The Rise and Falling Out of Saint Leslie of Security (23 page)

But as Leslie made her way through the pulsing maze of flesh around her, she already sensed the tension in the air, the potential for violence permeating every Rebel Day. Any guard who ever worked the Parade knew the figures bandied around by official sources in Washington on the numbers of murders, assaults, and rapes occurring during the celebration were far below the reality. Leslie smiled. She was still tired, her vision occasionally blurred, and her head felt like a piston was hammering against the inside of her temple. But the day was perfect.

Security had their priorities. There was a massive force around the Freedom Tower at the other end of town because that was a symbolic terrorist target today. Another major force, to keep the peace, would be fragmented simply by the crowds and the size of the area they had to cover. Security would be stretched way too thin. But there would be plenty of chaos. And plenty of vision's mechanical eyes. She knew that Father Washington was staying at the Tower Hotel across from Madison Square Garden. And if everything went the way she wanted it to, she'd soon be witness to an interesting family reunion. Along with the rest of the American public.

There was a cafe on the corner of Seventh and West Thirty-Fourth Street with a vision stall just to the left of the umbrella-shielded tables outside its door. You could see Washington's hotel from there, and the intersection below it. Leslie stepped into the vision stall and shut the door, muffling the pervasive roar of the crowds around her. The cubicle smelled vaguely of vomit. She keyed her home vision account into the grimy control plate and commercials on the three panels around her dimmed.

It took a few minutes for the call to go through. Leslie tried Tom's office first, which forwarded to his apartment, and then again to the vision wall of a hospital room. Suddenly, there were the faces of three Tom Russells, staring at her. “Hello, Tommy,” she said. “How's your arm?"

She'd never seen a look of astonishment on his face before. It was gratifying. “Leslie?” He closed his mouth and looked her over, his gaze stopping at her bandaged temple. “Are you all right?"

"I have all my limbs."

Russell's eyes rolled to the side and he blinked as if in slow motion. Then he held up his bandaged arm—which stopped at the elbow with a brown stain blotting through the gauze. “They couldn't manage to save it,” he said. “Can you imagine that? In this age?"

"That's too bad."

"Leslie, I'm so sorry about what they did. I tried to stop it. I know how you must have felt, and I don't blame you for ... this.” The arm came down. “It was all just an accident, a big nightmare."

Leslie stared him down, for the first time since they'd met. She watched his face going blank. But she continued to glare at him. Until he looked up at the ceiling, thrusting his jaw forward as if it could shield him from her eyes.

"I know what you did, Tom. I remember."

He looked at her again. His face colored. “What do you m—"

"Don't even bother, Tom. I'm telling you I remember.
Everything.
"

He took two slow breaths. Then his eyebrows flexed and jammed together, and he looked suddenly angry. He jabbed two of the fingers on his remaining hand at her, and when he spoke, spittle sprayed off his lower lip. His face grew even redder. “Then you know how much I have helped you, by George Fucking Christ! You know how much I've risked to keep you alive, and to give you a chance, and then later to save you from your own fucking past! I've stretched the limit. I've put my cock on the chopping block for you. Look at me now, Leslie. I'm in remedial fucking counseling. In just a week I've lost my prestige, my respect, and my arm. And my job—possibly my freedom—isn't far from the chopping block either."

She watched him shake like a newborn colt as he forced himself back under control. His face was still engorged with blood. “And my lover, Leslie. I lost you, too. I wish you could understand how worried I've been about you."

Leslie could feel her own rage pulsing through her body to meet his—
her
shoulders shook now. She sensed a very old fear beneath the rage, and like a possessing force it wanted to paralyze her, weaken her in the face of this man, her boss, her benefactor. Maybe a week ago the fear would have succeeded against her will. But not now. There was no Gun, no Head mem, no Security. Tom Russell was no longer her boss. Father Washington was no longer her Patriarch. She was alone, and aware of her aloneness. And rather than frighten her more, it made her stronger.

"Yes, I've had a rough week, too, Tom,” she said. “And I know that you did try to help me as much as you thought you could. That's why I'm giving you this chance, right now, to save some face."

