The Theory of Games (24 page)

The Authoritarian Man looked into my eyes, patted my shoulder and tucked the napkin away.

The coffee was good; I’ll give them that.

“This is good coffee,” I said, “Starbucks House Blend.” The same black rabbit turd whole beans I bought at $6.95 a pound for the little yellow house. “Do you make it with cold water? I think it really improves the flavor.”

The Authoritarian Man took a sip from his mug. “You know,” he said, “I’m not really sure how they make it but this
is
a good cup of coffee.”

If Starbucks wasn’t so damn international maybe I could get a fix on where they were holding Bill and me. Does Russia have Starbucks? Does China? Probably. We could be held on the fucking moon and there was a Starbucks just over the next lunar crater.

Bill and I are going to get the fuck out of here and then what?

Where will we be then?

Just our luck we’ll get out to the weed-choked garden, kill the Authoritarian Man, leap the wall and… and… find ourselves in downtown Shanghai without a passport and
persona non grata
at the U. S. embassy. Well, I guess as my great aunt Etta used to say, we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it. Etta had problems with screwing up the punch lines of metaphors.

Good coffee. Old friends sharing good coffee. Mugs sending up their tiny moist steam clouds into the chill air. The interrogator and a man strapped to a gurney drinking good strong coffee; as natural as could be. Winter coffee in the kitchen; our boots in the mud room, the fields frozen over, the farmer’s daughter asleep upstairs between her starched white bed sheets; as natural as could be.

It’s funny how Midwestern mores, traditions, bonds you can’t break come back again and again. I have distant memories of good coffee in distant kitchens across distant frozen fields.

“Good coffee,” I said.

“Yes it is,” said the Authoritarian Man, “and now it’s time to get back down to business.” And so it begins, again.

I could see the Mississippi River through the six over one window if I sat just right at the dining room table in the little yellow house. Even now strapped to this gurney I could see the Mississippi River. I could see Bill and me in the park. I could see the goddamn tall grass. And then I could see the goddamn Authoritarian Man. And so it begins, again.

“You know the key to a successful operation is good coffee,” I said.

“Is that so?” the Authoritarian Man responded right on cue.

“Oh, yes,” I said, “six AM, every morning someone has to get up and make the coffee. You know you can’t lead by whipping the hired hands. That will get you nowhere. Someone has to get up and make the coffee; good coffee. I never set my alarm clock; there was no need. Bill woke me up every day exactly at 5:45. He has a bladder you can set you clock to. Oh, yes,” I nodded.

“Is that so?” the Authoritarian Man said; he had fallen into the cadence of the Midwestern straight-man sitting around the country stove. If you set these things up just right everything falls into place.

“Bill has this way about him. He would wake me up by just staring at me. You ever wake up with this feeling that someone is staring at you?” I asked.

“Yes, I have,” the Authoritarian Man answered and I wondered if it had happened in Beirut, or Baghdad or some other far-flung country that we had savaged and then cast aside. So what country was it that the Authoritarian Man woke up in with unseen eyes staring? Was it Afghanistan? Was he Russian? Was it Brazil? Was it Thailand? Was he Mossad? Or KGB? Or GRU? Or fucking IRS? I honestly didn’t care anymore; I just wanted a clue as to who it was that was asking the questions. Could we just get the ass-raping over and then you could let Bill and me go? Well that wasn’t going to happen.

“All ready?” the Authoritarian Man asked.

Yes,
yes!
Injections of benzodiazepine, shock treatment, another roundhouse right upside the head; I just didn’t care anymore; yes,
yes
,
YES
! I am ready. I am ready, Authoritarian Man. please for the Love of God,
I AM READY!

The Authoritarian Man released the straps that held my hands fast to the gurney. He released the straps that held my legs.

I was free.

I was free.

I swung my legs over the bed; I tried to stand but I could not. The Authoritarian Man caught me as I fell. You cannot strap a man to a gurney for a week and expect him to stand.

And then the door to the room opened and Bill pranced in dragging that sonofabitch handler behind him. He knew that
this was our day
.

‘You ready?” the Authoritarian Man asked.

