Radicals

By Stan Kolodziej

A man teams up with a young woman, a waif of the city, to avenge his wife's death. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stan Kolodziej
• Release date: Nov 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540133328

Book preview

RADICALS

by Stan Kolodziej

There were few people on the subway platform. I walked past them, not caring if they saw me, and worked my way along the tunnel. No one called after me. If they wanted to call the police it was alright with me.

The door was still partially open, as though someone had passed through recently. I didn't like that, although I couldn't say why. I made my way along the tracks, hugging the wall until I reached the other door. It was also slightly ajar. Claire always closed the door behind her. It didn't mean anything—it could be maintenance workers who neglected to close it—it could mean everything. I entered into the maintenance room. It seemed even hotter and dripped more hot water than the last time. Maybe the maintenance men would be back to fix it, that was all it was.

When I came into the large room I at first didn't see her, my eyes not yet accustomed to the dim light entering from the roof.  I didn't want to see. At first I thought it was something else. I wasn't sure what. If you don't want to see something, your mind will sometimes accommodate you. It won't let you see it. It's only trying to protect you from what's real.

I came closer then stopped before I reached the abandoned track. I stared a long time. She was lying on the blanket on the platform with her back to me, her head tilted to one side, as though studying something up on the wall above her.

She was directly under the painting of the young girl and the protective socialist man, barely visible now, obscured in the coming darkness. I stayed there for a moment hoping she was sleeping, but there's something about the stillness of death that is nothing like sleeping.

2

THREE DAYS EARLIER

––––––––

It was time to deal once and for all with John Brody. I crossed the plaza and walked into the building lobby. I sat on one of the light brown leather benches in the lobby and waited, getting more nervous. Then I took the elevator up, got out and entered the restroom on the seventh floor. As I splashed cold water on my face and washed my hands, for I was sweating like it was Summer, Brody walked in and strode over to the urinal as casual as if he was at his home. He didn't give me a passing glance. I was both relieved and terrified to see him. A cold knot twisted my insides.

I was not sure he saw me. I couldn't be sure he looked in my direction as he came in. Here he was, I had waited how long for this moment to be alone with him and now he had blindsided me and I was frightened and paralyzed, my only thought was to leave, the coward I was.

These new cleaning people are doing a shitty job, he said, not turning around to look at me. There was nothing in his voice to indicate he knew who I was, but in my paranoia its sounded like the beginning of a devious plan was put in motion.

I left the restroom and hurried to the elevator and waited for it to get to my floor. The wait was interminable. How could I be sure that Brody, Claire and Reg were not in this together. I could hear Brody humming and washing his hands then there was a silent pause of a few seconds and the restroom door opened and he came out.

What had he been humming, it was familiar but I couldn't place it. The elevator had almost reached my floor. He strode along the hallway, humming, what was that song, it was so familiar, from some movie, but I couldn't place it. He was so fucking confident that it rattled me and I couldn't place it.

He had almost reached me when the elevator door opened and I stepped inside. There were two other people in the elevator, two corporate types, male and female bookends.

I turned around and Brody thrust his arm against the inside of the elevator door to keep it from closing. He smiled and apologized to no one in particular and spoke to one of the passengers behind me, the middle aged man, about a meeting later. The man leaned forward and stretched an arm past me and pushed the button to keep the door open and said he would see him at the meeting. The touch of his arm against my sleeve almost made me jump. Brody nodded then looked straight at me.

Then he left, letting the doors close. The elevator rose to the next floor and the man and woman got off for their meeting.

I let the elevator take me down to the lobby again. I crossed the lobby and the plaza and kept walking, letting my feet take me where they wanted. I was at their disposal. I dared not look at anyone, my world had suddenly shrunk to a narrow blurred tunnel a few feet wide directly in front of me. For the moment nothing else existed.

I drove around aimlessly in the city for awhile then returned and took a parking spot across from the Reliant building.

I went into the building and sat in the lobby reading a newspaper. My mind was alert to everyone who entered and left the lobby. It was unusually quiet, as though everything was waiting for the same thing. There are days like that, when the atoms bounce around in some kind of rhythmic slow intent. After some time clusters of employees began spilling from the lobby elevator, heading for an early lunch.

