Pavlov's Dogs (3 page)

“Ah, that’s how it is,” Ken said, wiping his eyes. “I, ah, heh. You shit head. We get back to
la casa
, you want to shoot that thing?”

The beer can came up. “Why not? I got nothing else to do. And we’ll get to shoot this, too.” His left hand dug under his plaid work shirt and came back with a black square-looking pistol. “Eh?”

“Is that an automatic? What is that?”

Jorge laughed. “This, my Caucasian friend, is Mexican Judo.”

“Oh, shut up,” Ken said, chuckling again.

“It’s a Glock.”

“I can’t believe you toted that thing around all day. You’re mental.” He looked out the windshield at all the traffic. “Is it a holiday or something?”

Finishing the beer and chucking the can into the back seat, Jorge shook his head. “If it was a holiday, my ex would either be bitching because I don’t have the kids, or sending me pics of her having fun with them, rubbing her quality family time in my face.” He burped. “Can’t make up her mind.” Jorge sank deeper into his seat and waved his hand at the traffic as it got denser and denser. “This is just how it is, I guess.”

Ken’s eyes slid over for a second, taking in the new expression on his friend’s face. Sometimes there were reasons it was beer-thirty.

“Maybe this weekend we’ll get out of town,” Ken said. “Go camping or something.”

Jorge snapped another beer open. “You chop the firewood.”

“I always chop the firewood.”

He shrugged. “You’re good at it. Maybe you were a lumberjack in your previous life.”

“Maybe you’re a lazy ass in this one.”

Jorge did his shrug again, which was so eloquent. Along with the look on his face, it said everything.

Around them, the stream of cars had thickened to a river and had slowed considerably. Ken looked over at the eastbound side of the highway, noting that the incoming lanes were mostly clear. The drive from downtown to the suburbs was usually a slow one, but
this
... and it wasn’t even the weekend. He looked around at the cars, then checked his rearview mirrors. Stacked back there, too. And he was stuck in the center of it all, right in the middle lane.

Ken sucked in a breath and blew it out. He hated traffic—hated being hemmed-up in any way, really. And Jorge was right, work had been a bear. More than once that day he’d had to take his ten-step Anger Management card from his breast pocket and work through it. He hated the card, hated the class, but even though it was the dumbest thing in the world to him when he started, it had helped. Today was a tester. All paperwork and legalese.

Ken looked forward to shooting the new gun later. Hell, he even looked forward to shooting Jorge’s automatic. His first experience with one was a Browning Hi-Power, and it had pinched the webbing between his thumb and forefinger so badly, he was converted to revolvers for the rest of his life. But it was one of those days.

And is it getting worse?

Traffic ground to a halt and he put the Blazer in park. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Jorge nodded. “You’re going to run out of beer by the time we get there.” He popped a third can. “Better hope this clears up.”

With a disdainful glance at the white can in Jorge’s hand, Ken sniffed. “I’ll be all right, thank you. That swill you’re drinking is making you fat. Did you notice?”

Gasping, Jorge grabbed at the spare tire around his midsection. “
¡Ay ay ay!
When did this happen?”

They laughed, but it was short-lived. Ken started to tap his fingers on the steering wheel. “Come
on
.”

He reached down and jabbed a blunt finger into the radio power button. It came on with a burst of static, and he cursed as he spun the volume knob down.

Even Jorge jumped. “You almost made me spill my beer,” he said, looking cross.

Ken dialed the volume back up slowly. The station was on talk radio, so he hit the SCAN button. “You remember the AM station for traffic alerts?”

Jorge burped.

“Didn’t think so,” Ken said, turning the dial. Short snippets of songs came over the speakers as he sailed from station to station. “Whoop, got one.”

“
... have erupted in New Orleans
,” was all he heard before stabbing the SCAN button again.

“Fuck New Orleans,” he said, and Jorge erupted in laughter.

He pointed at Ken. “You’re still pissed about what happened at Harrah’s! You got to get over that, bro. The house beat you fair and shquare.”

