Chapter 6 - First Date
Anno Domini 2002
“Yes, many challenges face our nation today,” Simon read from his computer monitor. “The economy staggers, and we face threats from abroad. But times will change. The problems that confront us will soon pass away…”
Simon groaned. “No good. They’re industrialists, not New Age types.” He hit the backspace key and erased everything he had just written. He glanced at the clock and yawned. It was already an hour to midnight. He had better call his mother before she started to worry.
Simon dropped back into his chair, scooped up the phone, and dialed for home. He glanced out the window and grinned. He had an office with windows. Of course, the windows overlooked a loading yard filled with empty pallets.
Still, it was an improvement over his last job.
The phone rang, and Maura Wester picked up. “Hello?”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Simon, where have you been? It’s almost midnight.”
Simon rolled his eyes. “It’s only eleven, Mom.”
“It’s five past eleven,” said Maura. “That makes it almost midnight, boy. Mind telling me where you are?”
Simon watched a truck maneuver into a dock. “I’m at work.”
“I thought you were going to be done at nine.”
“Yeah, so did I,” said Simon. “But Senator Wycliffe’s giving a speech next week to the Chicago Economic Club. He wants a rough draft by Monday morning.”
“He works you too hard.” His mother’s disapproval crackled over the phone line. “I still think you should have gotten another job.”
“Mom.” Simon rubbed his forehead. “This is a way better job than I could have found otherwise.” Maura had thrown a fit when she found out he worked for Thomas Wycliffe. She had voted for Senator Fulbright for years.
“That Wycliffe is a bad man.”
Simon hoped Wycliffe didn’t have the phone lines tapped. “He’s a politician. Someone will always think he’s evil. And he’s not a bad guy, really.”
“The devil’s always a charmer,” said Maura. “Do you think it’s just a coincidence that reporter went crazy, or that Senator Fulbright, God have mercy on his soul, killed himself? Wycliffe had something to do with it.”
“Mom!” Simon sighed. “That’s just silly. And how can you like Fulbright so much? He and that crazy reporter were into some nasty stuff.”
“Whatever Wycliffe’s into, I’ll bet it’s nastier,” said Maura.
Simon sighed. “I don’t have time for this right now. I’ll be home by two.”
“Don’t forget there’s church tomorrow.”
“Mom,” said Simon. “When I have missed church?”
“Three years ago,” said Maura.
“I had the stomach flu,” said Simon. “I don’t think it would have been good if I had vomited into the sacramental wine.”
Maura paused. “That’s blasphemy.”
“It would have been, so I didn’t go,” said Simon. “I’ve got to get back to work. Love you, and see you tomorrow.” He hung up before she had a chance to answer.
He sighed and walked over the window, staring at the docks. Why did she have to give him such a hard time? This was the best job he had ever had. It meshed with his class schedule, and after he finished his coursework, he would have time to finish his dissertation. She just didn’t understand. She had never worked a real job. She didn’t understand what it was like to go day after day to a miserable, low-paying job, to sink time and energy and effort into something so hateful.
Simon pushed the thought away. His mind felt blank, and he needed a break. He picked up a book, locked the office door behind him, and set off for the lounge. Perhaps some coffee would refresh his mind. All the other offices were dark and empty. Everyone had gone home for the weekend, and Senator Wycliffe wouldn’t return from Washington until tomorrow.
But there was a light on in the lounge.
The lounge held a half-dozen round tables, and a row of soda and snack machines stood next to a counter with a sink and a coffee machine (not, thank God, a Marchson Appliances model). Some thoughtful person, probably the janitor, had put on a cup of coffee. Simon retrieved a mug from the cupboard, poured himself some coffee, and sat down with a sigh. He paged through his book, a copy of Cicero’s treatise on oration. Perhaps it would give him some ideas for Senator Wycliffe’s speech.
“I wasn’t planning on sharing that, you know.”
