Chapter Eleven
Upon my arrival at the branch, I take a badly-needed shower, washing away the filth I’ve accumulated over the past couple of days. I still feel terrible about what happened to Josh but I’ve resigned myself to the fact that the Agency of Justice was going to get him—for whatever reason—sooner or later.
Having showered, I take a sorely-needed nap in one of the branch’s sleeping chambers. The mattress is quite stiff but anything would have sufficed, including the floor. When I wake up, I throw on a set of agency-issued sweats. This is the first time in a while that I’ve felt comfortable, at least in my own clothing, if not in my own skin.
I am now sitting in a small meeting room. A rectangular table serves as the room’s focal point with an empty leather chair across from me. I’m curious as to what Richardson has to say at this point. I anticipate something along the lines of blah blah blah mistake, blah blah blah mole, blah blah blah you’re fucked.
The door swings open. Richardson, noticeably more serious than usual, sits down in front of me with a folder in his hands. What surprise will this one bring?
“Calvin,” the old man says, “at the risk of sounding trite, I am truly sorry.”
“I know.”
“I’d like to make it up to you.”
“Have you found a way to clear my name?”
Richardson leans forward. “To be honest, it’d be difficult to clear your name without exposing the agency … but we’re prepared to offer you an alternative.”
“Like what?”
He places the folder in front of me. “A new life. Anywhere you want, doing whatever you want.” He motions for me to open the folder. I oblige the old man and notice a passport and a set of car keys. “You name the place. We’ll make sure you get there, no questions asked.”
I open the passport. It belongs to a black man named Kevin Stewart. According to the document, he’s my age and hails from New York City. He’s a couple of inches taller than me and, judging by the photo, darker than me.
“You would assume his name and his appearance,” the old man says.
“How do I know this wasn’t planted?” I say, pressing the passport with my finger.
“I made it myself. And I cross-referenced it with Department of State records to make sure that this is not Kevin Stewart.”
“You can do that?”
“Cal, all of this is coming from up high. Our executive director, Lasse Gantert, approved all of this.”
“You think this makes everything better?” I say. “You’re asking me to live a lie.”
“I’ll wire the money in your savings account to an account in Kevin’s name and the agency will continue to pay your salary.”
“Forget my salary. You were the one who told me there was a role to be played by all of us, right?” The old man lowers his head. “Well, I didn’t choose to be a murder suspect. If you really wanted to make things better …”
“My hands are tied, Cal. You know clearing your name’s not an option for us. I mean, who would even believe us?”
“Well, you won’t buy my silence.”
“It’s not about silence. It’s about protection.”
“Protection for who?”
“Dammit, Calvin … you know the alternative. Trust me when I say I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.”
I laugh. “Right, like you’ve been to prison. What was it? Tax evasion?”
“Vehicular manslaughter.”
“Bullshit.”
“I was twenty-two … and drunk.” He averts his gaze, staring instead at his hands on the table. “Killed a girl.”
“Was she older? Or was she …”
“She was seventeen.”
The room falls silent. I stare at the old man. He, however, can’t bring himself to look at me. I don’t blame him.
“Anyone else know?”
He shakes his head. “Not even my wife.”
“How long were you put away?”
“Sentenced to fifteen years, got out in twelve for good behavior.”
“Wow.”
“Cal,” the old man says, still not looking at me, “I wish like hell we could clear your name, but … there’s just too much at stake, including you. If you stay here, you will be exposed, and you will go to prison. And given what you’re accused of … you’ll wish you were dead.”
I look past the old man and see my reflection in the window behind him. I’ve never been vain but I don’t like the idea of trading in my mug for that of someone else. On numerous levels, I’d be selling my life away. I’d have to break off contact with everyone I know.
Still, the man in the reflection is wanted for murder. And, given the sordid chronicling of this affair by the media, I think I’d rather take Richardson’s word for what it’s like to be in prison.
“Let me think about it,” I say.
He takes the folder and its contents off of the table. “Take your time.”
“I have a question.”
The old man nods.
“What happened to me at Independence Hall?”
“Your telekinetic episode, you mean?”
I nod my head.
“That was a telekinetic rift. Very powerful, very dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
“You felt dizzy afterwards, yes?”
“Very.”
