XII: Seminole Bingo

The Greyhound wound through the Florida back roads like a hummingbird in search of Gulf Coast nectar, wheels rattling along the road and taking some of the grace away from the metaphor. The forests around the bus were a darker green than he had ever seen before, and Sawyer thought, So this is what a subtropical state looks like. The lushness of the area made his head swim, as if he had suddenly found himself drowning in leaves.

Ever since the decrepit old lady had gotten off for her retirement home at Naples, they had been heading steadily south, and as the afternoon gave way to evening, the shadows stretched out further to their left, the setting sun gleaming in on the right, beyond the water. If he turned away from the aisle and looked outwards, he could see a bright orange ball on the horizon, looking nothing like the sunlight he was used to. Florida made things hazy somehow, and while it was liberating, it came dangerously close to overpowering him whenever he tried to touch it.

For now, though, cocooned within the Greyhound, he could watch his surroundings and did not need to interact, so he sat there, quiet and observant, fingers splayed on the briefcase next to him. He had kept a careful watch on it all this way, even keeping his cigarettes in its front pocket. The need to smoke made him be an even more dedicated steward for its safekeeping, and every time he moved to extract a cigarette and light it up, he was reminded of his task. He had gotten away with seven cigarettes on the bus since Pensacola, and was almost to the end of an eighth.

When the bus got to Everglades City, they would be waiting for him. Some drunk down-and-out businessman and his hideous hooker wife, drooling all over each other, from the description he had got. He steeled himself to be disgusted by their affection, worked over every possible conversation in his head so he wouldn't say the wrong thing. The last thing he wanted was for the word 'whore' to slip out and cost him not only his share of the money he would get from them, but probably the ability to breathe and have a heartbeat as well.

"Hey, kid. You know you're not supposed to smoke back there. New rules."

The bus driver's voice came over the PA system. He didn't sound too invested in the words, though, merely doing his job, and Sawyer saw no reason to oblige. He simply shifted the smoke to his free hand, so that the only thing that could be seen was the intermittent curls of smoke, hiding the glowing ember behind the cloth back of the seat in front of him.

"Thanks for putting it out."

He hadn't, but he tossed out a, "You're welcome," all the same.

It's funny, Sawyer reflected, Each job gets easier, no matter how much it asks of you. No matter how much you compromise yourself to do it, it gets easier and easier to do. A year ago, the first one had been the worst, but ever since then, he had felt his conscience – if he'd even had one to start with – begin to slip away, his scruples begin to soften from their already malleable state. At least he could live off this, and even if he had to look at himself in the mirror sideways, he could still see himself for what he knew he was.

As the minutes ticked down and the bus sped along through over-lush green, he felt the mask slip on. It was hard to define what it was, and he couldn't really say what usually changed about his looks, but it altered, hardened. His face tightened and framed itself as if it were turning to wire, a cage in which he could lock his real self and drape his persona over it like an opaque veil. That was the look with which he would greet the people for whom he'd traveled all this way.

–––

"So, why are y'all doin' this?"

Nothing. Silence in the pitch-blackness, the other just as obstinate as he might have been on the other end of things. He wavers, feeling like he might lose his lunch of strange Korean food, but manages to keep it in for the moment.

Trying to winch out an answer is frustrating, though. Given a choice, he would have preferred to be the one on the receiving end of the questions. That part is simple: Just refuse to answer. It's tougher to try and invoke an answer, and he isn't used to that, particularly in situations like this, where he can't con the answer out of people.

Sawyer shakes his head and sighs, exasperated. God, he needs a cigarette. Why couldn't they have waited until Sun got back with the smokes? he wonders, knowing that to be a perfectly rhetorical question. His hands have gone clammy, and he presses them together, fingertips taut against one another.

"Look, whatever you want – you want to be talkin' with someone else. I ain't your guy. I don't give a damn about what happens to them." He pauses there, annoyed with himself for saying that. It isn't as true as he wants to believe. Still, he has to press on, and he does. "Tell you what, though. I'll get up and walk away from here, and you can have me deliver a message to my compadres. Deal?"

"You're not in a position to walk anywhere yet, yanno." It's the voice of the Lucky Charms leprechaun, swooping through the words. The voice elaborates: "You can't move more than five steps on your own, man."

Thanks for the reminder. He glares in the darkness, slowly starting to rise. He makes it to one leg, plants his boot down, and then bobs dizzily around the stable leg before parking himself on the ground again. "I could run a marathon right now, if I wanted to."

