A Knife Edge

THIRTY-THREE

This time I was in and out of my apartment within twenty minutes. There was nothing to say good-bye to, except maybe the fridge mold. I didn't bother checking the e-mail, or the mailbox stuffing. I wasn't expecting anything anyway.

I saw that Kim and The 38th Parallel were still a week away from reopening, but there were signs of life in Summer Love, the vegan joint. A hippie, Summer herself probably, was mopping the floor. She glanced up and waved. I waved back. She had great legs and was attractive in an unshaved kind of way. Maybe I could get to like tofu burgers. Maybe I could take the tofu out. Maybe it was time to move.

The snow had stopped falling, though my fingers still ached, an indication the halt was only temporary. As I walked on to the street, a cab conveniently stopped a couple of doors away and a customer got out. I made the driver's day by taking him back into the city. Watching my breath condense on the window beside my face, I wondered what poo the Air Force had polished and put my name on. MFF? Jesus. I closed my eyes and settled in for a slow ride.

Forty minutes later I was sitting in an office at Andrews AFB, waiting for Arlen, staring at his gray filing cabinet. He walked in looking way too perky. “Having a good day?” I asked.

“Vin — how you doin', bud?”

“Having a ball. Before I forget, can you lodge this for me, please?” I put my will on his desk and said, “I'm leaving the Vegas casino to you.”

“Great, I could use one. You been in your office yet?” He picked up my will and put it in a tray with a bunch of other papers.

“No, why? What's in there?”

“A couple of suits over from the GAO, and they didn't look happy.”

I wondered if it was the same two guys. “Is one of them Asian?”

He nodded. “I take it you've tangled with them before?”

I nodded. Could this day get any worse?

“Man — you're a game son of a bitch. No one takes those General Accounting Office people on.”

“You got those orders there?” I asked.

Arlen opened a drawer and pulled out a thick envelope.

“You read them?”

“Nope.”

“Heard any talk?”

“No.”

The seal on the envelope was unbroken. I fixed that with my thumb. Inside were copies of the orders, six in all. I'd had to pre sent six copies of orders only once before in my career with the military, though back then I was green and keen and no one had shot my ass out of the sky, or any other part of me, for that matter. I skimmed the paperwork in no particular order.” Sweat beads popped on my forehead and my shirt felt clammy as I read and then reread the paragraphs that weren't pure template.

“Well?” Arlen asked.

“Well, what?” I said, breathing, trying to stay calm.

“What do they say?”

“To pack extra underwear.”

“So I heard right,” said Arlen.

“You said you hadn't heard anything.”

He put his hand on my shoulder and gave me the sort of look you might give someone who'd just experienced a death in the family. I got up and made it to the head just in time to park the contents of my stomach.

I had a drink of water and headed for my office. I needed to have a few moments on my own to think the orders through. I'd forgotten I had guests.

“Cooper,” said the Asian guy with the familiar New Jersey accent as I walked in. “Good of you to drop by.”

“Yeah, the Gulf agrees with him, wouldn't you say?” said his partner. The Asian guy nodded.

“Wu and De Silver, right?” I said. “But it has been so long, fellers. I'm going to need some help. Which one's which? You're Wu, right?” I said, pointing at the guy who was about as Asian as spaghetti and meatballs. The real Wu was sitting in my chair, doing a good job of appearing constipated. I took a couple of steps toward my desk, which was bare except for a phone, an in-tray, an eraser, a mug stuffed with pens, and Wu's boots. “You mind?” Wu swung them off, stood, and then meandered around the other side, squaring up my in-tray with the side of the desk as he passed it. Accountants. The guy was so anal his shit probably came out symmetrical. I sat in my vacated chair. “Good of you to warm it up for me. Now, what can I do for you gentlemen?” I said, resting my chin on a pyramid of fingers.

“We told you we were going to keep an eye on you, Cooper,” said De Silver, his hands loose in front of him like door security before they start brawling. His head was even cocked at the tough-guy angle. I almost laughed, but then I thought I'd better not if I wanted my expenses for the past few weeks reimbursed, an amount close to two thousand bucks. And all of it on my government Visa.

“Yeah, I remember you saying that the last time. And what has that eye you've been sharing seen, exactly?”

Wu and De Silver exchanged a glance. De Silver nodded. Wu stepped forward and leaned over the desk. “Uncle Sam is not your private bank, soldier.” He produced a copy of the expenses form I'd filled in over the net when I was down in Florida and banged it on the desk. “One man does not consume two clam chowders, a basket of soft-shelled crabs, a couple of pounds of shrimp and scallops. And then there's the wine.”

“The meal was a legitimate expense incurred in the performance of my duty,” I said, parrying the thrust. The dinner at Salty's came back to me, unedited. Clare and I had discussed the Wright inquiry at length before going back to her house to play consenting adults. A snapshot of Clare came to mind. I saw her on top, holding me with both hands, the silver moonlight spilling through the bedroom window and flowing all over the bed.

“Something funny?” asked Wu.

“No, not funny.”

“Then why are you smiling?”

“None of your damn business, sonny,” I said.

Wu scowled.

De Silver droned on. “Also, there's the form itself. The DD 1351-2.”

“What about it?”

“You're AF, pal. That means you fill in forms with an AF prefix,” he said.

“The upshot is, Cooper, that we're not paying your expenses,” said Wu, more confident now.

“Y'know,” I said, “that's really great news.”

“And why's that?” said Wu, frowning, disappointed. Perhaps he'd been expecting that this bulletin might upset me.

“ ‘Cause I just got SPECAT orders from a four-star by the name of Howerton. You might have heard of him?”

Both nodded involuntarily, pure reaction to hearing the name of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “I'm supposed to be leaving tomorrow,” I continued. “But in order to fulfill this latest contract I have with both the President as well as the Constitution of the United States, I'm going to need a card that isn't frozen because of nonpayment. But if you bold warriors are game enough to prevent me from following my orders, I can only admire you, and thank you. Means I'll live longer. Of course, I'll have to notify General Howerton about your problem with the number of soft-shelled crabs I ate as being the reason for my inability to follow his orders. I just know he'll want your serial numbers for verification purposes.” I pulled a sheet of paper from a drawer and a pen from the mug. “Why don't you just write them down here? I'd hate to make a mistake and get a couple of innocent clerks castrated in your place.”

I watched as De Silver chewed something off the inside of his cheek. SPECAT orders were classified, which meant they couldn't ask to see them and I would be breaking the law even giving them a peek. I could be bluffing, but, then again, maybe I wasn't. Also leaving an unpleasant taste in their mouths was the realization that on the expense form I would submit at the SPECAT mission's conclusion, only the amounts column would be filled out. There'd be no receipts provided, no details recorded or able to be verified. This was the GAO's worst nightmare — goddamn unsubstantiated expenses. I mean, just how many soft-shelled crabs would I be eating unchecked on the job this time? And then there was the wine … Both men glared at me, at the paper and pen, and back at each other. Wu finally spoke. “Then let's all just hope you don't make it back alive, Cooper.” As they stomped out of my office, Wu slammed the door shut. I almost felt sorry for their next victim.