He looked apprehensive, like he'd been given this kind of ‘chance’ one too many times. “What do you mean?"

"I'm calling to negotiate the conditions of my surrender. I hope you've healed enough to survive a trip. I'm assuming you aren't in Washington."

"No. When the ... field accident occurred I was taken to the nearest American Hospital...."

"Newburgh?"

"A stupid little town called Kingston, actually."

"Then you shouldn't have any problem getting to Manhattan by later this afternoon."

"Leslie, what are you talking about?"

"I'm going to turn myself in, Tom. At six o'clock this afternoon after the Rebel Day Parade. But I'll only hand myself over to you. And I'll do that only under the direct supervision of Father Washington himself. It's up to you to make this happen."

"It's impossible!"

"Look. Father Washington and I are both in Manhattan already. You've got plenty of time to get down here, come out of Penn Station and reach my location—which you can find just by tracing this call. I know you aren't strong right now, but I'm obviously not going to fight. Think about it. It's good for Washington because it gives Him a nice public relations moment, bringing in the great Saint Leslie of Security. I mean, there are mechanical eyes all over the place down here. And it's obviously good for you, to be responsible for my return."

Tom thought about it. “And it's double insurance for you. I see. I mean, Security hasn't exactly dealt with you in an altogether faithful fashion, have they?"

"That's right. So I'm entrusting myself to you, Tom, one last time. If I see any other Security ahead of time, though, I am gone."

"I understand."

"All right then. I'll see you at six?"

Tom nodded. “Me, my stump, and Washington."

"Make it happen, Tom.” She tapped the panel to end the call and the Toms disintegrated into a campaign ad for Father Washington. Flags billowed, children smiled. Washington waved a mighty hand. “I have a dream...” He said. The sun shone down on a meadow brimming with wildflowers, brushes of gold and white and vermilion, blue and a soft magenta. Leslie left the stall.

She walked into the crowd. It was getting hot and she peeled off her jacket, tossing it into the nearest garbage can.
So much for the garb of Security.
All around her people in colorful tie die shirts and hippie wigs cheered, waving their arms, love beads tinkling. The hippie outfit was by far, as it always was, the most popular costume of the day—although there were occasional modifications. Leslie saw a middle-aged couple in Jerry Rubin and Abbie Hoffman masks—the woman was Jerry, the split ends of her gray hair snarling out the bottom of the mask—and mixed in with a group of Revolutionary Minutemen she spotted a sequined Elvis, tipping his three-cornered hat with the barrel of a toy musket.

The parade was approaching. Leslie could hear the distant drums and the appreciative roar surging up the street like a pressurizing water main. She pushed up on her toes and tried to look down the street, but there were just too many people. She looked at the balconies above her, spilling over with shouting patriots dressed as militia in the continental army, or wearing the brown and tan camouflage of Desert Storm.

No great loss if I can't see the parade.

Anyway, her favorite part of the day had always been watching the giant balloons pass overhead. Besides, she had a lot of time to kill and she wanted to move around to attract as many mechanical eyes as she could. No one in the crowd had seemed to notice they were graced with the presence of a new saint, but she was counting on the eventual recognition—and the interest—of the eyes.

An elbow and the doughy side of someone's face fell into her shoulder blades. She didn't fall because shoulder, forearm, and a couple sets of hands pushed back when she swayed amid a burst of curses. Leslie turned in the direction from which she'd been shoved. A circle was forming around some kind of disturbance. She pried her way through three layers of pungent bodies and arms until she could see the fight.

Malcolm X fell to one knee and a forearm on the greasy pavement as two middle-aged hippies, and what was supposed to be one of the Forefathers, struck his back with their fists. One of the hippies kicked him in the chest and the unspecified forefather, raising a dusty boot, stomped on his arm. Leslie heard him groan. The hippies laughed. Malcolm's face screwed up in pain and his glasses slipped off his nose. Cringing and grabbing the fabric of his black suit where the boot had hit, he writhed down to his side. His sleeve hiked up his forearm and Leslie saw browning make-up smeared from the blow on his wrist. There were beads of crimson brimming along the pink of a gravel-sprinkled scrape on his pale white skin. The boot came up again; the forefather—it could have been Quincy or Adams or Washington himself, really, it was the worst costume Leslie had seen all day—swept up his arms to find a quivering balance. Then he struck, and ground his boot into Malcolm's shoulder.