I wasn't surprised when Brody eventually appeared with three others. Colleagues.

They were laughing, completely absorbed with each other. How easy it would have been to walk up to him right there, pull the gun casually from my pocket and do it. The security desk was many yards away. The one guard at the desk was talking to some visitors. So easy. And I knew I could never do it.

They spoke with each other for a few moments longer then Brody laughed, clapped one of them on the shoulder and broke away from them, apologetic, as though he had forgotten something. There was something forced about the whole thing. He hurried back to the elevator, while the others left the building. Without hesitation I got up and entered the elevator with Brody. Just the two of us in there. The door closed.

He asked me what floor and I said seven. Then he glanced at me wondering if he knew me. I didn't see any recognition in his blue eyes, but that could mean nothing. He turned away again to face the doors, with his back facing me. Did he seem nervous? I wasn't sure. I thought he was. Maybe it was me.

I know you from somewhere, he said, without turning around to look at me. It was a statement more than a question.

I told him that my wife and I had an insurance policy with Reliant several years before. I was disgusted with myself that my voice was quavering. I could almost see him smile, his confidence growing. He turned and faced me and studied my face.

I remember, he said. Syms. Her first name was Val.

Mary, I corrected him. I was sure he remembered her name.

Mary. It's a shame about what happened.

Like a cosmic force, a third party that he had no control over, no responsibility. He could have been talking about something as inconsequential as a missed putt in golf and as monumental as a landslide. Something he had little control over, not his fault, an act of nature, that's all. Unfortunate.

He studied my overcoat, then the bag I was carrying. It was still in my hand, crumpled, and I had forgotten about it. I was sure he was trying to figure out if I was armed. My guess is that he suspected I was.

You were here just now, in the elevator.

I just stared at him.

Did you come here to do me harm? I'm sorry, I forgot your name. He seemed more concerned about being civil.

I didn't tell him my name. His words had knocked out what little conviction remained in me.

I said I wasn't there to do him harm. I wasn't sure myself if it was true anymore. It was odd how I wanted to reassure him. I told him that I just wanted to talk. He seemed neither relieved nor concerned. It could have been an act on his part. If it was it was a convincing one.

The elevator door opened and we stepped out into the hallway. He was immediately more confident. We were in his domain now. The open savannah of the hunter.

I wasn't sure if he would call security, but he invited me into the insurance company offices. He asked the receptionist if a conference room was available and she said there was and looked at me with some suspicion, surprised that Brody had returned so soon and I had something to do with it. If he gave some secret signal to the receptionist I didn't notice it.

Brody led me to the conference room and asked if I wanted coffee. I said I was fine. He walked to a water cooler, filled two paper cups. All this time he had his back to me. I wondered if he was still planning something, playing for time. Was he telling me that he trusted me or that he wasn't afraid of me? He returned to the table with the water.

I'm truly sorry about what happened, he said. Again, no responsibility in the words. His eyes became bright.

Your name is Walter, if I remember.

I could see he considered this a significant victory on his part. The tables had turned completely. He was no longer looking at my coat or bag. He was in full control.

Walter. He repeated it as though remembering the name of an old friend. He was all serious now. We were dealing with forces that neither of us had any control over. There was no control here, whether he believed it or not.

Did I see you in the elevator a few days ago?

He let it slide before I could answer. He knew damn well it was me in the elevator. He had decided now, no doubt quickly gauging my character, that his keen sense of diplomacy could handle the situation. There was probably little need to alert security.

"I get previous clients coming in sometimes and it's good to talk about what happened and why they believe they have a legitimate case against us or me or someone else at this company. After we talk they soon begin to realize that there is little that one individual could have done.

All of us have to work within the limitations we're given. That's the system. It's out of our control. We're often as frustrated with the results as they are. Sometimes I believe more so. I know that's not an adequate explanation in their, in your eyes. I wish it was different. He opened his hands to show me how it was, and how much he wished it was different.

