PART 2 - SAID THE SPIDER TO THE FLY
Pinocchio began sizing up the new room the instant he passed through the door. It was small and softly lit with several dark-shaded lamps. Cigar smoke permeated the space and a bluish haze hovered a few feet from the ceiling. A large fleshy man sat with two others at a table. There were crystal tumblers and a bottle of white tequila before them, but for Pinocchio it reeked of nothing more than forced sophistication. You put a viper on a velvet pillow, you still got a viper.
The man responsible for the cigar smoke made Pinocchio think of an athlete gone to seed—heavy but not wholly fat—and on the hard side of fifty. He wore a dark suit with an equally dark shirt open at the collar. An eye-patch covered his left eye and his thick, black hair was slicked back and to one side.
"Mike Pinocchio!" the man bellowed. "It's about time a real outlaw walked in here. I am Bosko." He held out his hand and pumped Pinocchio's with an overly firm shake. "And the sidekick?"
Pinocchio knew his friend would answer for himself.
"Tom Hobbes."
Bosko seemed to size up the younger soldier while flashing a wide smile. "So you're here to join the Revolution?"
Pinocchio let escape a breath of a laugh. "What sort of revolution are you fighting? The sexual revolution?"
Bosko returned a broad laugh that seemed to shake the fringe on the small lampshades. "We are not Jesuits killing in the name of Christ. We are men fighting for freedom." He spread his arms in a gesture that encompassed the men seated beside him. "Freedom to live as we please."
Hobbes replied quickly. "Is that what the Dreamers get? Freedom?"
Inwardly, Pinocchio rolled his eyes. They'd never get anywhere at this rate. The kid was always on him about not dealing diplomatically with people. But when it came time to work the shadier elements in Harsh Realm Pinocchio's mouth couldn't hold a candle to Hobbes on a tear against questionable morals.
Bosko looked at Hobbes with a sincere expression. "They get freedom for a time. Freedom from their desperate lives. That's why they keep coming back."
"Until they have nothing left," Hobbes said.
Pinocchio knew his friend was right, but if you wanted meat from a hunter it wasn't good business to criticize him for using a trap.
Bosko again used his deep, hypnotic voice to offer an earnest sounding response. "That's their business. My credo is: let no man tell me how to live and I will do the same for him."
The words hung in the air for a few seconds before Hobbes spoke. "We're looking for the Resistance. I guess we've come to the wrong place."
Bosko shot Pinocchio a look and the soldier lifted his brows in a way that said, "Whaddya want from me? Tell him he's wrong if he's wrong."
With a sigh, Bosko leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. "Santiago has a government and its treasury behind him. The Revolution must be financed, and there are no steel mills in Harsh Realm; at least, none that aren't controlled by Santiago. Misery is the coin of the realm here, and if we must exploit it to end it, so be it."
Thin tendrils of condescension in Bosko's voice dug into Pinocchio. Hobbes could be naïve but he wasn't a child, and Pinocchio resented this puffy faux-lord speaking to him as such. "And then what?" Pinocchio countered. "How do you plan to move against Santiago?"
"Not by playing Che Guevara and running around spray painting walls." Bosko tapped ashes into the small crystal tray on the table and took a drag from his cigar. "Those people are fools. That's why I left."
Pinocchio's first reaction was surprise, but then he wondered if it really should be. "You left the Resistance?"
"They were impotent. Strike a blow?" Bosko leaned back in his chair. "They were so busy being Sunday school teachers they forgot to fight Santiago." He pointed at Pinocchio with his cigar. "You're a stud, battle-hardened. If your friend can carry his weight I'll show you both more action than you ever dreamed of."
...
The darkness coating the warehouse's high windows indicated night; the darkness Florence felt inside the warehouse revealed desperation. The Healer inside her wanted to gather each person in her arms, one at a time, and do what she could to release the desolation she sensed. But that was not how her gift worked.
On the street she had been able to sedate the man attacking Thomas. She had acted without thinking, darting in to protect her friend while being driven to help someone in pain. Yet, all she could do was release the man's anger. In the few seconds she had held contact with him, she knew the damage from so many Dream trips was far beyond her ability to heal.
Dexter sat on the bar where Florence leaned and she sensed the dog was impatient to have the pack together again. He had looked toward the glitch in the wall as many times as she. And they both detected the man weaving his way to them. Florence recognized him as the pony-tailed Dreamer from when they'd arrived.
"You're a Healer, right?" He was short with dark features and had a twitchy energy. "Am I right or am I right?" He raised one arm out to the side and said, "It hurts when I do this." A second later he dropped the limb to his side with a breathy laugh. "I know, I know, don't do this."
Florence fixed the little man with a stare but it didn't deter him. Her appearance—five feet nine inches of lean muscle, combined with the skull-skimming haircut and fatigues—was usually more than enough for most people to be deterred. But not the little man. He stuck his hand out.