“It has a concussive effect. I’ll put it to you this way, had you held on any longer, you would’ve been brain dead.” That explains my headaches and lightheadedness.
“How’s it triggered?”
“It’s usually involuntary, caused by an overwhelming rush of emotion. Like rage.”
I snicker. “Kind of like how the Hulk?”
“Sure. But under normal circumstances, an agent would never need to use it. You were lucky. Telekinetic rifts are not to be messed with. It’s why we recruit folks who are emotionally stable.” The old man stands up, grunting in the process. “Let me know when you’ve made up your mind.”
I nod as Richardson leaves.
Left in the room by myself, I continue to stare at my reflection. Although I’ll most likely take it, the agency’s offer seems like the easy way out. I wouldn’t even know where to go.
I leave the room, walk down the hallway and turn the doorknob to the Control Room, looking both ways before entering. Richardson and company have only told me to stay at the branch. They never told me which room I had to stay in.
With the Control Room empty, I take a seat in front of the room’s central computer. It prompts me to search by intersection or geographical coordinates. Josh’s accident was on Front Street and we ran off the train at the York-Dauphin station. I type in the intersection of Front and York. The computer then prompts me to enter a time. I enter noon—the approximate time of the accident—and get an error message: the video doesn’t exist.
Next, I try calling up the same video feed but from an hour later. This time it works, and first responders are scattered north of York Street. Most of the wreckage—and the crowd it attracted—has been cleared and traffic has resumed. I exit out of the video and attempt to view the scene at twelve o’clock again.
No luck.
The mole must have deleted the video from that timeframe. Whoever it is, they’re thorough; I’ll say that for them.
I readjust in the chair and pull out my phone. Five missed calls—four of them from Ronni—a similar number of texts, and one voicemail. I tap the voicemail button and put the phone to my ear.
“Hi, this is Mark. I, uh, wanted to thank you for setting up my meeting with Lindsay today.” No, thank you for not being a trap. “She did leave without saying goodbye, though, so I hope everything’s okay. Anyway, I owe you guys big time. Thanks again and please tell Lindsay that Maddy said yes.” Awesome. Glad one of us got what we deserved.
I return to the missed call screen. I’ve wanted nothing more than to call Ronni but I don’t know what to say. Telling her that I’m okay would incur more questions, more impatience and telling her
the truth is not an option.
Still not entirely sure of what to say, I dial Ronni’s number.
“Hello?” she says, the sound of gravel in her voice.
“Ronni, it’s Calvin.”
“Hi.”
“Have the cops talked to you? I mean, can they—”
“No. The cops haven’t been here.”
I exhale a bit. “You just wake up?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you not go to work?”
“I called out.”
“Are you sick?”
“Kind of.”
“Well, what if I come over tonight and bring you some soup?”
“That’s not a good idea.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“It’s not that. It’s just … tonight’s not good for me.”
“Ronni, I miss you. I really need to see you.”
“Calvin, this isn’t fair.”
“What’s not fair?”
“This! You ignore me whenever I need you but then pop up whenever the hell you feel like it.”
“I was running from the cops.”
“It’s always been like this and you know it.”
My mind races for something to say but it doesn’t find anything. Not anything found in logic, anyway.
“While you’re off helping everyone else …”
I open my mouth, hoping to find the right words. Instead, after a long, silent pause, I finally hear a faint sob. Ronni and I have shed many a tear together but never was it because of something either of us did or said to the other.
“Please, Ronni, I have to see you.”
“I can’t,” she manages through a sob. “Bye.”
“Wait.”
After she hangs up I toss my phone on the Control Room table, placing my hands on my head. That same warmth I felt after my failed first encounter with Josh is the same warmth I feel rushing to my head now. Nothing lasts forever but this is the train wreck I wanted to avoid with Ronni, whether she intended to permanently cast me aside or not. Though she’s usually a cool customer, her reaction to my request was warranted. I have ignored her, both pre- and post-Agency of Influence. A sensitive human being can only give without receiving for so long. It only comes as minor consolation that this has essentially made it easier for me to disappear out of Ronni’s life.
I step away from the control panel and go back into the hallway.
On my way to the café, I pass the Change Machine. Agent Darling is in the lab, studying the machine and jotting down notes on a clipboard at every turn. When I knock on the window, she turns around with a quick twist as though startled and flashes a smile. She may not be Ronni but any friendly face will do. I open the door and step into the lab.