A legitimate case and the fact that they are as frustrated as those who have lost loved ones through the fault of the system. Keep talking, I thought. My resolve was gaining strength again.

I listened to the entire summation without saying a word. I realized what a waste of time this was. He did nothing but bring my resolution into focus again.

In ten minutes I truly believed that he thought he had swayed me from whatever madness I might be planning, that the pen was truly mightier than the sword in that room. What hubris. He would find out differently soon enough.

I finished my water, for my throat was dry and aching from the growing heat of my hatred. I got up and abruptly left. I was preternaturally calm. That's what being sure about anything can do to your mind and body. They both crave resolve, no matter for what. They get tired of thought all too quickly. Thought is a frightened rabbit. They want action and resolve, a straight line. That's when they let you relax.

I would kill him. It was all so simple. My body was thankful This was not the place. I couldn't get away after killing him, not with the security guards downstairs. Everyone had seen my face, Brody had made sure of that. I wanted to live now. Plans had changed.

How would I kill him here, anyway? I wouldn't get out of the building after I shot him. Other options were limited. There was a small glass globe on a side table, a small portable computer, and a few abstract prints on the wall. My mind played fantasy games with me. I saw me smashing one of the prints on the table and taking one of the glass shards, but Brody would be long gone by then. I could use the straps of the canvas bag to strangle him, but Brody was a big, strong man. It was more likely I would be the one to go down.

I had long stopped listening to Brody. Some of his words entered my consciousness, something about counseling. I think he was talking about me, what he could do for me. Ah, so it was me who was to blame.

I left him and made it to the elevator, conscious of Brody staring after me. My legs were flexible now, no stiffness. I felt energized, stronger. That's what purpose will do. It makes everything work together.

What was he thinking about my visit. He didn't seem surprised when I got up and left in the middle of his plea for reason and calm and getting help for me. He would believe I was still a little angry, but that was natural. He might believe that the unstoppable force of his reason would need a little time to sink into me, work its magic and sway me completely. In the meantime he had rendered me harmless in his own mind, and that was enough for him.

Something was wrong. It was the same feeling of apprehension that overwhelmed me at the condo the other day. I could hear him talking with the receptionist. His voice was as calm as ever. The elevator took an eternity to arrive, but I was in no hurry. I entered the lobby fully expecting security to approach me, having been called, but no one did. The security guard at the desk looked as unperturbed as a Buddhist monk in prayer.

What could Brody have told them? I made no threats, he talked and I listened. That was it. How many angry clients did his work have to contend with? I was no doubt a dime a dozen. It was a speech well honed for the aggrieved. I was hoping they would take me into another room and search me, at least just for the embarrassment on his face. No, I doubt Brody was easily embarrassed about anything. Better that no attention was drawn to me. He had concluded early on that I wasn't carrying a weapon. I wasn't the type.

I scurried out of the building and drove away, knowing I might not get another chance at John Brody. No, it wouldn't do. I turned around. This time I would make sure.

––––––––

3

I got to know her about as well as anyone could in those few days.

It was the morning when I got up and realized that in a few days I would be dead. Like any other morning I walked to a local chain coffee shop and had a straight coffee and a few blueberry muffins, like I always did. Everything was the same, only I couldn't read the paper that morning. Something had changed. Why should I be interested anymore in what was happening outside my little world. It was all the same, the news. Nothing changed, it was all on a loop, going around and around, only the names and the dates changed, everything else was alarmingly the same. I had been caught in this loop for quite some time now. Only today it seemed more significant somehow, there was a purpose to it, like it was trying to tell me that this time it was different.

It was only a couple of days away, only a couple days more of living. It was now only that. Strange. It was somehow out of my hands now. Something else had taken over. When did it all become so serious?

I had to leave the coffee shop because it was suddenly like the world was flattening me, reshaping me. I had to breathe or I would be sick. If I got sick I would probably black out again. I was doing that more these days. I had delayed going in for tests because I couldn't afford the insurance, but also what was the point. When you know you'll be dead in a few days, it changes your to do list, cuts it way down. Laundry doesn't become important.