“Fuck you, too,” Ken said, smiling at Jorge’s slurring. There was no way his buddy was already that drunk. “And I loved that truck.”

“Sure you did,” Jorge said. “But now you got Bertha the Blazer, who ain’t never let you down.” He patted the dashboard. “Ain’t that right, baby? Aw, I know. Ken don’t appreciate you the way he ought to. Let’s say you and me, later, in the garage—”

“I have a gun.”

“Under yo’
seat!
” Jorge slapped his own automatic, which still sat on the center console, close at hand; he had won.

“Under
your
seat,” Ken said, laughing. “And it might as well be in Egypt. There’s no way I’m venturing near your... hold on.”

He stopped hitting the SCAN button and turned the volume up.

“
... wave of violence has—zzt!—National Guard have been deployed to—zzshht!—rumors of—”

Jorge grunted. “Your radio sucks.”

“Shut up.”

Ken hit a button and swapped the radio to the FM stations, hoping for better reception. He immediately skipped the gospel station and stopped again.

“
... has washed over Georgetown—zzt!—National Guard have been deployed to protect and defend—zzt!—rumors of walki—”

“We just heard that,” Jorge said, putting his beer down. “Didn’t we?”

Ken nodded and looked at his watch. “Yeah. Yeah, we did. Jesus, we’ve been sitting here for thirty minutes already.”

“Doesn’t seem that long to me.”

“Says the guy with the beer.” Ken stabbed the power button again; he had lost the station to static anyway. “We’re going nowhere.”

Shrugging, Jorge took off his seatbelt and opened the Blazer door, letting in the random shouts of frustrated motorists. He stood on the runner and looked out over the still ribbon of multi-colored metal. “I can’t see anything,” he said. “Cars are backed up all the way down. You think something’s happening up that way?”

“Who knows?” Ken yelled over the horns that had joined the vocal cacophony. “Maybe it’s still happening.”

Jorge ducked his head back into the Blazer. “I’m gonna go take a look.” He stepped down to the asphalt.

“If you’re not back here by the time it starts moving...”

“I’ll shoot your tires and we’ll both walk out of here,” Jorge said.

“Better take that then.” Ken gestured to the 9mm. “Don’t want an automatic in the car, anyway. Open alcohol’s bad enough. I got binoculars, if you want. Check in the back seat.”

Grunting, Jorge leaned the passenger seat forward and craned into the back. He paused for a moment and whistled. “You got a rifle in here, too?”

Ken turned to check, and yes, he had left his rifle in its case back there. “Huh,” he said. “Forgot that was back there. I tried to sell it last weekend.”

“What is it?”

Ken scowled. “Forget it. You’ll just try to talk me down on price. Look for the—”

“I see ’em,” Jorge said, snatching at a pair of black binoculars. “Gun me, bro.”

Laughing, Ken handed the automatic over to Jorge. “Call me when you see what the hell it is.” He pulled his cell phone from the center console and plugged it in.

“
Si, señor.”

Ken chuckled at his friend and watched him amble up the shoulder of the road. A lot of people at work couldn’t stand Jorge and his sense of humor, but Ken found him funny and refreshing, and after all, Ken was the contractor and could decide what was what and who was who. Jorge wasn’t afraid to say what was on his mind, no matter how asinine it might sound to everybody else. Zero brain-to-mouth filter. Ken’s ex-wife couldn’t stand him. Neither could
Jorge’s
ex-wife.

Then, realizing that he didn’t have anybody to talk to now, Ken turned the radio back on. The first thing he heard was news of more insurgent activity (or whatever) in the Middle East.

“Whole world’s falling apart.”

SOFT, ANONYMOUS MUSIC filtered through the sounds of people at a meal; the clink of a fork on a plate, the murmur of conversation, the ringing chime of glass on glass. There was an occasional hiccup of restrained laughter.

The long, rectangular room played host to dozens of scattered oval tables, around which sat groups of people. The men and women were equally represented, and it was clear by their groupings which table was which.