Simon almost jumped out of his chair. Katrina Coldridge stood in the doorway. She wore a T-shirt and jeans. Her dark hair had been pulled back in a ponytail, and her eyes glared at him.
“Well, sorry,” said Simon. He held out the mug. “You want it back?”
Katrina snorted. “No.” She carried a bundle of papers and a box under her arm. She dropped them on a table and snatched a mug from the cabinet. “I’d hoped I’d be able to make a goddamned pot of coffee without someone stealing it from me before I’d even sat down, you know? Guess not.”
“I said I’m sorry,” said Simon. “Do you want a signed document of apology?”
She smirked at him and poured out some coffee. “That would be a first. I’d frame it and put it on my wall.”
“Sarcasm is hardly becoming,” said Simon.
Katrina raised an eyebrow. “Really?” She took a sip of the coffee and leaned against the counter. “So. Have any more problems with your computer shutting down at random?”
Simon scowled. “That was an accident. How was I to know I had knocked the power cable out of the wall when I stretched?”
Katrina rolled her eyes. “When the PC turned itself off, that would have been a good indication, yes. Don’t you think?”
Simon stood. “I think I’ll head back to my office now. Good evening to you, Ms. Coldridge.”
“Try not to kick out any plugs.”
Simon froze three steps from the door.
A huge man in a motorcycle jacket stood in the doorway. Mirrored sunglasses and a thick, bushy beard masked most of his face.
The man stood with a distinct slouch, and his back showed the faintest hint of a bulge beneath the black leather. Like he was hunchbacked or something.
“Uh…can I help you?” said Simon.
The man stared at them. A muscle in his face twitched.
“You okay?” said Simon.
“Working late?” The slouching man’s voice was a deep bass rumble.
“Yeah,” said Katrina. “That’s just it. Working late.” The man stared at her for a moment, face expressionless, then nodded and moved off down the hallway. Simon felt an absurd wave of relief.
“God,” mumbled Katrina. “I hate these new security people.”
“I know what you mean,” said Simon. “They all look like Hell’s Angels. Why does the Senator have them dress that way?”
Katrina shrugged. “Scares people off, I guess. I just about had a heart attack when that guy walked in here.”
“Yeah,” said Simon. “You were vibrating.”
She glared at him. “Vibrating? Whatever.”
“Yeah,” said Simon. “Vibrating.” Katrina rolled her eyes, took a long drink of coffee, and refilled her mug. She looked caught between anger and amusement. “Asshole. Why are you here so late on a Saturday, anyway? I’d assumed you’d be at a play or poetry reading or something.”
“I have work to do,” said Simon. “Senator Wycliffe wants a speech written by Monday. And why are you here? I’d assume you’d be out getting drunk or something. It is Saturday night, after all.”
Katrina’s eyes narrowed. “For your information, Mr. Speechwriter, I have work to do, too. Saturday nights and Sunday mornings are the best time to do system upgrades and maintenance. There’s no one here to complain about the network slowing down.” She smirked. “Except you, of course. But I doubt you’d even notice if your computer stopped working.”
; Simon rolled his eyes. “I have a master’s. I think I can notice when my computer stops working.”
“Ooh.” Katrina fluttered her fingers. “A master’s. In what?”
Simon watched her. “Roman history.”
“Well, that’s useful,” said Katrina.
“It’s not about usefulness,” said Simon. “It’s about knowledge and learning.”
“That so?” said Katrina. She sipped at her coffee. “So what were you doing before you started writing speeches for the Senator?”
Simon bit his lip. “Um…I taught a couple of intro classes at Constantina…”
Katrina smirked. “No, no, after that. I heard the story from Senator Wycliffe. What were you doing the day you rammed into his very expensive car?”
Simon spread his arms. “He hit me! He was going the wrong way down a one-way street.”
“Semantics,” said Katrina. “What were you doing?”
“Leaving my job.”
Katrina smiled. “At one in the afternoon?”
Simon glared at her. “Just give it a rest, okay?”