“Jesus, Calvin. You scared the crap out of me.”
“What are you doing?”
“Running a diagnostic. Jimenez has us do it every month.”
“Gotcha.”
Darling holds her clipboard down by her side before coming over to me. “How’re you feeling?”
“Tired.”
“I bet.” She pats my shoulder with her free hand. “I’m so sorry about what happened.”
“It’s not your fault,” I say before snickering. “Someone obviously has it out for me.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I think it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”
She shrugs. “Maybe we’re all targets.”
I hadn’t considered that. No surprise; it falls in line with my freshly-exposed self-absorbed mentality.
“Don’t take Josh’s accident too hard. Could’ve happened to anyone.”
“Yeah, that’s what I keep telling myself.”
“Good,” she says with another smile. “Are you going to take Richardson’s offer?”
“How did you—”
“He kind of told us about it when he reamed us earlier,” she says, walking back to the machine.
“If you were me, what would you do?”
Darling purses her lips. “I’d take it and run.”
“Where would you go?”
“Oh, my favorite place,” she says, imagining it within the confines of the lab. “Clearwater Beach. Heaven on Earth.”
“You go there often?”
“Twice a year. Christmas and summer—my parents own a vacation home there.”
“Nice.”
Darling grows orgasmic as she envisions her oasis. “I wish I was there now. See what you did?”
I chuckle. I hadn’t had a genuine laugh in a while. If Ronni reigns supreme on my list of platonic friends, Valerie would make a good number two; she’s a little too young for girlfriend material.
Now that I think about it, if Maddy didn’t work out, Agent Darling might be a good match for Mark. She’s probably only two or three years his senior.
When my stomach politely reminds me that I haven’t eaten all day, I turn to look at the door. “Valerie, I’m going to stop at the café for something to eat. Care to join me?”
She lets out a nervous giggle. “Are you asking me out on a date, Agent Newsome?”
“Well, no—not that I wouldn’t want to. I just have a lot on my mind. Don’t want to eat alone, you know?”
She nods. “Sure, I’ll eat with you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, let’s do it. I’m a little hungry myself. Let me just put this stuff away and shut it down. Can I meet you there?”
“Yeah—wait, aren’t you on duty?”
“I’m supposed to go on break soon anyway. Seville should be back from his break any minute.”
“Okay,” I say, smiling. “I’ll grab us a table.”
I move to the lab’s door before turning around. I look at Darling with an suggestive shrug. “Any requests?”
Valerie looks at me, initially confused before finally laughing. “Just be yourself.”
I leave the lab and walk toward the garage at the end of the hallway. That annoying voice in the back of my head reminds me that anyone could be the mole, including Valerie. Still, she’s no more of a suspect than Seville, Jimenez, any of Jimenez’s other charges, Hamilton, or even Richardson himself. Besides, the branch’s café presents a supervised environment in which a mole wouldn’t pose much of a threat, and if they wanted to kill me, they would have done it by now.
Before reaching the garage, I approach the last door on the right and open it. Inside, the café fills my nose with the scent of delicious homemade-smelling food. The café features the menu of a college cafeteria while maintaining the ambience of a high brow sports bar. The place appears to have been remodeled within the past five years or so. Flat screens are mounted in each of the four corners of the eatery while the café also features tables as well as booths, each with plush seating and soft lighting. Posh as it may be, I find it odd that there is so much seating for a building that only houses twenty or so employees.
Because it’s an odd hour, the café isn’t very busy. There is one agent who sits by himself at a table in the middle of the café as he talks on the phone. Torn between a hearty meal and bar food, I choose the former. I go with a plate of fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, and green beans, all served buffet style. Despite my aversion to fulfilling stereotypes, I can’t resist this time.
I pay the cashier and grab a booth along a wall, giving myself a full view of one of the flat screens. Valerie will have her own TV behind me.
As Agent Darling walks in, I nearly gasp as I watch a breaking news report on one of the twenty-four-hour news networks. The glass dome covering the Galleria in Milan, Italy has collapsed, injuring and killing countless shoppers and restaurant goers. The television is muted, so I can’t hear what’s being said. Based on the expressions of the eyewitnesses being interviewed, however, it’s clear that Milan’s natives are shaken. On the network’s scroll on the bottom of the screen, it is announced that one American is dead and three others are injured.