“I was born ready,” I answered; and I had never felt more ready in all of my life even if my body was a rag doll that was no longer responding to whatever signals I sent from my brain.

“I think we’re just about done here,” said the Authoritarian Man and I thought, “Yes,
yes
there’s really only one question left and that is this: can I wrap my hands about your throat and choke the life out of you before Bill tears into your jugular? Can I kill you before Bill does? Because, truth be known -
I think we’re just about done here -
bottom line is this: either Bill or I are going to kill you and the only question is this: which one of us is going to get to you first? Because, really, that was the only question that was left that was worth answering. Yes, my life had telescoped into that small of a space.

“Okay, easy now,” said the Authoritarian Man as he carefully placed my ass in to the wheelchair.

Bill smiled at me – the dew flaps drawing away from his yellow teeth and the muzzle flecked with white - he wagged his tail and shot
me the sign.

Oh, lord, oh lord, Bill was
focused.
I had never seen him so focused.

I’m going to kill this man he said and we will run, we will flee like we did before, just you and me… running into the night… don’t you worry, boss, I will kill this man and then we will run… run, boss, run!

This deal was going down.

Authoritarian Man you were a dead man; it was just a question if I killed you first or Bill.

CHAPTER 6.1

This was our day.

Too weak to stand, the Authoritarian Man placed me in the wheelchair and pushed me out the door; Bill hanging just a yard behind and to the right; pulling that sonofabitch handler behind him.

I marshaled my strength. I channeled every thought to getting strong;
now
, right now because
this deal was going down right now.

How many times in your life do you get a chance to put everything on the line? All our lives all we ever wish for is an even chance; all our lives this is all we pray for: dear Lord – dear Sweet God – please give me an
even chance
to smite my enemies.

Dear Sweet Lord, please, please, put all that is evil into a human form and place it before me; please give me a chance – a 50/50 chance – to slay them, to place their worthless carcasses upon an altar before you; and – if I’m weak – please let my dog, Bill, be there to rip out their goddamn throats. Dear, dear Sweet Lord…. please just give Bill and me a chance.

Please, dear sweet Lord just let me
roll the goddamn dice!

The Authoritarian Man wheeled me out, out, down the long corridor just outside the room where I was held all these days and out into the garden gone to weeds that I had pictured all this time – it was just as I had imagined it – he wheeled me out and Bill dragged that sonofabitch handler behind – and there we were: a high wall behind us, a garden that wasn’t worth a shit around us, me about three feet in front of the Authoritarian Man and Bill at the short end of his harness with the sonofabitch handler about two feet behind.

Bill and I surrounded by stubble and dead weeds; the Authoritarian Man and me thirty-six inches apart; Bill and that sonofabitch handler two feet apart. There was a dark wooden box on a table beside the Authoritarian Man. I did not concern myself with what it contained; probably a hypodermic and some new wonder truth serum I guessed.

"
Alea jacta est.
", Caesar said when he rolled the dice when he crossed the Rubicon.

The die is cast.

Throw the goddamn dice.

Bill looked at me.

The Authoritarian Man began a smile – the corners of his mouth raised in slow motion - as he moved his right hand to pat my knee.

A butterfly fluttered between us.

The corners of the Authoritarian Man’s mouth began to draw back into a smile.

I turned my head to my left to give Bill
the sign
.

Bill looked straight at me – there was no mistake - and – swear to God – he winked; oh, Lord he was
ready.

You have to take your enemies by surprise.

This is the only rule of warfare.

This is the only rule of the Theory of Games.

Smite your enemies when they least expect it.

And then we rolled the dice….

CHAPTER 6.2

Four things happened simultaneously:

1. I leapt up from the wheelchair – as focused as a torpedo – straight at the Authoritarian Man’s throat – my hands grasping.

2. Bill – a coiled spring of canine muscle – unleashed at the Authoritarian Man; but, once he saw that I was already going for his throat, turned in midair and pirouetted to attack the sonofabitch handler.

3. A streak, bright white and as furious as a meteor, entered stage right – about 3 o’clock from my perspective - and headed straight towards the Authoritarian Man’s forehead.

