About Face

I had two plainclothes police officers show up at my door yesterday. I briefly wondered if they could see through the special make-up i'd had a friend apply to mask my bruised face. At least the swelling had all but gone. I kept them at the door, my face in the shadows, then invited them in, careful to sit so that the room lights were all behind me.

One of them questioned me while the other wandered about my home. They wouldn't be uncovering much; the Letter was in my pocket, and my hard drive had been erased, overwritten three times, then broken up and scattered throughout town. I had a new phone. The old one had melted overnight. Even if they were to go through my phone records, they'd see nothing but calls with family and friends. And Nora. Another friend. Or foe?

I gave a start when they mentioned my uncle taking the opportunity to bury my face and express my anger. I asked who had done it. They asked me if I didn't have any ideas. They said he was involved in organized crime, but knew my record had always been clean.

I've never been clean. Just chaste, which is altogether different. I know who did it. My uncle's Letter is superfluous in that sense. I may never read it. But I'll keep it with me, a reminder of what must be.

I walked the officers out and implored them to give me news. I wondered if they had been in contact with the FBI. Agent Stanton might have told them everything already. Or Marci.

Perhaps I'll kill her, too. But only after I have my revenge. And survive it.

I've made a habit of being rescued by the Women.  I love.  That and more.  And more.  

Often.

I opened by eyes with a groan, and watched Marci set the phone down before coming to kneel beside my bed. She found my hand with hers and gave it a happy squeeze.  She seemed excited at the time.  I didn't understand.

“You're up,” she said.

I nodded, winced with the effort, then realized we were in my room.  Sunlight slipped around a drawn shade to betray morning.  Though what morning?  I couldn't be sure.  And someone was calling again.  The ringing was setting off explosions in my head.  Marci turned, but I stopped her.  Who cares about phone calls?  The last one I had received had brought nothing but the worst news.

She made me a breakfast of milk and cereal – domestic she was not – and we ate together in silence.  I watched her unruly strands of hair snake their way downwards, each wisp whispering the same solemn truth.  She and I.  I and she.  We would never be.  And yet we found ourselves knotted together once again.  Joe must have dropped me off at home and given her a call.  I wonder what excuse he had given her.

She knew better than to ask.

I thanked her before she left, and she simply nodded.  Each of us knows so little about the other.  But we know that little all too well.

After she left, I sat for a time, thinking.  I'd have to read that letter from my father.  I'd have to act as though nothing had happened.  I wondered if Marci would help me pretend when she knew that she didn't know.  Finally, I got up to check my VOIP voice mail on the computer.  I recognized the number was from Nora and stopped myself.  I couldn't think about her just then.  

I scanned the other calls to see who Marci had spoken to.  Probably Joe.  I didn't recognize the area code, however, so I jotted it down.  I drove downtown to the only public phone booth I could remember seeing, then called the number.  

“Hello, Agent Stanton here...”  I hung up.  I hate women.

I felt, rather than heard, the engine engage as the S4 began the steep climb into the hills. I wondered briefly if the police would be there when I arrived, but dismissed the thought before it had time to settle into a disturbing disquiet.  Besides, I would be taking an alternate route, and nothing would stop me from finding my Uncle.

I turned onto a small road which seemed to loop back onto itself, then activated what appeared to be a garage door remote on my dash.  A few moments later, I sped into a darkened tunnel as the camouflaged door slid to a close behind me.  The world was awash in black, punctuated by just two points of Xenon light. I quickly reached the end of the tunnel, then clambered halfway up the manhole ladder before regaining my composure and silencing my movements. Upon reaching the top, I took a slow breath before carefully lifting the trap door.

I peered through the slit towards the small building where the midnight meetings were always held. I was surprised to see that no emergency response personnel had yet arrived. The next day, the evening news programs would show footage of burning cars obstructing the main road, which had prevented police and firefighters from arriving for hours. They would report that no one was found alive at the scene, and would describe what appeared to be a "gangland-style" attack. An investigation would, of course, be "ongoing."