Darling places her tray across from me and sits down.
She went for the bar food—a small plate full of nachos.
“You see this?” I say, nodding up at the flat screen.
“No. What—” She turns back to look at my television. “Oh my god.”
“I know. Crazy.” I fork together some mac and cheese before stuffing my face.
“Was it an accident?”
“No clue.”
Valerie turns around and starts working on her nachos. Meanwhile, a group of four male agents enters the café and scopes out the food. I turn my gaze back to Valerie and watch as her blue eyes peer past my head. The flat screen behind me replays last night’s Phillies’ game. To my surprise, Valerie appears more intrigued by the replay than by the events in Italy.
“You a big baseball fan?” I say.
“Huge.”
“Nice. I bet that earns you lots of points with the guys.”
She tilts her head. “Eh, you’d think so. I seem to attract the bad boys.”
“I thought nice girls liked bad boys.”
“Not this one. Not anymore.”
“Fair enough.”
“What about you?”
“Nah. Bad boys were never my thing, either.”
Valerie laughs. “I meant, are you a sports fan?”
“Of course.”
“What’s your favorite sport?”
“Man, that’s hard …” I look around, imagining each sport in every corner of the café. “It’s definitely not basketball.”
“Really?”
“I kind of have a love/hate relationship with basketball.” Valerie gives me a quizzical look. “Loved it until I hit my growth spurt, then I got tired of people expecting me to be Michael Jordan.”
“Now why would anyone expect that?” She winks before taking a sip of water through a straw.
As I take my first bite of the fried chicken breast, the four men have piled into the booth behind me.
“Believe it or not,” I say, watching the events in Italy again, “I always wanted to play hockey.”
“Interesting.”
“It was too expensive, though.”
“But that’s cool. You’re a non-conformist.”
“I guess.”
“Your parents must have been proud watching you grow up.”
“If only that were true.”
Valerie furrows her brow.
“My mom would have me believe that there are certain things black men should and should not do.”
“What about your dad?”
“Never met him.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Actually, I should say I don’t remember him. He left us when I was barely a year old.”
“So, your dad wasn’t around. You must be a momma’s boy,” she says with a playful smile. “That’s probably why you’re so sensitive.”
“It’s why I’m so out of touch women. With no father figure around …”
“You’re learning, though, right?”
“Trial and error,” I say before looking off in the distance, shaking my head.
“How long was your longest relationship?”
“I was engaged once.”
“Really.”
“Her name was Ashley Koch.”
“What happened? If you don’t mind—”
“I was stood up at the altar.”
“Oh my god.”
“I deserved it. She never actually told me why she left but I knew why she did it. The maddening thing, though, was that I sacrificed a lot to put a ring on her finger.”
Valerie gives me a quizzical look.
“She’s the reason I don’t talk to my mom anymore. My mom didn’t approve of her.”
“Your mom disowned you?”
I nod.
“Why?”
“Why do you think?” I say.
“And you still send her money? You are a momma’s boy.”
“There’s a difference between disagreeing with someone and not loving them. She’s all I had growing up. I’m just paying it back.”
Valerie is speechless for a moment before patting my hand. “Well, Ashley leaving you was her loss.”
“I guess.”
“I’m serious. Any girl would be lucky to have you.” Where have I heard that one?
“Doesn’t matter now, does it?”
I catch her rolling her eyes before she pulls a nacho off the pile. “Guess not.” I appreciate her compliments—flattered, in fact—but nothing can change what happened between Ashley and me. It’s one of several bitter memories I’ll take with me into exile.
I offer a sheepish shrug as I chew and swallow some chicken and green beans. “I’m being ornery. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she says with nachos sloshing around her mouth. “I understand.”
I fork up another combination, mac and cheese and green beans, this time. As I take a bite, a cell phones rings behind me. The guilty party excuses himself from the man table before walking out to the hallway.
“Hi, Sweetie,” I hear him say.
“So, what do you think of everything going on at City Hall?” Darling says, refocusing my attention.
“I don’t know. I haven’t really kept up with it. Wasn’t the mayor cleared yesterday or something like that?”
“And city council,” Valerie says. “It’s a joke.”
“Yeah?”