Leslie shook her head and looked around for mechanical eyes.

Why would this white kid dress up as Malcolm X in the first place? Did he lose a bet? Did he have something to prove?

He was just looking for trouble. It wasn't exactly newsworthy, but Leslie hoped the commotion would attract some vision. Sure enough, Leslie's own stare met the glowing green gaze of mechanical eyes through the flailing crowd.

He had a round face dotted with freckles the size of dimes. His hair was a thick red moss starting low on his forehead. Those cyborg eyes he used for vision transmission and filming hung in the sockets below his brillo eyebrows like glittering emeralds. Leslie saw he recognized her immediately and she smiled at him. He grinned back and those eyes tracked her, unblinking. Leslie turned away and pushed toward the street again.

Where there's one, there'll be more.

She was marked now.

The parade was a roar of drums, screams, and applause. A breeze randomly brushed her cheek, and she smelled a mixture of cotton candy, sweat, and hot sausages. Leslie passed the time squinting up at the approaching mammoth balloons, swaying between the long gray teeth of the high-rises on either side. The first one was Jesus Christ in white robe and sandals, arms outstretched, a thick halo wrapped around his hairy head. A mustachioed Einstein followed, playing his fiddle and grinning. There were seven balloons in all: George Washington, the legendary singer Eminem, John Hancock with an enormous phallic quill, Ronald Reagan, Elvis with hips swinging.

When she looked down, her eyes ached from the sun and she was blinded by patterns of drifting molten spots. She blinked. Through the fading patterns of color she noticed a chubby little girl, about eight years old, face painted red white and blue, smiling at her, hand rising to wave. Leslie remembered the heavy woman who recognized her at the Blessing of the Unborn, and turned away. She had to keep moving until she was ready to position herself for the meeting. Mechanical eyes were one thing, but she didn't want to be surrounded by doting fans. She lowered her head and wrestled through the crowd.

Father Washington rolled his head around slowly and his neck cracked.

"Oh my,” He said. “This certainly is a surprise, however unpleasant.” He sat on a plastic chair at an umbrella table outside the café.

Leslie watched him from a vision stall, door cracked open, the flicker from adverts on the vision screens flashing in her peripheral vision. He seemed unshaken. Leslie knew it had to be an act, but He was good at it.

Things couldn't have gone better at first. She'd watched The President and Russell try to be as discreet as they could when they approached the café. They seemed alone. She knew it was likely Security had the place surrounded, but that didn't really matter to her. She didn't care if the bargain was held, just as long as Washington showed up to pretend that it was. She wanted a public forum. She watched the pair wait for at least fifteen minutes before Everett appeared from around the corner and almost stumbled headlong into them. He saw Father Washington and went rigid mid-step. Leslie thought for a moment he was going to turn and run, but instead he blew out a sigh that was almost the shape of laughter, and held his ground.

Everett stood facing his brother, his back mostly to Leslie. For an instant she felt sorry for Tom, who sat beside Washington, pale and shrunken, with the right arm of his jacket folded and pinned up at the stump. He'd trusted her. And she knew he must have put himself through Red Hell to get here, to convince Washington to be here with him, under such circumstances. To be honest, she was impressed.

"Guard Russell,” Father Washington said, “Did you know of any long-lost relatives being invited to our little get-together?” He turned to Russell, his smile like an iron claw.

"No, sir, I'm afraid not,” Tom whispered.

"Hmmm.” A moment before Everett appeared, Washington, apparently bored, had started waving to the crowd collecting in a semicircle around the front of the cafe. He grinned and winked and wished the pretty girls a safe and happy Rebel Day. Tom, who'd kept his gun up when he ushered Father Washington to his seat, had established by his presence and demeanor an imaginary line curving around the cafe about twenty feet from them—a line no one ventured to cross. Leslie couldn't have asked for a better scenario. Washington was sitting there like a conquering king, waiting for the public delivery of His lost saint.