“Sounds dicey is what I think.”
“How so?”
“The other two platoons. I don’t like it.”
“Don’t like that they didn’t find anything?”
Duane shrugs again, but it’s not dismissive.
“Yeah, maybe.”
Larry weighs out how to say what he wants to say.
“I bet we can do it.”
“Of course we’ll find it.”
The drinks come. Larry pauses. Sips. Then says,
“You just said that like we’re going to go.”
“So I did.”
“So you think we’re going?”
Duane points discreetly to the end of the bar. He whispers now.
“Check out Swoon,” he says. “You checking him out?”
Larry is.
“Yeah, sure.”
“What do you think Swoon would do? You think he’d fly to Africa for the army?”
Larry thinks about it.
“No. I don’t think he would.”
“And why wouldn’t he?”
“I don’t know, Duane. Because he’s a hundred years old?”
Duane shakes his head no. Sips from his Russian.
“Because he’s content with doing the same thing every day.”
“And you’re not?”
“Have we ever been?”
Larry nods along. Entering the bar, he thought he was going to be the one doing the convincing. But Duane has turned the tables. Feels wrong. Like one of them ought to be saying this is crazy.
“We’re thrillers,” Duane says. “If you haven’t figured that out by now, go hang out with Swoon for the rest of the day.”
Larry eyes the old bluesman. His curly white hair sleeps uneven upon his black wrinkled forehead. He wears sunglasses indoors. Maybe he’s looking back at Larry. It doesn’t matter. Right now Larry needs to look at this man. Needs a reminder of how easy it is to slip into the rest of your life.
“Some people settle before they should,” Larry says. He doesn’t have to explain what he means. Duane gets it. He speaks this language.
“No doubt.”
The two former soldiers and current bandmates sip their drinks. White Russians are to be enjoyed, endured. And decisions like this one are meant to go slowly, even if the decision is already made.
“So what’s holding us back from telling the others?” Larry asks.
Duane shrugs.
“Nothing. We got three hours is all.”
“Something’s bothering you.”
“Yeah, something’s bothering me.”
“In the report.”
“Yeah, in the report.”
“What is it?”
Duane pauses before reaching into his pocket. Larry thinks his drummer, his friend, is going to pull forth the folded papers. Instead he pulls out a packet of cigarettes, taps one out, and lights it.
Duane breathes deeply. Exhales.
“Why didn’t he stay?”
“Who?”
“Mull.”
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t read the papers.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Well, you didn’t read them close enough. Mull flew with both platoons to the desert, but he didn’t stay for the mission. Why not?”
Larry opens his mouth to speak. He raises his glass, drinks, instead.
“He’s got different work to do,” he finally says.
“Mm-hmm. You see Swoon there?”
“Yeah, I see him, Duane.”
“Yeah. You know why he’s content just being Swoon in Detroit?”
Larry thinks about it. Sometimes Duane gets like this. Cryptic. Usually it leads to something profound. But right now Larry doesn’t want profound. He wants easy. He wants Duane to say they’re going to make a lot of money doing a good thing.
“It’s because he’s scared,” Duane finally says.
“Sure. But what does that have to do with—”
Duane grabs Larry by the wrist.
“Mull is scared of that sound. Scared him whiter than the white he is.”
Duane slowly releases Larry’s wrist and settles back onto the stool.
“Naw,” Larry says without confidence. What he thinks is, So am I.
“Uh-huh,” Duane says. He sips from his drink, allows an ice cube into his mouth, crushes it. “Here’s an officer in the United States Army, brave enough to step into the lives of four strangers with a pocketful of sound, but he’s too chicken to sit out there and listen to it himself.”
“It’s the army, Duane You know how it works.”
“This is different. I saw it in his eyes in the studio. When the tape started rolling. Saw him looking at those wheels like they were delivering the worst of his nightmares. He knows that tape inside out, every beat of it. Slipped on those earplugs just before the sound started. He’s scared, Larry. Scared of something more than a new weapon.”
Larry laughs. “Now you’re just talking crazy.”
But Duane doesn’t smile. Smoke rises around his eyes and for a ghastly second he looks mummified to Larry. Like he’s never gonna move again.
“There are things worse than a new weapon,” Duane says, finishing his drink.
“Like what?”
“Like the kind of person that would build it.”
“THE FIRST PLATOON was deployed a year ago. Almost to the day. I wonder what I was doing that day.”
“You might’ve been in this exact same bedroom.”
Philip smiles. Not without concern. He’s lying down beside a girl named Marla. He’s dressed. She’s not. They don’t love each other, but Christ they have fun. Philip met Marla on the Path.
“But get this,” Philip says, sitting up so that he’s resting on his elbow. “The second platoon was deployed six days after the first returned. So that would make it . . . about . . . about ten months now since the second platoon returned.”
“So?”
“So why the long wait? That’s what’s got me worried.”
“They were looking for guys like you,” Marla says. Her red hair half hides her face. The bedsheet only mostly covers her.