The world still had me at its mercy. I needed some air. The possibility of blacking out right there on the sidewalk terrified me. It's like someone flicks a switch and the lights go out, just like that, only you're no longer in the room, and you're not even aware of it.

I turned a corner to head down a street without as many people. I needed to breathe. I walked for several blocks and was feeling much better when there she was, standing in front of a small red painted clapboard building, what was left of the local communist party headquarters these days. Its glory days were behind it. Revolution was a nice and tame concept these days. I expected it to become a new kind of children's game. No one else was interested.

She stood there yelling at the door of their offices, shaking her fist at the building, then flipping it off in the time honored gesture. Here was the spectacle and tonic needed to make me forget for a short time, that which was waiting for me.

Get up and get out and do whatever it takes! You had your chance, and you fucked it up! Don't hide in there! Get out and do something! It's been twenty five years! Time to do something about it! Come out and talk to us, you cowards.

Talk to us? I hoped she didn't include me in this spectacle. I was quite certain that she didn't even know I was there. Two other people stood there, staring at her, smiling nervously, and just like me wondering what to make of her. I sidled in and stood there with them waiting to see where this would go. I needed a distraction that morning. Anything would do. This had distinct possibilities, better than I could have imagined.

Someone's face appeared at one of the headquarters windows for a few moments. The man peered out toward us, not amused, and then was gone. The face seemed disinterested. Could this be something the communists were used to? I settled in for the rest of the performance. She was having fun. I saw a coy smile on her lips. Maybe I could stay at least until intermission.

Cowards! Get out and fight for our rights, Sanchez! Don't just sit there and collect money from those who believe in you!

The sound of a name in all this was jarring. A name made it personal all right. More intriguing by its Hispanic origin, sounding so exotic in this northern city. As though the hot peppery climes of Cuba or Mexico had infiltrated our dull urban lives. Our rights? What was that about. Was she speaking for herself and the two others, or for all of us, the world?

One of the two spectators, an elderly woman wheeling a grocery cart, shook her head, muttered something that was not English then walked off. She had enough. There was apparently not going to be any violence. Maybe she was disappointed.

That left myself and a sallow, young man as thin as a rake and chain smoking, his cheeks working in and out as hard as fireplace bellows. With each exhale an endless stream of smoke would plume out from his lungs, like a flame throwing circus performer. The smoke would widen and make little cloud-like images then disappear. He was almost as interesting as the performance. The man's yellow cat eyes watched the young woman intently, then he grinned and made a dismissive motion with his right hand like he was air masturbating, and he too left to smoke his cigarettes elsewhere.

He didn't go far, however. He placed himself in front of a convenience store, leaned against the wall near the entrance and smoked and continued to stare at her from a distance. He would reach into his jacket pocket at intervals and remove something, putting whatever it was into his mouth. Sunflower seeds. He could have been a baseball coach leaning back and watching the action on the field.

This young man also studied me. Maybe I was a new spectator in this performance. I would soon realize that I'd be much more than that.

This young woman was something to look at, worth the effort, and more. Tall and a little on the plump side, her jet black hair was cut short and although I could only see her in profile, the nose was small and perfectly shaped, as straight as a drafting ruler. It was her skin that held one's attention. Almost a luminescent white pale smoothness like cut marble that contrasted with her hair with the same dramatic pop and contrast as a Japanese Kabuki performer. There was a puffed up baby fat quality to her smooth skinned cheeks that gave her a deceptively young aspect, although if I had to guess she must be close to nineteen or twenty, maybe more. This puffy effect was appealing, I thought. A pretty, chubby baby woman with the communists in her sights.

She wore a bleached and stained jean jacket that looked two sizes too large, the sleeves so long that they wrapped around and partially hid her hands, keeping them warm in the chill late November air, and a pair of black slacks that folded over the tops of her stylish urban hiking boots.

At first I thought she was another street gamin but I couldn't help notice that the boots were neatly polished and seemed very new and the slacks neat and clean. Maybe she was a bored student from the large university situated several blocks away. A lot of the well off students, especially the girls, would arrive in protective clusters