“Oh, no, no,” said Katrina. “I want to know what kind of job a man with a master’s degree had.”
Simon sighed. “I got fired. I was doing customer support over the phone and lost my temper.”
Katrina laughed. “That must have been fun to watch. You’re a lucky bastard, you know. I wish I could get a cushy job just by ramming someone’s car.”
Simon rolled his eyes. “The Senator rammed me! And do you ever choke on all that acid dripping from your tongue?”
“Not recently,” said Katrina. She craned her head to one side. “What’re you reading?”
“Why?”
“Just curious.”
Simon held up the book. “A translation of Cicero’s treatise on oratory.”
Katrina snorted. “Sounds like interesting reading. That or a handbook for dentists.”
Simon chose to ignore her sarcasm. “Oh, it is.”
Katrina raised an eyebrow. “A handbook for dentists?”
Simon shook his head. “Hardly. Oratory refers to the art of public speaking.”
Katrina swished her coffee and gave him a smug little smile. “I knew that.”
Simon made a show of opening the book. “Didn’t you say you have work you wanted to do?”
“I do,” said Katrina, who did not move.
Simon paged through the book until he found his bookmark. “Then why aren’t you doing it?”
“Who died and made you boss?” said Katrina. “If you really want to know, I’m waiting for that security weirdo to leave.”
Simon blinked. “Oh.”
Katrina grimaced and folded her arms. “Make all the fun you want, Mr. Speechwriter. I don’t like those guys, and I don’t want to be alone in the hallway with one of them. That’s all.” She shrugged. “This way, I’ll have a witness if he does try something. Go ahead, laugh.”
“No, no.” Simon shook his head. “I understand. Those guys are…well, there’s something off about them.” He thought of what his mother had said about Wycliffe and pushed the thought aside.
“Yeah,” said Katrina. “They look like the Senator hired them out of a maximum security prison. I hear he wants to use them as bodyguards.”
“They’ll scare off troublemakers, that’s for sure,” said Simon.
Katrina didn’t say anything. She poured herself more coffee and sat down across from him.
“Do you mind?” said Simon. “I’m trying to read.”
As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he regretted them. Katrina had admitted the guards frightened her, and he suspected she wasn’t the sort of woman who liked to display any weakness.
“You know what your problem is?” said Katrina.
Simon sighed. “No, but I bet you’re about to tell me.”
“That’s your problem. You’re too damn arrogant, strutting around with your degrees and old books. That’s why you lost your old job, I’ll bet.” Simon felt his ears flush. “Sooner or later you’re going to piss Senator Wycliffe off, and I hope I’m around to see it.” She stood up and started to walk away.
“Wait,” said Simon. Katrina half-turned. “Maybe you’re right. Not with all of it, but I shouldn’t have said that.”
Katrina watched him.
Simon spread his hands. “I’m sorry, okay?” He shook his head. “Next time, I’ll just make my own coffee.”
Katrina laughed. “You do that, then. Save me a lot of trouble. All right. I accept the apology. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry I gave you a hard time. A lot of the Senator’s employees have advanced degrees, and they like to show it off. Sometimes it’s fun to take a blowhard down a notch or two."
“And sometimes we blowhards deserve it,” said Simon.
She grinned. It was, he realized, the first time he had seen her with a genuine smile. “Sometimes.” It made her look quite pretty.
A daring notion took hold of Simon’s mind, and before he could stop himself, he said, “You free tomorrow night?”
She gave him an odd look. “Yes. Why?”
Simon spread his hands. “By means of apology, I’d like to take you to dinner.”
Her odd look got odder. “Seriously?”
Simon suddenly felt ridiculous. “Seriously. No…um…joke.”
Katrina laughed. “Alright. You’re on, college boy. You’ll pay, though.”
For a moment Simon thought it was a promise of revenge. Then he realized she only wanted him to pay for dinner. “Oh. Right, sure.”
“I’ll be here until six or so tomorrow,” said Katrina. “You can pick me up then.” She scooped up her box and bundle of papers. “See you tomorrow.” She walked into the hallway and vanished.