“Maybe,” Philip says. “And another thing.” Now he sits up, cross-legged on the mattress. “Why hasn’t the sound gotten any more intense?”
“How do you know it hasn’t?”
“The report has wave files. There’s absolutely no difference between the first time it sounded and the last.”
“So?”
“So that means that . . . if we’re talking about a weapon or something being built . . . it was already built by the time they first heard it.”
Marla nods her head.
“So don’t go.”
Philip’s face scrunches up in a way that makes him look ten years younger.
“Don’t go? No, no. That’s not what I mean. Look, I don’t expect the army to tell us . . . everything. They never do. It’s the army.”
“Okay,” Marla says. Her smeared dark eyeliner gives her face a Day of the Dead feel in the waning sunlight. “Then go.”
Philip agrees. Mostly.
“Yeah. Go. Go. But don’t go . . . naïve.” He gets up out of bed. “The reason for the wait is . . .” He looks up to the ceiling, thinking. “Is because they decided to forget about it. But then . . . then . . . the sound kept showing up. So they decided to go looking for it again. Maybe that’s what happened.”
Marla smiles.
“Either way. Two weeks in the desert. A lot of money and you’re a hero all over again.”
She’s only half kidding, but the look that crosses his face worries her. He doesn’t smile. He only nods, and Marla understands that she’s accidentally spoken the exact reason and motivation for Philip wanting to go.
“And the reason the sound hasn’t changed . . .”
Philip stops speaking halfway through the sentence and looks out Marla’s apartment window. Below is Detroit, its streets bustling with teenagers in cars, hom
eless men and women folded against building foundations, stray dogs and men in suits who avoid them.
“Just be careful,” Marla says. She gets up, too, but doesn’t bother getting dressed. She leaves the bedroom.
“I gotta split,” Philip calls to her. He looks through the glass, not quite realizing that he’s hoping to see Larry, Duane, and Ross down there in the streets. Is he hoping to see them confident, their bags packed?
Philip feels a solitary slash of fear course from his neck to his legs. Then it settles somewhere inside him, but does not leave.
Marla reenters the bedroom with a glass of water. When she hands it to Philip he sees he’s still wearing the watch he took from the manager of the Sparklers.
He thinks he should find the guy, return it.
Can’t go to Africa. Gotta return a watch.
A silly thought, of course; further proof that Philip is scared.
“Don’t get killed,” Marla says.
“I won’t.”
“Oh yeah?”
“That’s not my story. Not how my story is gonna end.”
“That’s just about the most naïve thing I’ve ever heard you say. You think anybody thinks their story is gonna end the way it does?”
Philip drinks the water.
“Don’t get killed,” she repeats.
“And don’t get dressed,” he tells her.
Marla smiles.
“I figured you’re gonna be gone two weeks without a woman. May as well give you a two-week memory on your way out.” She touches the piano key hanging at his chest. F.
Philip only half laughs. He looks so serious to her. Too much so.
“Hey,” Marla says, folding her arms under her breasts. “What’s wrong with you?”
“This is a big deal,” he says. And even now there’s a different look in his eyes. Something childish.
“I know,” she says. “I’ve just never seen you this way before.”
“It’s nothing,” Philip says. “I mean, it is, but . . . it’s just . . . the sound staying the same . . . never changing . . . worries me. Nothing is like that, you know? Everything . . . changes.”
Marla opens her mouth to say don’t go, but Philip places a finger over her lips.
“I’ll see you in two weeks,” he says.
Marla salutes him. And Philip leaves her apartment.
Below, on the street, Philip tries to shake the feeling, the fear. Everywhere he looks, Detroit seems an exaggeration of itself. The man sweeping the sidewalk outside Bankman’s Diner is dressed so right for the part that he almost looks staged. The awning for Adele’s Hair and Beauty practically shines. In fact, looking around, it’s as if the whole city is a set, a movie being filmed, everything in its place. Even the orange-painted bricks that make up the front wall of Perry Drugs, the place the Danes shot the cover for their 45 “Be Here,” look perfectly, symmetrically stacked.
Philip feels like he’s seeing it all for the first time. Through other eyes. Eyes watching that movie, maybe. And the effect the filmmakers are going for is . . .
This is a great city. Don’t leave.
Christ, even the sky looks painted.
He makes a right on Elizabeth and sees his three bandmates standing outside the studio door.
Their bags rest at their feet.
For a moment, Philip wonders if they’ve seen him, too. And if they haven’t, could he duck around the corner, slink into a shadow, think about it a little longer?
Ross waves.
Philip waves back.
He’s stepping off the Path. He can feel the tug of someone else’s rope, mystery dirt beneath his boots.
“Fellas,” Philip says, arriving. “Looks like we’re going to Africa.”
Ross smiles.
“I’ve already got a theory on what’s making the sound. I think it could be a combination of—”
Philip raises a finger.
“Hang on. Let’s call Mull first. Tell him we’re in.”