That night, however, I saw them alive. Briefly. A single, unmistakable silhouette stood outside the burning entrance, calmly shooting those trying to escape the blaze as they blindly staggered out. Only one man I knew stood 6'7". Though I didn't know how he could have found this place. I had never mentioned it to him.

I crept closer, taking care to remain in the shadows. He never turned around, clearly confident that everyone was inside. I cast about to look for others, but only a single car - his car - remained. Most of the others were down the road in a haggard conflagration.

As I stepped towards him, I began searching for something to use as a melee weapon. There were no sturdy branches, and I was left with nothing but a few medium sized rocks. By then, I was close enough to see the bulge around his  knee. He was still wearing his brace.

Nora's former bodyguard didn't hear the quiet grunt as I chose a 30 pound rock, then put it back down in favor of two smaller rocks I could easily throw. I crept closer, then decided to try striking him directly on the back of the head. Just as I was about to do so, however, my Uncle emerged coughing from the burning building. Rick brought up his gun to shoot, forcing me to readjust and hit the back of his hand as he pulled the trigger.

I could feel the crunch of bone beneath the stone, and he dropped the gun as it discharged. I immediately struck his reconstructed knee with the other rock, then turned to face him. He cursed, but remained standing, knocking me off my feet with a single blow from his uninjured hand. I landed awkwardly, twisting an ankle over a body in the process.

Rick began searching for his sidearm as I struggled to sit up. He saw my Uncle lying on the ground, feebly reaching for the gun. He kicked my Uncle's hand, then leaned towards me for the weapon. He looked at me as he did so, and I threw sand and hot ash in his face. He screamed in pain, clawing at his eyes. I lunged towards him, taking the opportunity to drive a fist into his throat. I hit his Adam's apple squarely. I felt a snap as his windpipe collapsed.

He gasped and struck me again, this time on the side of the head with his injured hand. I fell to the side felt as though I was about to black out.

My head cleared with the sharp retort of a gun, and I saw Rick collapse onto the ground. He gurgled once, still trying to breathe, then lay preternaturally still. I scrambled over to my Uncle and rolled him onto his back. He gave me a weak smile. I could see how pale his face and lips had become. The dark spot on his right chest was expanding, but he maintained a tight grip on Rick's gun.

He tried to speak, but could only mouth the words "breast pocket." I pulled an aged envelope from his sportscoat, one side already stained with his blood. I tucked it away, then sat on the ground, holding my Uncle's free hand until well after it had let go of mine.

The burn marks on my hands are still fresh. The memory doubly so. As though I'd ever forget.

For the past few weeks, I haven't been getting along with my Boss. More than usual, I mean. He's been cold ever since Marci and I took our relationship decidedly public. For the most part, I've been enjoying his irritation; I've never liked the guy. And there's the added visceral thrill to putting one's around the office "It" girl.

But my Boss has become irritated over a woman he can't, by rights, have. She isn't interested, and he's married. Yet he, like all the other men in our almost exclusively Chinese-American company, can't seem to take his eyes off the sharp face and voluptuous figure of our Eastern European transplant. Of my Marci.

He's missing. He and his family have disappeared. I know. I went looking for him.

The last time I saw him was Friday, when he called me to his office, ostensibly to look over last quarter's numbers one last time before turning them in to the authorities. The FBI is dogging us now, and an army of lawyers sent by my Uncle had virtually set up camp in our office. they were hovering outside as my Boss and I spoke, waiting to assail us once again.

We finished quickly, and I collected my papers to leave. He leaned back in his chair and, with a casual smile, asked if I would be attending the midnight meeting tonight. I glared at him for a hard moment, then turned away, not bothering to answer. We never discussed the meetings directly. No one did.

"Too bad," he said. "You'll miss the show."

