When Tully McKiernan got to the front of the line he was covered in a thin layer of sweat. It wasn’t particularly hot in the airport, and he was worried that the customs agent would think he was nervous and he’d have to wait while they searched his bags and brought in experts to look at his passport. He had the kind of face that made customs agents think he was hiding something, and the sweat could only make it worse.
“What brings you to Boise?” The man asked, looking over his paperwork.
“Business.” He said. “I have a flight back to Paris tomorrow evening.”
“Mm-hm.” The customs agent read his employment docs. “It says here you work for Pharma DAN, are you carrying any drugs with you now?”
“No,” he said, “I don’t actually transport the products myself, we use shipping companies for that.”
“Prison or military?” The man asked. Tully was confused for a second. “Your shipment, is it for the prison or the base?”
“Prison.” Tully said. Apparently it was the right answer because the man scanned his passport and told him to enjoy his stay.
He took the elevated train to the Hyatt Regency and checked into a small room with two full beds and an old fashioned television. He popped a sativa lozenge into his mouth and undressed while it dissolved on his tongue. He was in the shower when it took effect and he laughed, suddenly feeling like a giant in the small shower-stall. He was going to rest for awhile before he called Smitts, but he noticed his small-screen was lit blue when he was drying off. He picked it up. “Where are you Tully? I’ll come get you.”
“I just got in a second ago, I’m still recovering from the flight.”
“You at the Hyatt by the airport? I’m halfway there as we speak. I want to show you some new stuff, but we gotta be out of the warehouse by six.”
“Whaddya got?”
“Just wait in the lobby for me, I’m almost there.”
Smitts had his Brasileiro electric modified to run faster than the speed limit and Tully was uncomfortable with how fast they were going. The sativa lozenge was still in his system and it seemed to him that the little transport was on the verge of flipping. Smitts laughed at Tully’s flinching when they changed lanes. “Are you high or something?” He asked.
“I’m not used to these little-assed cars.” Tully said. “In France people still drive full-size.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve never had an accident and my small-screen is German. It’s the best driver on the market. How do you feel about memorabilia?”
“Like what?”
“We just got a bunch of old rock posters from the nineteen nineties and some from the sixties.” Tully shrugged. “We got a claw-foot bathtub from the nineteenth century. It’d be hard to transport, but it’s got to be worth a fortune.”
“You’re making me nervous Smitts, I’m here to buy the Twombly. That’s it. I’d be very interested to see what else you have, but I want to get the Twombly safely out of the country first.”
“You’re the one who told me you had to wait until tomorrow to do the Twombly deal.” The car had made it to the parking lot of the warehouse. “In the mean time I want to show you some beautiful things.”
“Bathtubs?” Tully asked.
“How do you feel about Warhols?” Smitts got out of the car grinning at Tully. He knew he would want to see Warhols. Smitts led him past the guard desk and down some metal stairs into a dry, cavernous space, filled with giant metal shipping containers that could be loaded onto a boat, train or big-rig truck with equal ease and efficiency. They went into an office at the back of the warehouse and Smitts unlocked a metal cabinet. The Warhols were in a drawer, unframed. It was a collection of six of the flower prints that looked like neon popcorn.
“They’re not fake.” Tully said.
“I knew you’d be interested.”
“I didn’t say I was interested.” Tully bent down to get a closer look at the signature. “You know how I know they’re not fake? Because no one would bother to fake something so common. There must be thousands of these floating around.”
“I have a local buyer but I’d rather sell them to you. I need as much PAC as I can get.”
Tully stood up, knowing the moment he’d been dreading had arrived. “Yeah, about that,” he said. “I know I promised you PAC, but it’s impossible. You just can’t get them through customs.”
“What are you saying, you don’t have any treason? What the mother-fuck Tully? We had a deal.”