"No, you couldn't. You won't be walkin' well for a few more days yet." The other man's voice is as casual as his own. The finality of that hits Sawyer even more than the previous statement, and he sighs. He's starting to see double now, hallucinating figures in the darkness that fit the voice. He wishes he could get a good glimpse at the guy.

"So why take me?" Sawyer counters, trying for logic now that all else has failed. "Why take me, if I can't deliver whatever message you want delivered because I can't walk, like some sort of crippled idiot? What good am I?" It occurs to him that the last question could have probably a dozen answers and two dozen meanings, but he chooses not to elaborate.

"Ah, you look like you need a cigarette. Here you go."

And a pack is pulled from a pocket somewhere, extended towards him, and Sawyer shrugs and takes one, figuring he may as well not be picky on the brand. It's not worth getting caught trying to figure things out over. He stares at the smoke, rolling it around in his fingers a few times, as if he can test its composition and tell if it's laced with something just from feeling it. It's stupid, but he doesn't have much light to go by, with no fire, and it's the best he can do.

"If you were gonna be drugged, you would've been, man," the stranger informs him flatly, just barely on this side of eerily prescient. It's enough to make Sawyer look surprised, probably, for the stranger's voice warms as if trying to hold back laughter. "You're easier to read than you think. Rest now."

And now he's being told to go to settle down, like a child. Sawyer scowls bleakly at that, setting the cigarette in his mouth and reaching out for a lighter, beckoning in case it's not obvious. "Why take me? Answer the goddamn question," he mutters, then tenses.

Luckily, he does not need to worry, for the other man laughs it off, passing over the lighter. There's a weird quality to the laughter, something strange, almost manic in it, and that sets his teeth on edge. Not that he figured that anyone who would pull a gun on him, try to punch him out, and then wind up shaking his hand and asking him to walk off and chat – albeit with the gun still in plain sight – would be the most stable of individuals, but this is seriously bad. He can't plan for anything, with the element of utterly nuts thrown in there, and that doesn't help his nerves any.

"That shoulder of yours has to get healed right quick. You want it to be healed, don't you now?"

It's not much of an explanation. Still, what is he supposed to do besides nod and take a drag on the smoke?

–––

They had met just outside the Legion, Sawyer with his briefcase and the businessman and his hooker girlfriend. They were revolting, cheap drunks and little more, and he had to fight hard to rein in all the sarcastic comments that rose unbidden to his lips.

The businessman looked poor, though. His shirt quality was no good, roughly woven and without even the smallest trace of silk. He looked almost like a redheaded version of Charlie Chaplin, all shirtsleeves and unintentional high-water cuffs, and there was something pathetic about this whole situation that Sawyer hadn't liked from the start. He would go through with it, though. There was too much money riding on it.

"So I can get you that set of jewelry," he concluded, watching the businessman turn to the hooker girlfriend, and then watching the hooker girlfriend. "Real nice set, let me tell you." He kept his drawl as pronounced as possible. It worked better if they thought he was a dumb hick, to be sure. "All I need is a little money up front." He swung his briefcase slightly, idly, as he watched them, as if to connote that the meeting was so casual that even his arm couldn't stay still. "Not much, though, hear? And we need to make it quick. My brother says I can only get the stuff before the end of the week, or his boss will catch on, and, trust me, y'all don't want that."

He looked past them to the sign that rested atop the Legion Hall, trying to make out what it was saying. S----OLE -ING-, it proclaimed, minus most of its letters. He liked the idea, though. 'Sole-ing.' The act of being alone. He would have preferred that to trying to run a scam on the businessman, but the guy had already fallen for something else higher up the chain, and he had to maximize the profits as much as he could before the two caught on. Always run the mark for as much money as you can, because people that stupid aren't easy to come by.

The businessman scratched at his nose, looked to his girlfriend. His girlfriend looked at Sawyer, and Sawyer saw something in her eyes that he didn't like. He didn't think he was particularly choosy, but the looks of her, the split ends and the pockmarks and the jowls, and that painful attempt at looking sexy – he wondered how she even managed to turn tricks. Were most guys really that desperate? He'd never had that problem.

"So, we got a deal, or ain't we?" he wondered aloud, attempting to breeze past this moment of discomfort. Time to smile at them and hope they bought it. The smile bent the bars of the wire cage that was his current capacity for expression, but didn't break it. "All we need to do is go over to the bank and withdraw some money, and that'll be fine."

