chrome leg of the pin-ball machine the only thing in my field of view. I smell summer, dirt, popcorn from the bar, the stench from the toilets, stale smoke, pear blossoms, lemonade, smoking bark, my own cooked and blistered skin, then nothing.
GRASS STABS MY NOSTRILS AND EYES AS RAIN SLIDES DOWN MY CHEEKS. THE drops climb through my hair and ears, foraging beneath my collar. It’s not raining. Beetles swarm from the dirt and pick me apart, scrambling for the precious patches of thin skin, fighting for the wet tissue inside my mouth and beneath my bandages. Antenna codes rebound from drone to drone in the space of a wing flutter until the machine-forged workers deep down catch the signal. The six-legged drill bits burrow up through the dirt to pick my cartilage clean with surgical steel mandibles until nothing’s left but my brittle bones for the hot rain to hammer into the mud. You say my name, your voice muffled with static. Flash. One thousand, two thousand, three thousand. Thunder. Wiggle your toes. I don’t have any. Other people have toes, I have shoes. Wiggle your shoelaces. Nothing. I can’t run from the legions of whoever or whatever are charging through the splintered door I can’t see. Open your eyes.
I’m buckled into the passenger seat of a minivan. The stranger in the peach golf shirt is driving.
“That’s what we call a Simi Valley speeding ticket.” He reaches for my face. With his thumb on my cheek, he stretches my left eye wide open. “You there?” He lets go of my face and takes the wheel. “The question is,” he says, “can you do it again?”
My fingers crackle. My motor control thaws as I rub my palms together. A voice behind shouts for ice cream, a child’s plea coming from a grown man.
“We’re going to get some ice cream right now, son,” the driver says. Then to me, “What happened to the hard-ass I used to know? Only a couple of weeks ago you were pure brains and attitude. Now, you’re a shivering wreck.”
The taste of metal lingers. My tongue won’t move and I can’t swallow. I might choke on my own spit. The windows are up, the air conditioner blows the faint lemon and pear blossom smells away with cold, empty air.
“Ice cream.”
“Settle down, son.”
Wherever I am, it’s far from the Firebird’s part of town. We drive among the houses I’ve seen in the distance from my window, box-shaped insect hives the color of sand, with red tile roofs behind high walls or iron fences. They cover the hills like barnacles. The Summit. Shady Pointe. Vista Acres. Groups of Mexican men trim hedges and lawns every half mile. The brightest color is the manicured grass that’s never seen a picnic blanket, lawn chair or baseball game. I don’t smell anything.
“I’m sorry about the shock,” the man says. “My son likes his toys and I’m a big believer in a strong offense. You used to know that. That’s my boy back there. You’ve met him before, many a time.”
He gauges my reaction in silence.
“Nothing, huh?”
Nothing.
“Don’t fool yourself,” he continues. I’m paralyzed and have to listen. “He knows every major artery, nerve cluster and pressure point on the human body. He can gut, cut and pack a grown man into a garbage bag in under forty minutes. He’s still just a child in most ways, always will be. But he’s got a knack for the job most pros will never come close to. Ever. He’s a legend, in some circles. You’re the best, aren’t ya, Toe Tag?” he says to the rearview mirror.
“Love you.”
“I love you too, son. Here we are.”
He pulls into a shopping complex, the same bleached sand non-color of the surrounding developments, and parks in a blue zone. The dirty, idiot boy from Ford’s opens my door. Toe Tag. He unbuckles my seat belt, grips the crotch of my arm and hoists me to my feet. I’m a doll full of feathers in his grip.
The evening shadows bleed like fresh ink until they’ve covered the ground. The desert air soaks them up, staining the sky deep blue, the color of morning glory petals. The sweeping hands of the enormous, outdoor clock make me dizzy. I stare at my feet and let Toe Tag guide me. My legs are still numb and I can’t risk slipping on a wet shadow.
My escorts leave me at an outdoor food court opposite a movie theater. I hear the hornet’s hum of current running through neon. When they return, the boy plows into a waffle cone, smearing ice cream across his face, oblivious to the world.
“My name is White,” the man says. “They call me Manhattan, but I’m from Rochester. I’ll repeat myself. The question is, can you do it again?” He strokes his son’s hair once, twice, then folds his hands in front of him, never taking his eyes from me.
“You’re really going to make me go through this from the beginning, aren’t you?”
I still can’t talk. Neither shaking my head nor nodding seems like a good idea.
Toe Tag says, “Share,” then offers a spoonful of ice cream to his father. Manhattan White lets the boy spoon-feed him a bite, then continues.
“You and I work for the same organization. Rather, we used to, as you’ve taken an unscheduled leave of absence. Among our interests is a chain of pharmaceutical manufacturing and supply, wherein you reported to me as part of Research and Development. Head of Research and Development, I should add. I reported, and continue to report, directly to Mr. Hoyle.”
Toe Tag immerses a plastic army man into his ice cream. Hip-deep in vanilla, the soldier with the seam down the center of his face rears back to lob a grenade into mine.
“That placed you very high up in the chain, you understand,” says White. “You’ve made a great deal of money for us, and yourself, and we’ve been quite pleased with you, until this recent debacle.”
“And to whom does Hoyle report?” A rope of drool spills onto my numb and tingling hands. I wipe my chin with unfeeling fingers.
“This is going to take longer than I thought,” says White. “Hoyle reports to no one. He’s the first and last link in the chain and everything in it belongs to him. He’s the last word in this organization, his organization, and you’ve managed to land on his blacklist. Most people would have been given a pink slip in your situation, but you’ve got yourself one hell of a parachute, so we’re prepared to negotiate.”
“You’ve got my undivided attention.” My words are mashed together like warm clay.
“Sarcasm. Sounds as though the old Eric is coming around,” he says and smiles. “There’s that fire you started. That is not an accusation, so we’re clear. Neither I nor Hoyle believe you did that on purpose. Your precautionary measures were exemplary for the entire chain and your compensation was ample, to say the very least. Nobody doubts it was an accident but, the fact remains, the lab was your responsibility and the fire happened on your watch.”
“Hoyle ought to be insured.”
“He is and he isn’t,” White says, “but it’s not that simple. In addition to the significant loss of our assets, both manufacturing and finished product, there’s the question of some intellectual property, work you did for hire, which therefore belongs to us, and lastly, there’s reason to believe, and I’m being generous here, that you were personally responsible for inventory shrinkage at the site. Now with your legal situation, we face the potential compromise of your Nondisclosure Agreement with the organization. This poses the most significant danger to Hoyle, which thus poses the most significant danger to you.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Yes. Would you like it in writing?”
“I haven’t said a thing to the cops.”
“But they’ve asked.”
“I didn’t answer.”
“I know you didn’t,” says