“Yeah, in France it’s easy, but I did some research after we talked, and I found a list of people who disappeared trying to bring PAC bills into the U.S…”
“That’s not my fucking problem man.” He slammed the drawer with the Warhols shut and threw his hands up. “No fucking treason, no Twombly. The deal’s off.”
“You haven’t heard my proposal yet.”
“If you think I’m taking limited transferable credits you’re crazy.”
“Have you ever heard of emps?” Tully asked.
Smitts shrugged. “Yeah, so?”
“Have you ever tried one?”
“What do I look like, an international renegade? Nobody has emps, I’m not even convinced they’re real.”
Tully pulled a datcom from his front pocket and unscrewed the two pieces, revealing a container that held six orange capsules. “A sample.” Tully said. “My employer is a pharmaceutical company, and I’m supposed to be overseeing a delivery of antivirals going to the prison. There will also be a hundred thousand of these coming in with the delivery. That many emps far exceeds the value of the PAC we talked about.”
Smitts rubbed his forehead with his hand. “I thought I’d be getting cash, instead you give me a fuck-ton of work to do. I’m not a drug dealer Tully. That’s the kind of shit that will bring the buttons around with their hands out. You don’t know how things work in Boise. This place is full of vicious, murderous animals masquerading as human beings. Drug dealers don’t last long here.”
Tully held one of the pills up. “I understand it’s not ideal, and of course you’re free to say no, in which case I’ll try to unload the emps myself and get you the PAC you want. But before you make your decision, I think you should try it.” He handed the pill to Smitts, who looked at it carefully. “Go ahead, that’s just from one friend to another, no commitment implied. It’s a gift.”
“Does it really do all the stuff they say?” He asked.
“Only one way to find out.” Tully said.
“You go first.”
Tully took one of the pills from the container and popped it into his mouth. Smitts watched him carefully and then did the same with his. “How long does it last? I have to be at work in a few hours.”
“These last about twenty hours or so, but you can function on the shit. In fact work is one of the best things to do while you’re on it. It’ll help you work.” Tully knew that Smitts would agree to give up the painting for the emps after he’d experienced the drug. The first time was always the best, and he would be elated from the sheer newness of the effect, so unlike any other substance.
‘Emp’ always seemed like a misnomer to Tully. Under the drug’s influence you did feel a sort of empathy and understanding of people that was deeper than usual, but you could also apply the same understanding to yourself, and how you saw yourself while on the drug was the most interesting part. Tully was way past the honeymoon phase, and he wouldn’t have taken the drug if he didn’t have to. The first time he took it was five years before, when the drug had just made it’s first forays out of the lab into the wider world. He’d taken it regularly for two years before he realized that the returns had greatly diminished.
The drug allowed you to see behind every action and every word made by another person. If you were on an emp-run and sneezed and the person beside you said ‘bless you,’ you would instantly see the social construct and tradition that motivated his words. You would be able to tell to what degree the person cared about you or was just going through the motions, and whether
they connected any religious meaning to the blessing or not. If someone paid you a compliment you could tell to what degree they were sincere, and if there was a motivation behind the compliment and if the motivation was benign or malignant.
It garnered the name ‘empathy’ because what most people found out was that the people around them just wanted to be loved and appreciated, and even when they were concealing something, it was usually out of fear and not ill-will.
When you considered your own life, you could see motivations for your choices and actions that were previously hidden from yourself. At first you saw only the best most positive motivations, but over time this became balanced and eventually, if you continued to take the drug, you would see only the most negative reasons for everything you had ever said or done.
The initial explosion of emp use in France had created a two-year love trip that was already legendary. The culture exploded with art, books, music, and film that all had the same message: People are good, love each other. Tully had been there and he knew from experience that it wasn’t just an artistic movement, it was everywhere. The grocery store near his apartment had instituted an honor policy for payment, and the owner encouraged people to pay whatever they thought their groceries were worth. The same thing was happening all over the country with the spread of the drug.
Then the suicides started.