4. I saw Katelynn (God bless her) and Colt Brankowsky (and God bless him) leap the far garden wall and enter the fray.

It is not enough to simply state that things went into a state of expanded time or slow motion. So many things happened simultaneously that I was confused and Bill was dumbfounded.

First, I think you should know that I was emotionally prepared to rip out the Authoritarian Man’s larynx. I was truly prepared to reach in with my hand and extract a mess of tendons, cords, and pulsing arteries pumping thick, red blood with my bare hands. I want you to know that – I am stating it here, now, for the record - that this is something that I very much wanted to do.

Second, Bill was ready to kill whatever man I did not kill; Authoritarian Man or sonofabitch handler didn’t mean a thing to him; either way there was going to be a pile of ground meat in the garden; it was all the same to Bill.

Third: there was a sound – a thick, rich satisfying
whack
– when the baseball smashed into the Authoritarian Man’s head, and then the Authoritarian Man crumpled into a heap on the ground.

Simultaneously Bill and I turned to the sonofabitch handler but Katelynn was already bashing his head into mush with her hands and her feet.

I think it is important that you know that Bill and I wanted – very much – to kill that sonofabitch handler – but even as we tried to turn – in midair – Katelynn was already smashing his face into pulp,

And then Colt Brankowsky appeared. He was looking for somebody to hit; but his 98 mile an hour fastball totally smoked the Authoritarian Man and Katelynn was still beating the sonofabitch handler into pulp and Bill and I were left swinging, snapping and snarling but there was nobody left to hit, chomp or bite.

And then time resumed its normal flow.

“Miss O’Brian,” Colt said trying to get Kate’s attention, “I really think we should get going.” Kate continued to pummel the sonofabitch handler. A claxon sounded from the building. I could hear people yelling.

“Miss O’Brian,” Colt put a beefy hand on Kate’s shoulder, “we gotta get out of here now.” Kate stood up and delivered one last savage kick to the sonofabitch handler’s head.

“Kate! Colt! Damn it’s good to see you!” I babbled. I fell into Kate’s arms. Bill furiously wagged his tail and danced around us.

“Doc! Miss O’Brian, we’ve
really
got to get going,” Colt urgently reminded us again. There was no doubt now that a general alarm had been raised and Junior Authoritarian Men were going to start pouring from the building like fire ants from a disturbed nest.

Kate was instantly in charge. “Okay, everybody, back the way we came,” and she led us towards the wall at the far end of the garden. Still unsteady on my feet, Colt half dragged, half carried me towards the wall. Kate leapt the barrier like a hurdler, Bill cleared it in a bound, Colt had to hurl me over like a sack of potatoes. I hit the ground hard but even before I could catch my breath Colt had picked me up and was carrying me over his shoulder; running as hard as he could towards a break of trees on the horizon.

I could hear Colt’s heavy breathing as we sprinted across the field and then the Junior Authoritarian Men started shooting. “Those ain’t 22s, Doc,” Colt said between gulps of air. Slugs pounded into the trunks of the oak trees just before us and kicked up clods of dirt at our feet.

It sounded like the Junior Authoritarian Men must have slipped into full automatic mode – or maybe they got more guys shooting – because the intensity of their fire ramped up tremendously. I could not imagine how none of us were hit; there was one last furious burst of gunfire and then we had reached the safety of the trees. Twenty yards into the forest it was as good as if we were behind the walls of a fort; I could hear the bullets hitting the trees behind us. Bill ran up ahead of us; first in one direction and then the other. He had no idea where we going but he was going to lead us there.

We stumbled out of the forest and into a clearing where a white Cadillac Escalade with an antenna bolted to its roof was parked. Colt, with me still flung over his right shoulder, reached into his left pocket with his free hand, retrieved his car keys and pressed the remote unlock. The SUV beeped back. Kate sprinted across the clearing and opened the back door; Bill jumped in. You never had to ask Bill twice if he wanted a car ride. Kate got in the front. Colt threw me in the back seat next to Bill and then hopped in the driver’s side and turned the engine over. “All right everybody,” Colt yelled, “hold on and heads down!” He put the Escalade in drive, slammed the accelerator to the floor and we tore off bouncing across the rutted field. For the first time in my life I could actually see a reason for owning a gas-guzzling SUV.