I didn't understand what he had meant at the time. I had missed a number of meetings, and wondered if the governmental pressure was riling up old feuds again. I was vaguely concerned for a moment, but knew my Uncle would quickly calm things down. I didn't think about it again until last night, shortly after midnight, when Joe woke me with a call.

I scrambled up to the rooftop, then looked north towards the hills. That's when I saw the fire.

I went for a late morning run through Chinatown and downtown today. I've been widely varying my schedule since meeting that FBI agent, and had, through random action, identified those who were keeping tabs on me. As well as those who followed them. It was all very comical - but for the fact that my life is being stifled.

I still don't understand my apparent importance in all of this, of course. I've done my level best to stay away from my Uncle's many business interests outside the confines of legality, so I've little to offer the federal agents, one of whom drew the assignment of running after me when I did something suspiciously unexpected to see if I couldn't lose them. It was the people following her I worried about. I don't know who they are. I don't think my Uncle would do such a thing. And who else could know?

I ducked into Nora's gym to sign up for a membership. The agent had to follow me in, ostensibly to do the same thing. When I entered the gym proper, she asked for a tour. I went immediately to the men's locker room, which I had seen before, then hopped out the window.  I suppose the federal government will try to be more subtle about following me now that they know I know.  And they know I know they know. 

I carefully wandered my way over to my favorite cafe after losing the two groups who had been tailing me.  I took my time, meandering through nearly empty streets for the better part of an hour before arriving.  I scanned the tables, looking for familiar faces.  To my surprise, I found one.  She was not at all her usual well-kept self; for the first time, I saw her without her face paint wearing a simple set of sweats.  A pair of middle aged men were staring at her in open appreciation.  She had never been so beautiful.

I took my cup of coffee and danish to her table.  "Is this seat taken?"

She smiled without looking up, then nodded.  "Surprised to see you here," she began.

"That's my line," I responded.  "You're not stalking me, are you?"

Marci looked into my eyes as I sat down, her smile hidden momentarily as she sipped her tea.  "Maybe," she said. 

Maybe.

I called Joe today and asked if he wanted to go out for drinks Friday night.  He told me he was just going to stay home with Emily.  He never does that.  He sees me every week at midnight.  Sharp.  Word of my F.B.I. encounter must have gotten out among the Family, as I expected it would.  I hadn't spoken to a soul about it.  Especially after Nora intimated that there was an informant among us.  One her father had initially hired to glean the truth in order to expose us.

I wonder if my phone is tapped.  I wonder why they mentioned my Uncle.  Chinese families are nuclear by nature.  We aren't open to outsiders.  Such is the common theme in all our five thousand years of written history.  Even the name we've given our country - zhong guo - means "center state."  Federal we are not.  Ever.

I talked to Marci about Friday night.  She seemed confused, then suspicious.

"But, you never...!" she began.

No, I never.  Not until now.  I rather like this girl, actually.  This Marci.  She's really quite perfect, save for the fact that she's not Nora.  Even that should be an advantage.  But it's not.

Marci stormed into my office this morning to launch into a diatribe about our boss.  He'd been making suggestive comments again, and was stopping at her desk for unaccountably insipid reasons.  I listened quietly, most of my attention focused on the ebullience of her plunging neck line as a button slowly worked its way free.  She noticed my stupid smile, followed my stare to her blouse, and paused to button her irrepressible nature before asking if I had been listening.

I nodded a vigorous affirmative, repeating her last few sentences verbatim for good measure.  Which was a good start.  Then I made the mistake of asking if I could do anything to help.  She looked pained again, and told me she wanted me to listen.  And care.  Nothing more.  I said I did, of course, but the words were hollow and rang about the room, looking for company but ending up sounding lonely and lame.  She let me hang in a state of uncertainty for a bit before telling me I could, in fact, do something about it.  I perked up.  I am (not to boast, here) outstanding when it comes to doing things.  Other than listening.  And caring.