Tully had almost succumbed himself one night after taking four times the usual dose. He had mapped out his life with the words fear, greed and hatred written above it. He drew lines from all the decisions in his life to the motivations behind them, and he saw that it was all shit. His whole life from beginning to end was driven by the worst impulses and would ultimately amount to nothing. He would’ve hung himself off the balcony of his apartment if he hadn’t had an old book of black and white photos of Michelangelo’s sculptures. His first love, his love of art, had brought him back from the brink, and he had rededicated his life to art. Now the thing that had saved him would lead him to bring the thing that almost killed him to a wider audience.
But Tully still believed that his experience with the substance had been ultimately positive, and if any country could use a couple of years of love and goodwill it was civil war America. If he could save some masterpieces in the meantime then it would be worth it.
Smitts was nodding to himself as they rode in his Brasileiro to a coffee shop. He began muttering under his breath, getting louder as they went until Tully could hear that he was saying ‘yes’ to all the buildings and billboards they past. “Are you enjoying the ride?” Tully asked him.
“Everything that human beings create is the expression of just one desire,” Smitts said, “the desire to be loved.”
“That’s the first lesson.” Tully said. “So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to love everybody.” He said, widening his eyes as if coming to a profound realization. “It’s the easiest thing in the world. It’s the natural state of existence. Hatred and fear are just distortions of the desire to love and be loved. I get it now.”
“I agree wholeheartedly.” Tully said.
Smitts looked at him with a warm smile as if they had known each other their whole lives, as if they were brothers. “You’re trying to manipulate me to get the painting, I know, I can see it clearly. I don’t care though because I can see past the manipulation. You have a deep conviction that high culture makes life worth living and you want to be some small part of it.”
“I’m well-paid for my efforts.” Tully said. He was always a little uncomfortable around someone in the full force of an emp-run.
“Your greed is a put-on. You think I’m an unintelligent person who wouldn’t understand your true motives, so you pretend to be sleazier than you are to put me at ease.” He laughed. “It’s okay,” he said, “your secret is safe with me.”
At the coffee shop the deal was made, a hundred thousand emps for Twombly’s masterpiece: Leda and the Sawn. Tully sipped his cannabinoid soy latte. “Can I see it?” He asked.
Smitts glanced at his watch. “Sure,” he said, “but it’s at my partner’s house in Garden City. We’d better hurry ’cause I gotta get to work on time.”
Tully felt the effects of the cannabinoid latte more than the emp, but on the way to look at the masterpiece he had one emp-inspired insight about the city of Boise. As he gazed out the windows of the fast little car (he was getting used to the speed now) he understood perfectly how money and politics could change a place. He could see how the wild, booming border town he now saw had once been a peaceful, conservative community, nestled in the middle of a rich country. Christian Nationalist politics and civil war had transformed it into a phantasmagoria of money and violence and competing interests.
Smitt’s partner’s place wasn’t much to look at from the street. A square brick building that used to be a factory of some sort, but had been reimagined as a raw living and work space. The German small-screen drove them into an underground garage and parked. “He’s not answering his datcom for some reason, but it’s okay, I have a code-key.”
“Where’s he keep the painting?” Tully asked as they walked to the elevators.
“His wife’s an art lover, like you,” he said, “they keep it on their wall.” They entered the big metal elevator and Smitts waved his small-screen in front of the panel and the elevator sprang to life, lifting them fast enough to turn Tully’s stomach for a moment.
“Nice place,” Tully said, “your partner must have money.”
“War pays well.” Smitts said as the elevator slowed suddenly and stopped. The doors opened and four large men in militia uniforms suddenly had their hands on Smitts and Tully, shoving them both to the floor, just inside the apartment.
“Jeremiah P. Smitts, you’re under arrest for knowingly giving aid to a terrorist organization.” Said a man in a suit who was standing a ways back from the commotion. Tully twisted his head to see the man talking. Behind him, on a brick wall, he could see Leda and the Swan.
“What about this other guy?” One of the militiamen asked.