Simon groaned and rubbed his hand over his eyes. “What the hell did I do that for?” He had not been on a date in six years. He had class work to do for Monday morning. He didn’t have time for social activities. Besides, Katrina Coldridge was nothing like him. They would have no overlapping interests. She would probably spend the evening criticizing him. “Learn to keep your big mouth shut.”
###
“A what?”
Simon glared out his bedroom door. “You mind, Mom? I’m trying to get dressed.” He held up a shirt to the mirror on his wall and squinted at it.
Maura snorted, fidgeting with something in the pocket of her bathrobe. “Don’t try the modesty speech with me, boy. I changed your diapers. You’re going on a date?”
Simon decided on the blue shirt. “Yes. You heard me right.”
“A date? It’s been seven years since you had a date.”
Simon grimaced. “Six.”
Maura frowned. “No, I’m quite certain it was seven. Who was it? That Lydia girl, the one who moved to Milwaukee?”
“Six years,” said Simon. “There was one after that. She never met you.” He reached into Maura’s bathrobe pocket and plucked out a pack of cigarettes. “You said you were going to stop.”
She scowled and snatched the cigarettes. “I didn’t say when.”
Simon pulled on the shirt and tucked it into his khaki pants. “I have to go. I don’t have time to argue with you.” He tried to grab the cigarettes back. Maura sidestepped with surprising ease. “You’ve got to stop that.”
“Where will you be going, boy?”
“I don’t know.” Simon squinted into the mirror and combed his hair.
“When will you be back?”
“I don’t know.” Simon shoved the comb into his back pocket. “I’m twenty-six years old, Mom. You don’t need to know where I am and what I’m doing every hour of every day.”
Maura folded her arms. “You’re twenty-six years old and you still live under my roof, eating my food and using my electricity. I think I have a right to know, boy.”
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“Fine.” Simon looked at a bottle of cologne. Katrina would mock him if he used it.
“What’s so funny?” said Maura.
“Nothing,” said Simon. “I’m probably going to a restaurant. I don’t know which one. After that we might go see a movie. I don’t know what. Or we might do something else. I might be back by twelve, but I don’t know for sure.”
“You don’t seem to know an awful lot of things,” said Maura. “What’s this girl’s name again?”
“Katrina Coldridge, Mom,” said Simon. He collected his wallet and keys from his dresser and shoved them into his pockets.
“You don’t seem to know a lot about her,” said Maura.
“No,” Simon said. “I really don’t.” He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Love you. Don’t wait up for me, and don’t smoke!” He walked past her and into the hall.
“When will you be back? Tell me!” said Maura.
Simon turned and grinned. “I’ll tell you when you stop smoking.”
The look she gave him was positively baleful.
Simon walked out the back door. The western sky burned with the summer sunset, but no doubt smog from Gary contributed to the sunset’s splendor. He took a moment to look over the woods out back. The sunset cast deep black shadows over the tangled trees. Simon’s mind drifted a bit. How old were those trees? They had survived amidst the crowds and pollution of Chicago. How long had they been here? For a moment he felt aware of the trees’ great age, the way he did when he read an old Latin manuscript that had endured the centuries.
A metallic sound echoed over the woods.
Simon peered into the trees. He heard a sound like a ringing hammer and the murmur of low voices. Then the sounds vanished.
He squinted into the trees and saw nothing.
“Weird.” Simon shook his head. He remembered Maura’s complaint about sounds in the woods. Maybe there was a cave or something under the trees. That would explain why no one had ever built on the site. Or perhaps he had heard something echoing through the sewer pipe running under the driveway.
It didn’t matter. He had to pick up Katrina. She didn’t seem the sort to tolerate tardiness.
He walked to his van and grinned. The mechanics had done a good job of fixing the damage from the crash. Simon even had enough money left over to fix the air conditioner.