Philip opens the studio door and takes the carpeted stairs two at a time. Passing through the lounge, he spots the same books that have been lying on the coffee table for months. The kitchen smells like coffee and booze. He experiences an alien combination of feelings: nostalgia for a place he hasn’t left yet, and claustrophobia, too . . . as if the walls of the studio get narrower the deeper he goes into it.
By the time he reaches the control room, he feels a little dizzy with it. As if the sound he is agreeing to go hunting for remains, lingers in the room.
He picks up the phone, planning to call Secretary Mull.
But Philip calls home first.
When his mom answers, he feels that fear again. That movie set feeling, too. As if the phone is a piece of plastic and the woman speaking is an actress. The alternative, Philip thinks, explaining to her what he’s about to do, is too unreal to accept.
This is a great city. Don’t leave.
“Well, if you think it’s the right thing to, Philip, then nobody’s going to stop you. You always do what you feel you should.”
“Mom,” he says, looking through the control room glass, into the live room, where he imagines he heard a sound, the furthest phantom wisp of a chord. “Thank you.”
9
Are you afraid of flying, Philip?”
“No.”
“Heights?”
“No.”
“Spiders?”
“No.”
“Spiders?”
“You asked me that.”
“Spiders?”
“No.”
“Snakes?”
“No.”
“You would handle a snake if I asked you to?”
Philip pauses. One of the twin tape recorders is rolling behind Dr. Szands. The identical machines, Revere T-700Ds, were the first thing that caught his eye when he was wheeled into this room. Dr. Szands, sitting, cross-legged, like a disappointed father, was second.
“Not in the condition I’m in right now I wouldn’t.”
Szands rings a bell on the table beside him. Philip knows that the sound of the bell will show up as a spike on the VU meter. It’s the doctor’s way of telling the tape that something of note was said.
“Cats?”
“No.”
“Small spaces?”
Philip thinks of a red piano. But doesn’t mention it.
“No.”
“Death?”
Philip pauses again. The Revere T-700D wasn’t made for recording music. But it’s ideal for interrogations.
“Yes.”
Szands rings the bell.
The meters spike.
“Women?”
“No.”
“Speeding in a car?”
“Sometimes.”
One word answers. Just as Szands asked for.
“Do you believe in ghosts, Philip?”
Philip closes his eyes. The reels are rolling and he thinks of Private Greer’s theories in the desert. Greer’s Wheel, they came to call it.
The sound of history spinning.
“Yes.”
The bell.
“Have you seen a ghost, Philip?”
“Yes.”
The bell.
“Where was the sound located, Philip?”
“I don’t know.” No hesitation. But he does know. And he could direct Dr. Szands to it himself. Almost.
“Are you afraid of needles, Philip?”
“No.”
“Large crowds?”
“No.”
“Loud sounds?”
“No.”
“How about this sound?”
Szands reaches to the second T-700D and presses play. Before he even hears it, Philip starts to feel sick.
“Turn it off.”
The bell.
“Does this sound scare you?”
“Turn it off, doctor.”
The bell.
“Where was the sound located, Philip?”
“I don’t know.”
?
??Why do you believe in ghosts?”
“Turn it off!”
Szands turns it off. Philip looks to see if the doctor got sick from it. But Szands, his upper half in shadows, his arms and legs emerging from what looks like solid tar, isn’t giving anything away.
“Why do you believe in ghosts, Philip?”
“Because I saw one, dammit.”
The bell.
“Where?”
Philip doesn’t answer.
“Where, Philip?”
“In the desert.”
The bell.
“You saw a ghost in the desert?”
“I saw a hundred ghosts in the desert.”
The bell.
Philip is crying now. The questions, the list of fears, the sound . . .
The bell.
“Where was the sound located, Philip?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do know.”
“I don’t know, doctor!”
But he does.
“Philip, this test isn’t designed to elicit true or false answers from the subject. The test is supposed to give us a clear understanding of whether or not a man has any secrets. And whether or not he’s keeping them.”
“I’m not keeping any secrets.”
“But you are.”
But he is.
“Now, Philip, you have a choice to make. You can either play dumb or play smart. And the longer you play dumb, the longer I’ll have to simmer. And you don’t know me well enough to know where that might lead. Do you understand? I may be a doctor, but that doesn’t mean my only concern is your well-being. There are many other people on this planet, Philip Tonka. So play dumb or play smart. Get to it or suffer my simmering. Now. Tell me about the ghosts. Tell me about every one you saw. And when you’re done . . . tell me where the sound is located. Every turn you took. Every door you opened. Every nightmare you encountered on the way.”
10
You won’t be alone, of course. That wouldn’t be any good for anybody.”
A silent soldier is driving the brown express van. Mull is sitting in the passenger seat, but he’s turned almost entirely toward the Danes, who occupy the two benches in back.
“Three others will join you. A photographer named Jonathan Stein. He’s a spectacular photographer, especially at close range. Uses a mobile dark room. You’ve also got a soldier who knows the history of the area. Private Gordon Greer. And of course, a platoon leader, a veteran of World War II as well. Sergeant Billy Lovejoy.”