“Bring him in too,” the man in the suit said. “He’s associating with enemies of the state.”
Tully could see Smitts, face down on the polymer tile floor with two big men on top of him, digging their knees into his back. Smitts was smiling, still riding high on his emp-run. “You inflict pain on me to alleviate the pain you feel inside yourselves.” He said. “All actions, even negative actions, are ultimately motivated by love.”
One of the men shoved his head down hard. “Sorry pal, it must be all the love I got in me.” He said. The other guy laughed.
“Your inner confusion makes you grasp onto highly structured social orders like the militias. That’s what represents love to you.”
“Black him out.” The man in the suit said. “I don’t need to hear any more preposterous hippie drivel.”
“What about his boyfriend?”
“I don’t even know the guy!” Tully shouted. “I’m just here to look at a painting!”
“Leave him conscious.” The man said. “We’ll take him in and see if he’s on any lists.”
After getting only a glimpse of the painting he’d risked so much for, Tully was taken to a cell and left overnight. The cell was the size of a closet and there was no way to lay down, and no toilet, just a grate in the corner. Tully sat in the corner opposite the grate and cursed himself. The worst thing that could’ve happened had happened, he was in a black hole and would never be heard from again. He had completely lost track of time when the cell door slammed open. “Come on,” the man said, yanking Tully to his feet.
He led him to a small room with two chairs and a table where all of Tully’s things were arranged, his datcom, small-screen, antique watch and small suitcase that held some paperwork and a change of clothes. “Sit.” The man said.
When Tully sat the man in the suit he’d seen the day before at the apartment came in. He sat opposite Tully. “Mr. McKiernan what were you doi
ng with Mr. Smitts yesterday? What brought you to that apartment?”
“I was there to look at a painting. The guy, Smitts, he told me he had access to an original Cy Twombly. I wanted to have a look.”
“Were you going to buy it?” He asked.
“I don’t know. I was going to look at it and determine whether it was genuine before I proceeded.” Tully said. “I suspect that the painting they were going to show me was fake.”
“Was it that scribbly mess on the wall?”
“Yeah.”
“That would be pretty easy to fake,” the man said, “my kid could do it and she’s five.” Tully forced a chuckle. “Mr. McKiernan, your English is pretty good but your passport says you’re French…”
“I was born in France, but I grew up mostly in Canada. I have dual citizenship, but I live Paris these days.”
“Says you work for Pharma DAN…” Tully nodded. “It says you’re an executive. Why do they send an executive to oversee a simple shipment of antivirals? Why not send a sales rep?”
“Well sir, to be completely honest I came to look at that painting. We send shipments to the prison complex three times a year, and we always send someone to make sure it gets here. My boss got word through an associate that there was a masterpiece that might be for sale in Boise they decided to send me this time, to check it out. The partners at the company all know about my ulterior motives for coming and they don’t mind. We’re all art lovers.”
“That’s very French.” The man said. “What were you going to buy the painting with -assuming it was real?”
“If the painting was genuine we were going to try to figure out a way to legally purchase it and get it out of the country.”
“You should’ve done some homework. Nothing that’s deemed culturally significant is allowed to leave the country anymore. The exchange rates make it impossible anyway.” He held out the container with the four remaining emp capsules. “What are these?”
Tully chuckled. “Oh they must’ve stumped your chemical analyzers.” He said. “They’re brand new. Working for a pharma company I have access to new products, and that one should be a hit. It’s for um… Male virility shall we say? I always bring some with me on business trips.”
“I see, well, the policy is to confiscate any unknown substances, so you wont be getting them back.” The man in the suit took a deep breath and looked at Tully. “You’re lucky Mr. McKiernan, had you given Mr. Smitts anything for the painting you would’ve been guilty of providing material aid to a terrorist organization too. As it is, and considering the fact that you work for a company that helps the party, I’m willing to let you off with a warning.”
