through, she’s not about to return to the old way of doing things. But where does it leave them? That’s what he doesn’t know.
Just before the weekend at the ranch, he went to a family meeting; he did what he thought was a good job listening to her talk. He didn’t defend himself. He’s been in business long enough to know that coming off like a bully and shutting people down doesn’t work. He just listened. When they asked whether he had anything to say, he said he was sorry for any pain he had caused her, sorry for any of his behavior that made her life more difficult. He said he was sorry again and again and started to cry, and then said he was sorry for crying but that listening to her was painful.
Near the end of the meeting, he went to hug Charlotte and the counselor got between them and said, “No.” The Big Guy flushed red with shame and anger, and sat down in his chair, vowing never to do this again. He didn’t understand. What had he done wrong? Was it wrong to try to hug his wife? It seemed like a nice gesture. He wanted to know what the problem was but wasn’t about to ask. There are limits to the amount of humiliation the Big Guy can expose himself to in a given day.
And now, at one p.m., when she walks in the door and sees how hard he worked to make it nice, she gives him a soft pat on the back.
“It’s beautiful,” she says. “It looks like a Christmas fantasy.”
“Thank you. I would say I did it myself but it’s not true. I had some help.”
“So much effort,” she says.
He nods.
“That only makes it harder.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not a pleasant occasion.”
“It’s Christmas,” he says.
“You promised me that we would tell her. That’s why I came back.”
A pause.
“We will tell her but it is also Christmas, and even though you’re not in the mood for it, others might be. We have to make up for having messed up Thanksgiving.”
“That’s what we did? We messed up Thanksgiving? I thought I was doing a good thing. Taking care of myself.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
“We have to tell her.”
“I agree. But we don’t have to do it the minute she comes through the door. Welcome home, sorry about Thanksgiving, and by the way, we’re about to detonate a bomb in your life. The kid is coming home for Christmas.”
“I’ve been sitting on this for years,” she says.
“Right, which is why it’s not an emergency.”
“It’s your secret. I’m not keeping secrets anymore. The secret store is closed. That’s the reason I’m here. I came to back to tell her.”
“You’re not staying?”
“Not for long.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“It’s not personal,” she says.
“Unlikely.”
“Maybe it is personal but it’s about me; it’s not about you. I have to continue my work.”
“And that’s not something you can do from here? You could even have the group come here to the house.”
“It’s not possible,” she says.
He moves her suitcase from the front hall into the bedroom.
She moves it back to the front hall.
“I promise you’ll be able to get out quickly,” he says. “But you don’t need to leave the bag in the front hall. You can have the bedroom, I’ll take my office.”
“No.”
“Fine.” He opens the front hall closet and puts the suitcase in there. “Does that work for now?”
“What time is she due in?”
“Between three and four. Are you hungry?”
“I’m not,” she says. “I’ll just sit outside and read. I brought a book.”
“You could go for a swim.”
“I didn’t bring a suit.”
“As though that’s ever stopped you.”
She shrugs.
“I’m sure there’s one in your drawer.”
“Could I please have something to drink and maybe a nut?” she asks.
“Of course.”
“Do you happen to have pineapple juice? Or a Sierra Mist?”
“No, but I have pretty much everything else. Cranberry? Fresh lime?”
“Maybe.”
“It’s your house too,” he says. “Make yourself at home. You can serve yourself.”
“I don’t feel comfortable doing that.”
“There is no liquor in the kitchen; you don’t have to be afraid of going in there.”
“This is so awful,” she says.
“It’s all gone; I cleaned everything out, removed temptation.” He’s done his homework and has all kinds of juices and soft drinks, things to mix to give the feeling of a cocktail, of celebration. He’s got crudités and nuts.
“You know what I discovered that I just love?”
“No idea,” he says, as he’s making a cranberry and seltzer for her and one for himself.
“Goldfish.”
“Oh.”
“The crackers. I just love the goldfish crackers. Did you ever notice that they have faces, that they smile at you while you’re eating them?”
“I didn’t notice that,” he says, handing her the drink. “But they’re tasty.”
“And graham crackers,” she says. “I hadn’t had a graham cracker since I was a child. I didn’t even know they still made them.”
“We could get some.”
“No need.” She moves around the living room, touching the various decorations. “Is the tree real?”
He laughs again. “I forgot to ask.”
“We never had a tree here before.”
“It’s a first,” he says.
“It looks nice against the windows, with the golf course in the background.”
“I didn’t know what to do; I had Neiman’s come style the place like a window on Fifth Avenue.”
What he doesn’t tell her is that he also had them do the shopping; he gave them some ideas and they came back with a list. Family pajamas, sweaters, mother-daughter roller skates, headphones, hairstyling. A nice black dress and a red one, too, for each. Cozy soft sweatpants and cashmere sweatshirts. Something from Burberry. Something from UGG. Something for everyone. Glass icicles. Snowmen in globes for the tree. Rigaud candles, Christmas table decorations, oven mitts and aprons, a waffle maker. No barware this year.
“It’s a little much, isn’t it?” she asks, looking at the enormous pile of gifts.
“I did what I could,” he says. “I wanted it to be nice for everyone.”