Dr. Crispin, who had shed his lab coat, stepped into the room and waved his new neurotechnician forward. “This, Dr. Donovan, is the dining room. We like to call it Spago’s Stepsister, but don’t let the chef hear you.”

Donovan nodded absently as he took in the various cliques in the dining room and the way they had arranged themselves. He didn’t know who they were, not yet, but from how they sat with each other, and from their interactions, he had a good idea of who the linchpin personalities were for each department. He nodded to people as Dr. Crispin pulled him to the table nearest the doors at the end, the one with two empty seats.

He made a bet with himself as to which seat was Dr. Crispin’s.

He won.

Crispin stood behind his chair, gripping the back of it tightly. He cleared his throat, then cleared it again, and the conversation dried up around the room.

“Thank you. I would like you all to meet Doctor Cornelius Donovan, our new neurotechnician. He comes highly recommended, and I would appreciate it if you all made him feel welcome.”

Donovan, suddenly on the spot, turned and offered a half-hearted wave to the group. If Crispin wanted him to feel welcome, he would have skipped the part where he introduced Donovan by first name.

“Now then,” Crispin said, taking his seat at the place setting. “Please, do introduce yourselves.”

From table to table, people glanced at each other. Dr. Donovan shifted his weight from one foot to the other, but couldn’t get comfortable in the spotlight.

For his part, Crispin was busily congratulating himself on making the new man the focus of this awkward situation. No, he didn’t like Donovan, but it was more than that. The tech’s resume had been impeccable, and combined with the lack of decorum (and fear) he had shown as they’d watched the Dogs spar and tear at each other’s throats... the combination gnawed at Crispin. Donovan’s youth was another point against him. Crispin knew what sort of single-minded and bloody determination it took to be acknowledged in any of the sciences, and for the new neurotechnician to have achieved that recognition already, well...

Keep your eyes off my job
, Dr. Crispin thought.

Meanwhile, the head of another table stood up to begin the introductions. He was a man in his forties, with a wrinkled brow and a receding hairline. When he spoke, his voice carried with authority. “My name is Todd Sales, human resources. And this is Jenny Freis and Mauricio Tapia.”

“Major General Mauricio Tapia,” Jenny Freis interrupted. She looked at Donovan and said, “Mauricio’s always reminding people that he was in the Air Force.”

Everyone laughed, and Mauricio Tapia looked embarrassed but reserved. Then Todd Sales turned back to Donovan and said, “Ah, welcome.” He cracked a smile as if it pained him to do so, and then he sat.

At the next table over stood a tall woman with hair like a dandelion. “Hello,” she said brightly. “I’m Tracy Rivers, and this is Oscar and Homer Anders.” She indicated a pair of curly-headed men, obviously brothers. “We’re the admin team. If you need any materials for your work, just let us know!”

She sat and another woman on the other side of the room stood up. “Carmen, IT. This is Lucy, Lucy, and Pat—and don’t worry about getting our names right.”

“We know you won’t,” one of the Lucys said before knocking back her glass of wine.

Donovan’s smile felt clammy on his lips, so he let it drop. The prospect of getting help from any of these people didn’t appeal to him in the slightest.

From another table, a very fat man stood up with a wheeze. His red face gleamed with sweat, and Donovan felt uncomfortable looking at him.

“Ronald,” the fat man said. “Ronald Michaels. I’m in charge of the medical facilities.”

“He’s not a doctor,” Drinking Lucy chimed in, “but he plays one on an island.”

“Lucy...” Dr. Crispin said, and Carmen put a hand on Lucy’s, who promptly shook it off.

“As I was saying,” Ronald continued, “the medical facilities are mine and my team’s. Meet Alison Levenseller and Joshua Ericson, the nurses.” He indicated a small, surly blonde who had a mouth full of food, and an equally surly dark-complected man, who desperately needed a meal.

Donovan felt a kick under the table, and he turned. Next to him sat another woman, a redhead with vibrant green eyes. “If you get hurt, come to me,” she said quietly. Donovan looked back at Ronald Michaels’ nursing staff and nodded.