The businessman considered for a moment and nodded. Of course he nodded. "If you're conning us, kid…"

Sawyer gauged the threat, eyes flicking away from the businessman: The hooker girlfriend's hand tensed on her boyfriend's arm, and she gave her boyfriend a shocked little look, shaking her head. The threat was real, or else she wouldn't have reacted in such a panicked fashion. They meant business.

Fortunately, so did he. "Tomorrow, then? Meet you at the Pollo Tropical in Everglades City. I've been wantin' to try one of those places since I hit Florida. Cool?"

It was cool.

The Pollo Tropical was expanding throughout Florida. More and more restaurants were opening, and the one in Everglades City had been open for a long while. It was as good as any other place in the city for their meeting, a Mexican-influenced restaurant that promised relative anonymity due to being a chain. People wouldn't remember him or the other two; he had made sure of that by picking a place like this.

It was harmless, too, this place, all bright colors and cheerfulness, not the place for anyone down-and-out, or a violent shootout, or any number of the elements that he was bringing in to the situation. Perhaps the disparity between the folks he was conning and the place in which he was conning them would keep bad things from happening.

The weight of the briefcase was heavy, weighing down his fingers. It held nothing in it beyond just the front money, and even that was not that much. It felt like it weighed a ton, though. It always did, the day of the deal. He suspected it was because he placed all his guilt for conning people inside that briefcase. The strangest thing was that, on each job, the weight of that guilt, if that was what it was, seemed to progressively lessen. He had less and less to worry about.

So why, when he entered the restaurant, did he feel dread crawl into him as he walked through the carpeted foyer and closed in on the waitress kiosk, where a relatively young female manager stood lecturing a younger waitress on the procedures for the cash register? He didn't know at first. And then it all became clear, with the manager's red hair and the name-tag that spelled out a single word: Jeannie.

"Jimmy!" she said with surprise, though the name lacked warmth. "Jimmy Ford. I remember you! I didn't expect to see you again, ever." Their eyes met, but Jeannie wasn't the only one looking at him.

Instead, two more pairs of eyes were instantly upon him, and he saw redheaded Chaplin tense. All of a sudden, the hooker didn't look like she wanted to bang him anymore. He didn't feel as relieved at that as he had hoped.

–––

The jungle around him seems as green as Florida as he awakes. Greener still, but in different colors. The lush darkness of the Everglades is replaced with more tropical variation, riotous colors everywhere that he looks. If you can get drunk on Florida landscapes, you can take an acid hit off this jungle. He lies there, staring at the panoply of colors, hearing some shuffling across the path that announces that the other fellow has awoken.

He opens his eyes and looks that way, although he's careful not to move his head noticeably at all. He spots a syringe, a rolled-up shirtsleeve, an arm that probably was muscular at one point but has since gone to seed, and he stares as the needle finds its spot on the other fellow's arm and slides in, hits home, goes all the way in, and the liquid in the syringe starts to flow into the other guy's bloodstream.

A meth-head. Wonderful. If there's anyone you should go trekking through the jungle forests with, it's definitely a guy who's tweaking over speed. He looks like it, too. He acts like it. All jumpy nerves and stuttered speech. He plays dead, though, lying there as still as he can and trying not to move a muscle at all.

"Make haste, now. We're gettin' out of here." Given last night's assurance that they're not moving, hearing the mercurial change of commands startles him more than he had expected it to. He rolls over from where he'd sacked out on the ground, his back aching and his shoulder sore, and groans, his eyes flicking open.

Everyone keeps telling me to get moving and expecting me to walk everywhere. I wonder what would happen if I just laid here. Nothing saying that I have to get up and start walking. If he wants to catch a few more seconds of sleep, nothing can stop him.

Nothing, that is, except for the sight of a pistol in the morning light. Sawyer rolls his eyes at it, but when it darts a bit closer to him, he starts to get up. Sort of. There are important questions that need to be asked first: "Listen, Bono, I thought your plan was to send me back to the camp sooner rather than later. And, anyway, don't I get any more smokes? If I'm gonna be walking, I'm gonna need 'em, and," he considers for a moment, "I think I'll need a bunch of painkillers too, for my shoulder." It kills him to ask for that, but if he doesn't ask for it, he won't get it, and, besides, it's not like anyone's around to see the admission that he knows.