She wanted me to be more public about our relationship to send a message to our boss.  I think she wanted me to be more public to send a message to myself and my wandering attention span.  She wanted me to take overt offense at his transgressions, given that he's a married man.  She wanted me to care.  I said sure; my family owns the company, after all.  And I'd certainly try to care.  Or appear to care enough.  And care enough to appear.  At this, she seemed satisfied, changing the subject and asking me what I was doing Friday night.  She always does this, because she knows I will decline.  I've never mentioned my Uncle to her, but she probably suspects something.  And with the recent turn of events, the less she knows, the better.  We made plans for Saturday night instead.

As our boss left early today for a meeting out of town, I didn't actually have the opportunity to do anything.  I told Marci before heading out that I'd start next week, when he was back.  She frowned and said OK.  She was not OK. 

On the drive home, I got a call from Nora.  "I need to talk to you," she said.  She sounded upset.  "I think something bad will happen to your family, and I don't want that.  I think my dad might be involved.  And I don't want that, either. 

"So...can you meet me?  I need to talk.  We need to talk.  Do you understand?"

I didn't, actually, but I was willing to listen.  And care.

I stopped by the supermarket on the way home from work to get my usual set of groceries, which included apples, chips, and beer.  I never stop at the store long, but I get there every Tuesday, since most sensible folks tend to frequent the place on weekends.  I was browsing through the red delicious area when a fellow asked if I was my Uncle's nephew. 
 
I didn't know him, so I said no.

He told me I was, in fact, who I am.  I tried walking away, but he followed me.  He wanted to ask me a few questions, he said.  Then he showed me his badge.  Federal Bureau.  Investigation.  Very official.  Almost quaint.  I could taste the sourness of my stomach as I read it. 
 
I had to smile.  There was nothing else to do.  Don't worry, he said.  We don't think you've done anything seriously wrong.

Don't worry. Seriously.

Wrong.
 
He asked me if I knew my Uncle's business, and I said yes, since I worked there? He shook his head, telling me he meant the other business.  I said I didn't know what he was talking about.  Then I told him that much as I enjoyed his unwelcome company, my Uncle was family and therefore I'd have to wait for family counsel before I discussed anything further. Are you sure, he asked. Yes, I said. 
 
He shrugged.  That will make things more difficult for you, he told me.  Your Uncle is in a lot of trouble.  You should stay well away from him.

 
I hate cops.  A pig is a prig is a pig.

I think I rolled out of her bed before six this morning - quite a feat given that we had seen the first hints of sunrise before the champagne finally overtook us.  I had slept less than forty minutes.  But I couldn't stay.  I decided I had no way to brush my teeth.

Last week, Nora hadn't even let me into her room after my rather expensive effort to appear at her balcony door.  I had to abscond abruptly in the end, as Joe had been discovered by one of the Lee family thugs.  The punk let out a brief shout before Joe relieved him of both his sidearm and his consciousness.

Before I slid down the ladder and dashed for the car, Nora told me I had waited too long.  I didn't understand then, of course.  I tried to give her the green backpack with my small addition inside, but she wouldn't open the door.

She didn't call me in the week after that.  Then Marci asked me to a New Year's Eve party, and I couldn't say no.  I still can't place what she sees in me.  There's nothing to see.  I'm the ghost of a guy who isn't.  In love.

I tried to suggest I wasn't available, thinking Nora might still call.  But Marci looked as though she might actually be hurt.  My mental make-up won't allow for damsels in distress to go unheeded.  This is a great weakness, I know.  But damsels are really hot.  Especially this one.

Nora finally did call me yesterday, an hour before the party.  She had finally opened the bag.  We talked for a time, and I found myself laughing repeatedly at her piquant wit.  Suddenly, I realized I was going to be very late.  She entreated me not to go, and with that simple, flippant remark, I didn't want to.

Damn those damsels in distress, though.  They get me every time.  I think I'll leave a toothbrush at Marci's.  Perhaps then I won't need to leave so early.  Perhaps, even then, I still will.