While Valerie speaks of the alleged injustices of Philly’s top ranking officials, my attention is drawn to the man on his phone. He walks back to the booth behind me, apparently in a hurry.
“I need to go, guys,” he says.
“Already? We just started eating.”
“It’s the wife. She’s waiting for the bus in the rain.”
The man’s buddies give him a collective razzing for violating Rule Six of Guy Code: Bros before Hoes.
“Sorry guys,” he says before walking out of the café.
“He didn’t even eat his nachos,” one of his friends says.
“I’ll eat them,” says another guy.
“I wish my wife would tell me to come pick her up. Sorry, your ass is taking the bus.”
The guy who took the abandoned nachos scoffs. “Did it ever occur to any of you that maybe that’s why he’s getting laid and we’re not.” The booth falls silent.
It’s all I can do to not laugh at the conversation. I think that in previous years, I would have subscribed to the philosophies of the men behind me. However, after losing Ashley, I’ve become sensitive to just how selfish people, including myself, can be.
I mean, why is it that I can be selfless with total strangers but not with the people I claim to love? It was that way with Ashley and so it has been with Ronni. See, the difference between the two women is that Veronica Lee loved me unconditionally, tolerating my selfishness for much longer than my ex-fiancée. Perhaps Ronni was the only person who ever truly loved me. As such, why haven’t I projected my benevolent self to her? Honestly, I think it goes back to not wanting to lose our friendship. I’ve spent so much time protecting the most precious thing I’ve ever had, that I never fully embraced the most precious thing I’ve ever had. That’s quite sad, really.
What if I could take her with me? Wherever I end up going, I’ll have nothing. But if I bring Ronni along, I’ll have her love. And isn’t that a basic human need anyway? To be loved? To feel admired? At first blush, there’s no way it would work. If I took Ronni with me, there’d be so much to explain. On the other hand, it’s not as if I owe the Agency of Influence anything at this juncture. Really, if I did whisk Ronni away with me, who could she tell? Who would believe her?
“It’ll be a sad day when that happens,” I hear Valerie say. “Calvin?”
I stand up, ignoring the succulent chicken I barely ate. “I have to go.”
“Where’re you going?”
I look down into Valerie’s vacant stare. “I’ll be back later.”
“But you—” she says motioning at my food.
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.
” I give her a couple pats on the shoulder on my way out of the café.
In the hallway, I shove the door leading to the garage and look around, remembering that my car has been taken by the police. The only way in or out of the garage, though, is by driving. After a few brief moments, I see the Casanova from the café climb into his car, a black Lexus.
Swoosh!
Casanova pulls out of his spot and slowly drives toward me. I wave a fair-skinned, wrinkled hand in his direction. He stops in front of me and rolls down his window.
“Agent Richardson,” he says. “What do you need?”
“My car died,” I say in my best Southern drawl. “I need to get up to the surface.”
“Yes, sir,” he says, unlocking his doors.
I hop in the backseat and close the door. Casanova then swings away from the entrance and up into the tunnel.
I pull out my cell phone and dial a number. “Hi, I’m at FDR Park and I need a cab … I’m over by the—just have the driver call me when they get to the park … twenty minutes? Great.” I hang up the phone and see my chauffeur’s eyes looking back at me in the mirror.
“Where’re you going, sir?”
“I need to swing home for a bit.”
“Oh, I’ll take you.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Please, let me.”
I laugh. “Son, I think saving your wife from the rain is more important.”
“How did you know about that?”
“You work for the Agency of Influence. Are you surprised?”
Casanova shrugs as we pass through the gate and emerge from the tunnel. The park is awash in a steady downpour.
I wait until we’re out of the park’s wooded area to stop the driver. “Right here’s fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yup.”
“Whatever you say.”
I open my door, bid Casanova farewell and throw myself into the precipitation before running under a tree. I hold my phone with a tight grip, shielding it from the rain as I look at the time. Almost rush hour.
Swoosh!
With Casanova gone, I change into a nerdy, hipster white boy, replete with skin tight jeans, a pair of Converses and Buddy Holly glasses. I lean against the tree as the rain adheres to my glasses in the form of droplets.
While waiting for the cab, I think of the myriad of things I can say to Ronni. Whatever words I choose to say, God only knows if she’ll be willing to leave her life behind.