Callie’s Last Dance

10.

“AS THE OTHER members of the committee are aware,” Mooney says, “Lou Kelly accidentally contracted dimethylmercury poisoning.”

“Accidentally?” I say.

Sherm Phillips says, “Miles Gundy’s work.”

I nod. Miles Gundy, now deceased, was a disgruntled corporate chemist-turned-urban terrorist.

Sherm adds, “The poison was spread by physical contact. Apparently Gundy combined it with a five hour virus.”

“What about Lou’s girlfriend?”

“Sherry Cherry?”

I nod.

“Dead.”

Sherry was Rachel Case’s mother. Rachel being my former girlfriend. Current girlfriend, if you’re asking her. Rachel’s being held in an underground bunker in the government facility at Mt. Weather where government scientists are harvesting her eggs.

But that’s another story for another time.

“Do you have a final body count?” I ask Sherm.

Sherm’s answer is interrupted by a banging sound. All eyes turn to Preston Mooney, who has a little circular cylinder of wood on the table that he’s hitting with-I shit you not-a miniature wooden gavel.

“Order!” he shouts.

“Seriously?” I say.

“Gundy’s total body count was eight hundred sixty,” Sherm says.

Mooney gives him a withering look.

“Sorry,” Sherm says.

Mooney clears his throat. “The reason we sent for you-”

“I’ll take the job,” I say.

“Excuse me?” Mooney frowns. “You can’t just come in here and-”

“Can someone else in here do the job?” I say.

They look around the table at each other. The short answer is no.

“Does someone here want the job?” I say.

They search each other’s faces again.

I say, “Do you have any outside candidates in mind?”

Mooney says, “There are a number of gifted people we can transition into the job.”

“Seriously?”

He smiles a thin-lipped smile. “Does that surprise you, Mr. Creed?”

“Yes. And delights me, as well.”

He frowns. “How so?”

“I can’t tell you how many things I’d rather do than be head of Sensory Resources.”

I stand, preparing to leave.

“Wait. Sit down,” Mooney says. “We haven’t begun the questioning!”

“With all due respect, I have no interest in being Director of Sensory Resources.”

“None?”

“None.”

“Why?”

“It’s a shit job.”

Mooney says, “You were informed by phone you were a candidate?”

“I was.”

“But you aren’t interested in the job?”

“That’s correct.”

Mooney looks around the table. “Who else has a prospective candidate?”

Emerson Watkins and Annie Lorber look at each other, but say nothing. I wonder what that’s about.

Mooney looks at me. “If you don’t want the job, why did you say you’d take it?”

“I thought you needed me.”

They look at each other. Some are indignant, others puzzled.

Annie Lorber says, “Why would you volunteer to do a job you hate?”

“To protect my country.”

Director Scott says, “Good answer. You’ve got the job.”

Mooney says, “He needs to be interviewed first. There are procedures.”

Senator Scherer says, “Fuck the procedures. He’s got us by the balls.”

Director Scott says, “There are no other candidates, Preston. You know it, I know it, he knows it.”

Mooney says, “The committee has spent a great deal of time and effort preparing a list of questions to determine the candidate’s suitability for the job!”

Sherm says, “Those are your questions, Mr. Chairman, not ours.”

Mooney bangs the gavel and raises his voice. “I’m the government liaison to Sensory Resources. I report directly to the President! I will be heard!”

Sherm says, “Creed already answered the only two questions that count. He hates the job and loves his country. Anything else you ask is as helpful as whale shit on a hockey rink.”

Mooney says, “These questions need to be asked. It’s part of the process. His responses will be sealed in his permanent file.”

“Maybe you can just look up all the shit I did in elementary school,” I say, trying to be helpful. “The principal assured me it would all go on my permanent record.”

“Question number one,” Mooney says, looking at his notes. “Which political party do you endorse?”

“Neither,” I say.

“No one’s neutral. You either lean one way or the other.”

“I kill Democrats and Republicans alike. And anyone else who needs killing. And yes, that includes religious persuasions, in case that’s your next question.”

Mooney frowns and reads from his sheet. “Question number two. What is your religious preference?”

His face turns red.

He scans three pages of questions and finally comes up with this:

“Have you ever killed a man?”

The committee members look at each other, then at me, then burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Mooney says.

“You want me to ask him a real qualifying question?” Sherm says. “Suppose a dozen secret service personnel are jogging with the President, and we get a rumor one plans to kill him. What do you do?”

“Kill them all.”

Mooney blurts out, “What is this, a joke? The secret service is the most highly-trained security force on earth!”

“They’re easy targets,” I say.

“Why?”

“Their job is to protect the President.”

“So?”

“Who’s protecting them?”

“You’re hired!” Director Scott shouts.

Mooney says, “Wait. You’d kill innocent, loyal security personnel based on a rumor?”

“Who wouldn’t?”

Mooney’s face looks like he tasted shit pie and didn’t care for it.

“I have two quick questions, if you don’t mind,” Annie Lorber says.

I look at her.

She says, “Have you ever heard the name Tara Siegel?”

“Yes.”

“And did she kill my father?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“That’s three questions.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said two quick questions. I answered them. Now you’ve asked a third.”

“I’ll ask all the fucking questions I want!”

“Thank you, Miss Lorber.”

“And you will answer them, if-”

She stops herself.

I smile.

“If I want this job?”