It only took him about twenty-five minutes to drive to the South Side and the warehouse district. Simon drummed his fingers on the van’s well-worn steering wheel. Perhaps he should find an apartment in the city or in the South Side. The commute sucked up an ungodly amount of time every day.
Simon pulled through the intersection and onto the road lined by the abandoned warehouses, the walls of Wycliffe’s complex coming into sight. Maybe he should find an apartment and move out. It was past time to get out from under his mother’s thumb. Yet guilt tugged at Simon. He was the only family his mother had left.
A long line of semis sat before the compound’s gates, waiting to enter. Simon cursed and pulled to the curb opposite the compound and made sure to lock his doors. With luck, he could get Katrina and get back before someone stole his van.
“Sir. Sir! A word, if I may?”
A thin man in a ragged black uniform hobbled toward his van. He had feverish eyes in a pale face and an tangled, unkempt beard.
The man looked like a drug junkie in withdrawal.
“Listen," said Simon. "I don’t have any money.”
The man blinked. “Money? I have money, yes. I will give it to you, if you do something for me.” He had a peculiar accent, and his uniform had a weird symbol on the chest, a hand holding a burning eye.
“I don’t have any drugs,” said Simon. “I’m not a dealer. I don’t want trouble.”
“Drugs?” said the man. “I do not know what those are. And I, too, desire no trouble. I…” He darted a glance at the trucks pulling into Wycliffe’s compound. “I wish a service of you. Transport me in your…vehicle, and I shall pay you money.”
Simon considered running for the compound. “Listen. I don’t have time to take you anywhere.”
“Please,” said the man. “I will pay you. Good money. I must go…purchase some food. I need some food. I am unfamiliar with your…country. I must have someone take me places.”
“Oh,” said Simon. “You’re an immigrant. Where are you from?”
“Ah…I don’t know,” said the man.
Simon felt dubious. “You don’t know? Is this some sort of con?”
“No…con,” said the man. “I am from a foreign nation, yes. I just do not know what the word for my nation is in your tongue.”
“Right.” Simon pointed. “Down that way about five blocks is a bus stop. Just wait there, feed your money into the driver’s machine, and it’ll take you where you want to go.”
The man blinked. “A bus?”
“Yeah. You know. A bus.” Simon pointed at his van. The man looked puzzled. “Like my van, only bigger. It’s public transportation. You can pay the driver to take you places.”
“They will?” The man bowed. “Thank you, sir. I owe you a debt.”
Simon felt uncomfortable. “It’s nothing. Take this.” He peeled a ten dollar bill out of his wallet and pressed it into the thin man’s hand. “Buy yourself something to eat, okay?”
The man bowed again. “Thank you, sir.” He limped away down the sidewalk, his left foot dragging.
One met some strange people in Chicago.
Simon crossed the street and went to the booth besides the gate. One of the new security men manned the booth. Like all the others, he wore a hooded motorcycle jacket, a long beard, and mirrored sunglasses. Had Senator Wycliffe hired a biker gang?
“Hi,” said Simon. “Big shipment coming in, eh?” The bearded face shifted to look at him, and Simon saw his reflection in the guard’s sunglasses and felt a trickle of fear. “Um…I’d like to go in, please.”
“Name?” The guard’s voice rumbled like a rolling boulder.
“Simon Wester.”
“Reason for visit?”
“Ah…I’m here to pick up Ms. Coldridge. Katrina Coldridge.”
The guard stared at nothing for a few moments. “ID?”
“Oh.” Simon pulled out his wallet. “Sure.” He handed over the employee ID card he had received from Markham. The guard took the card and examined it.
“Very well,” said the guard. “You may enter.”
“Thanks.” Simon hesitated. “Can I have my ID back?”
The guard handed the card over. Simon hurried through the gate, trying to hide his relief and his fear. Why should he fear the guards? He did work here, after all. He had every right to be here.
Yet all his assurances melted away every time one of those guards looked at him. There was something…wrong about them.