"I don't have any of either. A thousand apologies." Despite the number, the tone is more a formality than profusely apologetic.

"Bullshit." The remark is out before it can be checked.

"I don't have any, now," and with that, the gun is stowed away.

Sawyer decides to humor that bit of trust and cooperate for once, and he drags himself to his feet, reaching out for something to grab onto. It takes more of an effort than he would like, and having to use that effort frustrates him. He might even go so far as to say that it embarrasses him, except that the stranger has nothing to go on to know how he acts normally.

He shudders only slightly as he stands. Maybe he is feeling better today. He even manages to stand up for all of three seconds before his legs give, and he offers the stranger a broad grin, hoping the immobility isn't a serious offense on his part, but scarcely caring if the grin is. "Looks like we ain't goin' anywhere yet. And anyway," he adds, suddenly remembering his priorities, "you owe me an explanation for those damn army tags."

That last part is ignored, but he had half expected it to be, anyway. "Shut up and walk, or I'll shoot you, right soon. Your choice." The slightly melodic tone is a definite contrast to the threat, and he notices that mania again, odd and worrisome to him in his position.

That's a change, and not a good one. At least he hasn't started to tweak yet, though. Sawyer is thankful for that much, and the thought hits: Maybe it's not meth after all. Toss another question onto the line, though: What the hell did the guy inject? He had been looking forward trying to get more answers. Apparently he won't be getting them at the moment. "Sounds like a hell of a choice. You drive a hard bargain," Sawyer tosses back dryly, but drags himself to his feet, watching, studying. "Where are we going?"

"Inland," is the only response he gets, frustratingly vague. Then, "Not that far." It sounds like a compromise of sorts, and Sawyer feels some degree of relief at that. He won't be asked to exert himself any further than he can, and he can walk, if he really has to. He watches and waits until he really has to start moving, propping himself against a tree, trying to get his senses in order as much as he can while the stranger goes about packing up things and getting rid of whatever evidence of the camp is available.

Everything is stowed away somewhere, shoved in a pocket or a knapsack, stashed somewhere that the guy can get to it easily. That's how army guys pack. Everything should be available and easily grabbed when it turns out to be needed.

It occurs to Sawyer that this is the first opportunity he's had to get a good look at the guy who is lackadaisically his custodian. There's no familiarity there, no twinge of recognition, and no real threat from the guy without his gun. And if I weren't sick, I'd already have that gun.

Such as it is, though, he can only stare, try to take in the guy's looks. He's naturally medium-complected, but the sallow overlay to his skin suggests he hasn't seen sunlight for a while. About his own age, long, matted dark hair, ratty-looking, bugging eyes. Small-framed, a guy that he can easily take out in an even fight, where the other guy doesn't have a gun and he doesn't have any number of medical concerns that keep him from squaring off against the fellow. Entirely unimpressive, except for the lab-tech uniform he's wearing. Nothing about this guy spells natural threat, and Sawyer attributes to that the fact that he hasn't felt threatened once yet. Except for the crazy vibes.

"Hey, who are you?" Sawyer demands.

He'd asked that same question of the manager at the Pollo Tropical, and Jeannie had just stared at him, and he couldn't explain to her, because all of a sudden, there were way more important things to be concerned about.

"Nobody important."

"And how'd you know about my damn shoulder? I never saw you before."

"We've seen you." And a hand extends for a shake. Sawyer tilts forward as much as he dares to return the handshake, feeling like he'll continue falling forward, feeling weak. The other man frowns at that, but out of curiosity rather than real concern, although his hand tightens on Sawyer's just a bit to keep him upright. "Name's Desmond."

From the look on this fellow's face, that's supposed to matter. Sawyer has no idea why. He shrugs. "All right, Desmond, then. Nice to meetcha, Desmond. Don't suppose you have a Jeep to get through this?" He waves a hand to the jungle around, then takes a few teetering steps forward. As his legs give, he spots a second syringe, or what he at least hopes is a second syringe, full with the same stuff that the man had injected into his own arm.

"No," Desmond says. "But I do have something that can get you walking better for the time being, if you'd be wantin' it. Roll up your shirtsleeve."

Sawyer draws a deep breath, leaning heavily against the tree, watching, cautious, trying to see any hint of wrongness. He sees plenty, but what other choice does he have? He sets his arm out and waits for the needle to hit.