Tully didn’t hear anything after that. He showed copious amounts of gratitude to the man, and left the giant police station in a kind of exhausted daze. He had to be on a plane that evening, but he knew he had to get to the prison first and do something about the shipment of emps. It was two in the afternoon and the shipment should’ve gotten there that morning.
As he rode the train to the prison complex he thought about his options. He felt he was being closely monitored by the authorities now, although he didn’t have any evidence of it. There was no way he could leave with the painting, but he thought it might still be possible to rescue the emps. He couldn’t go back to France without the painting or the drugs, that would be total failure.
He got off the train and found the receiving room of the prison complex, explaining, with difficulty, who he was and why he was there. Finally the woman behind the glass got the picture and datcommed for transportation to the medical supply facility. A young kid came and led Tully to an open-air transport out back. “When the shipment came in this morning I wondered where John was.” The youth said as the transport drove them down a kind of covered ally between two huge buildings. “He’s usually here to make sure we sign off on the delivery. You must be new.”
“Yeah,” Tully said, “I’m new.”
“Well you’re a little late, it came in this morning and we could’ve used you too because we got double the shipment we ordered.”
“That happens sometimes.” Tully said. “It’s one of the reasons the company likes to have someone here when the order comes through. I’ll take the extras back with me and make sure you aren’t charged for them.”
“Sorry.” The kid said. “If I’d known that’s how you handled it I would’ve signed for both boxes. I only signed for the one box and the delivery company took the other box back with them. It’s probably on an airplane headed back to France right now.”
When he looked back on what had happened to him (and he often did) he thought that this was the moment when he could’ve changed his fate. The lie would’ve went something like ‘I’m sorry, but my boss notified me that a batch of defective pills went out by mistake. I’ve got to make sure they’re not the ones we gave you.’ At which point he would inspect the box that the prison had and determine if they’d gotten the antivirals or the emps. But unfortunately for him this lie didn’t spring to mind. He just rode along with the youth to the medical supply facility trying not to show the sense of impending doom that was turning his mind to mush.
He got the paperwork in order and before he left he had a reassuring thought: his chances were better than 50/50, because if they had the emps they would give them to a couple of sick patients thinking they were antivirals and then realize what they had when the convicts went on epic emp-runs instead of getting better. Some enterprising prison doctor would realize he was sitting on a goldmine and get the pills out of there. And that was only if the prison had gotten the emps.
Tully went straight from the prison complex to the airport, eager to get out of the country as fast as possible. He was waiting in line at security when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was a big militiaman with a scar on his face. “You McKiernan?” The man asked.
Tully looked around and thought about running. There were people in uniforms everywhere. “Y-yeah.” Tully said.
“Come with me.” He said, pulling Tully out of the line. Tully’s legs felt weak and he was surprised he was still walking, but the big man’s hand was still on his shoulder, guiding him. He shoved Tully into a bathroom that had an Out of Order sign on the door. The man in the suit from the police station was there. He pushed a piece of paper into Tully’s hands.
“That’s my Pick Axe ID.” He said. “I have the painting. Tell your bosses that I’ll take one million PAC for it. This ain’t a negotiation, that’s my only offer.”
Tully looked at the paper and then slipped it into his pocket. He tried to think of something to say. “They’ll be pleased,” he said.
“Good.” The man said. “I hope we can do this as soon as possible.” He turned and left and Tully exhaled and had to laugh at how scared he’d been. The incident made him feel better. Yes, he could rely on the basic American crookedness. If the prison had gotten the emps some doctor would hijack them.
What Tully didn’t know was that his comforting thought was based on a misconception about how the prison used the antivirals. When a shipment came in, everyone in the prison, staff and population, would take the pills at the same time after breakfast the next day. By the time the fifty six thousand people in the mega-prison started to feel the effects of the drug, Tully was somewhere over the Atlantic ocean. Six hours later he was getting off the plane at Charles de Gaulle Airport and he was already a folk hero.
-back to table of contents-
Exchange Rate