Katrina stood before the door to the main office, a cigarette in her hand. She wore a black jacket and a short black skirt. She also wore high-heeled black leather boots. They displayed her legs quite well.
Katrina dropped the cigarette and ground it out beneath her boot. “You’re late.”
Simon jerked his head at the gate. “Traffic jam.”
Katrina shook her head. “On a Sunday night, too. None of those idiots know how to enter shipping information. So they do it over and over again. Tomorrow I’ll come in and find the database server overloaded with improperly entered invoices.” She tapped her belt. “Or they’ll page me at three in the morning about it.”
“You know, it is Sunday night,” said Simon. “You could think about something other than work.”
Katrina raised an eyebrow. “You’re one to talk.”
“Well…but I enjoy my work. You just crab about it,” said Simon. Katrina lit anther cigarette. “Don’t…”
“What?” said Katrina. She took a long draw. “Going to give m
e an anti-smoking lecture?”
“No, no,” said Simon. The evening had gotten off to a marvelous start. “It’s just…I’ve been trying to get my mother to quit.” He shrugged. “Reflexive habit, I guess. I hide her cigarettes, and she goes out and gets more behind my back. We’ve been doing that for years.”
Katrina laughed, a puff of smoke rising from her mouth. “Really? My mom does the same thing, even though she smokes like a chimney herself. I came home from work once and she had flushed each and every one of my cigarettes down the toilet. I was so pissed. Now I have to take them with me to work.” She shrugged. “She’s right, though. I have to quit one of these days. It’s too goddamned expensive.”
Simon leaned against the wall besides her. “So, where do you want to go?”
“There’s this little pizza parlor I know about,” said Katrina. “My mom used to work there. It’s pretty nice. Good garlic bread.”
Simon put his hands into his pockets. “I’d always heard garlic was a bad thing to eat on a date.”
Katrina tapped ash from her cigarette. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not getting lucky tonight.”
“It’s been a while, but even I knew that,” said Simon.
“Really,” said Katrina. “A while?”
“I last went out…six years ago, I think,” said Simon, and then regretted it. Probably a tactical error, admitting that.
Katrina laughed, smoke puffing from her lips. “Six years? Six?”
Simon grimaced. “You don’t have to make such a production out of it.”
Katrina laughed. “Four years, myself.” She shrugged. “I’ve been busy. Especially after I got out of school.”
“What kept you so busy?” said Simon.
Katrina shrugged again. “Finding jobs. I’d decided I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life waiting tables full of drunk old guys. And I was sick of men.” Her smile turned brittle. “Bad relationship, you see. So I moved back in with my mom and held down three part-time tech jobs until I got this one. Between that and everything else, I didn’t have time to deal with the idiots who kept trying to get into my pants.”
“You live with your mom?” said Simon.
She glared at him. “Yeah. You got a problem with that, college boy?”
Simon spread his hands. “No. I live with my mother, too.”
Katrina laughed. “I thought so.”
“Why?” said Simon.
“You seem like that type.”
Simon grimaced. “And what type is that?”
“The type that still lives with his mother at thirty-five,” said Katrina, grinning.
Simon stepped away from the wall. “For your information, my mother is old and not in the best of health.” He pointed at her cigarette. “All those cigarettes, you see. And my dad’s been dead for ten years. She needs someone to live with her, and it may as well be me.”
“Same way with my mom,” said Katrina. “Welcome to the 21st century, you know? It used to be that parents kicked their kids out into the world. Now the hard old world kicks out the kids and they go back to their parents.”
Simon thought of all the miserable jobs and difficulties he had battled in the few years of his adult life. “Amen.”
“Yeah. Eh. Hell.” Katrina ground out her second cigarette. “You can stand here and philosophize if you like, college boy, but I want some food. Let’s get going.”
Simon smiled. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“Don’t kiss my ass.”
Simon smirked. “Is that an offer…”
“Don’t even say it.”
***
Chapter 7 - The Fall of Carlisan
Year of the Councils 963