"Name's Garcia."
The hand went untouched and Florence shifted her gaze back to the wall glitch, wishing even more for the return of her friends. Garcia withdrew his hand and plucked at the front of his orange Hawaiian print shirt.
"We got kind of an odd couple thing, don't we? You and me? You don't talk and I don't stop." He laughed again but it sounded sadder than before. "Some of that is from the Dreaming. I know that. It does something to your brain chemistry, doesn't it?"
The sincerity in his voice drew Florence's focus back to him and she nodded.
"Yeah. I got neurons firing blanks and others firing back-asswards, but they asked for volunteers, ya know, the Resistance asked for volunteers. Kinda nice to feel needed, if ya know what I mean." His patter ceased long enough for a nervous little laugh. "I, uh, hope I'm not being indiscrete. Healers can't be Republican Guard, can they?"
Florence shook her head and kept her attention on him, which seemed to encourage him to continue.
"They call this place Dreamland, this is the only place they can hook you up. Only place in the Territory; it's like Bosko's private cartel. So I can hardly hang around here if I'm not a Dreamer, you know? Not without attracting mucho attention from Bosko and his thugs, and I'm supposed to be like…." he lowered his voice, "gathering intel for the Cause, you dig?"
With a gentle finger, Florence pressed his lips still. Garcia nodded but soon spoke again, keeping his voice low.
"Right. Let me ask you something, you're not just any Healer, are you?" He seemed to know the answer already. "No. You came with him."
An even gaze from Florence pinned him for clarification. Her mind flitted back to the silhouette of the three figures stenciled on the alley wall.
"With the Simple Man," Garcia said. "I can bring you in. I can take you to the camp. You know…Strike a Blow. Where is he?" The man's eyes darted around the room and the nervous plucking at the shirt started again. He suddenly stared intently into Florence's eyes. "They didn't….did they take him up?"
She nodded and Garcia visibly deflated. He slumped against the bar with a gaunt expression. "Up to Bosko. Up to the Cyclops. I'm too late."
...
The smoke from the freshly-lit cigar burned warm as it slid down Pinocchio's throat. He hadn't had one so smooth since his days with Santiago. Combined with the lavish atmosphere, Pinocchio remembered how damned easy it was to get used to this kind of life. Bosko leaned away from his guest and, with the same match, relit his own cigar. Pinocchio had managed to get Hobbes seated with him and together they listened as Bosko offered his side of a deal.
The two men who had been in the room earlier—aides, as Pinocchio found out—had been excused, so it was just the three of them at the table focused on a map.
"There is a convoy—Republican Guard convoy moving from the Capital City to the Territorial Fort. When those trucks come over the mountains there's a stretch of road where they'll be on this side of Santiago's fence." Bosko stabbed a thick finger at a spot on the map. He clamped his teeth onto the end of the cigar and the dark brown leaves glistened with saliva. "Will I help you? You bet your ass I won't. You'll help me."
Pinocchio waited for the punch line.
"That convoy will be loaded with guns, ammo, medical supplies, and unless I miss my bet, steak and champagne for the General's staff."
Next to him, Pinocchio could sense Hobbes stiffen. 'Aw hell, here it comes.'
"So we help you help yourself?" Hobbes asked.
"Are you a vegetarian?" Bosko countered. "A teetotaler? When I go to war I want men with appetites at my side. What about you, Pinocchio?"
Pinocchio certainly didn't oppose Hobbes's moral standing. Truth be told, and though he hated to admit, he often leaned toward it. But to get things done in Harsh Realm there were certain concessions you had to make. Situational ethics had gotten him this far in the Realm; he couldn't go all hardline and holy just yet.
He looked at Hobbes and shrugged. "He's not wrong."
The solicitation hit a brick wall. "He's all wrong," Hobbes said, pushing up and away from the table. "He's a pirate, not a soldier."
Pinocchio wanted to bang his head against the wall, which was a craving that had come to him a lot since taking up with Hobbes. His mouth twisted in a smile that blended frustration and sympathy. "Who'd you expect to find out here? George Washington?"
"We hit that convoy," Hobbes said, "and all we'll be doing is lining his pockets."
Hobbes's gaze was steady. Pinocchio sighed inwardly. He might be able to convince Hobbes that aligning themselves with Bosko wasn't a bad thing but it would take some tactical adjustments. Of course, Pinocchio would have to convince himself that such an alliance would offer more than just a trip to the lion's den. At the moment, he sensed more teeth and claws than anything else. Experience, however, taught him not to tip his hand to the lion. For the time being, he would play along with Bosko and see what they could get out of him. He would give ten rounds of ammo for a hot shower and a good whisky.
"Mike, perhaps your young friend left his game in the locker room."
The condescension had returned and Pinocchio's hackles rose. He stood, subconsciously taking a position between Hobbes and Bosko. A part of him now really wanted to milk as much luxury as possible out of this self-important dickweed. Maybe he would steal some towels while he was at it. "No. He'll walk the walk. Believe me."
"I'm glad to hear it." Bosko eased himself up from his chair. "It's time for an old soldier like me to retire. But you young bucks…avail yourself of our hospitality." He gestured to the two bodyguards flanking the doorway. "My men will escort you to rooms far more interesting than here. Nothing is forbidden in Dreamland. Everything is permitted."
...
Within twenty minutes Hobbes knew he wasn't going to get Pinocchio out anytime soon. They'd been ushered into a luxurious room with two massage tables and one pair of voluptuous peroxide-blonde twins. Hobbes had flatly refused to take off even his BDU button-up shirt. This left him pacing by the door and Pinocchio face down with nothing but a strategically placed towel and a blonde at either end. One massaged his shoulders while the other, his feet.
"You're making a big mistake, buddy."
"One of us is," muttered Hobbes.
Pinocchio had tried to convince his friend to cut loose and enjoy a rare bit of no-cost indulgence, but Hobbes felt unsettled by the entire situation. It's not that he didn't want Pinocchio to enjoy himself. The soldier had chosen to leave the power and comfort of Santiago's inner circle when the moral cost had become too great. Ever since, he'd lived with a price on his head, in a day-to-day existence, far outside the well-kept walls of Santiago City.
"You have no idea how good this feels." Pinocchio opened his eyes long enough to wink at the blonde working on his shoulders. "One starts at the bottom, one at the top…" He showed a Cheshire Cat grin. "And they meet at the towel."
Hobbes was barely listening. "I don't like him."
Pinocchio shrugged. "He's not such a bad guy."
"I don't trust him."
Pinocchio opened his eyes again. "Me neither. But tonight we'll sleep on soft beds, eat and drink our fill, and who knows what else? That's not so bad, is it?"
His tone was sincere and Hobbes wished their circumstances were less volatile. "No," Hobbes admitted. "It's just not for me." He resumed his pacing. "I want to be out of here at first light."
The blondes were getting closer to the towel and Pinocchio sunk into the massage table. "Yeah…Me too…Rarin' to go."
Hobbes rolled his eyes. There were times when Pinocchio felt like a brother to him and then there were times when the man made Hobbes want to bang his head against the wall. He mumbled to himself, "I want to be out of here now."
...
On a black and white monitor in Bosko's office, Circe watched Hobbes and Pinocchio talk. Her eyes never left the screen but her hands were busy screwing a sound suppressor onto the end of a pistol. Behind her, she heard the door open and she slipped the gun into a silk handbag on the ledge beneath the monitors.
Heavy hands rested on her shoulders and began massaging the muscles. Circe knew it was Bosko.
"Relax," he said. "Why are you so tense?"
"Could be the long hours…or the lack of benefits." She still had her attention locked on the screen.
Bosko leaned closer. "Who is he? The young one, Hobbes?"
"A soldier." She wasn't lying, just not revealing everything she knew.
"You're showing quite an interest in him."
Circe had let her guard down after seeing Hobbes in the bar and it had caught up with her. Bosko's vision stretched beyond the cameras that permeated his club; his guards must have noticed the attention she had paid to Hobbes. She tilted her head toward her employer. "What can I say? I love a man in uniform."
The hands on her shoulders tightened their grip and Bosko leaned close to her ear. "You love who I tell you to love…when I tell you to love them." With a firm touch he twisted her chin toward him.
"I know my job," Circe retorted.
"With you it's more of a calling." He pressed closer to her back but shifted right to pick up the house phone. "I want ID shots of our two guests off the Spa video feed. Run them against Santiago's national database…I'll be here." He hung up and looked at Circe. "We'll see if your soldier boy is fish or fowl."
On the monitor they watched a restless Hobbes leave the Spa room. Bosko slid his hand down Circe's arm and encircled her wrist, but the sensuous touch immediately turned firm. With unyielding guidance he turned her to face him. The smell of cigar smoke was as cloying as his proximity.
"Keep an eye on him," Bosko half-whispered. "Loosen his collar. I want his guard down."
Circe sensed his other hand moving and a second later the thin steel blade of a pearl-handled dagger tickled the skin of her neck.
"I want his throat exposed."
Circe had kept her eyes locked with Bosko's. From an earlier age, she had learned that manipulating men was not just about what you said but what you did not say. She would follow his orders and get close to Hobbes but the agenda would be her own.
Bosko withdrew the dagger as he leaned in and kissed the spot on her throat where the sharp pointed had rested. Circe waited for him to stand upright before she turned back to the monitor to locate where Hobbes had gone. With one smooth motion she picked up her handbag, securely gripping the pistol through the silk, and headed for the hallway.
...
Author's note: Next part coming soon.