141
Aligned Design
Ch 25
"Have a seat." Deakins shut the door.
Bobby sat and knew something was up. He watched his boss struggle. This is bad, he thought.
"Bobby, I need to take your weapon." Deakins said it in one breath.
He stared at Deakins. He wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. "What?"
Oh, don't make me say it again, thought Deakins. "I need to take your weapon."
Bobby couldn't believe it. Deakins watched him. Bobby stood and unclipped the holster from his belt. He took a step and placed it on Deakins' desk. He stepped back and said flatly, "Do you want my shield as well?"
"Bobby," Deakins answered sadly, softly.
"No, really, it's not a problem. Here." Bobby took his shield from his breast pocket and set it on Deakins' desk, beside his weapon. He stepped back and put up two hands, like he does, "You know, why don't I turn in my work ID, too? That way, I can't get back in and make any trouble." Bobby placed his ID beside his shield and weapon. He began to pace, arms flailing. "Why don't you just reinstate my suspension? Let's lock out the sick fuck until he's useful again. Is that it?"
Deakins watched Bobby work himself up. This is not good, not good at all. Deakins stood up and said loudly, "God damn it, Goren, knock it off!"
Bobby stopped and turned. His face was dark. He was still pissed. But he was listening.
"I am sick and tired of coddling you," Deakins started. "You know you are not yourself right now. So, don't play martyr with me. Pick up your shield and ID. I want you to lock up your weapon and then go to the range. I want your scores up to where they were by next Thursday. Do you understand? Then I want you to go to your appointment in the morning and tell Dr. Stephens anything she wants to know. Then you get your ass in here ready to work. Any questions?"
Bobby looked down at the floor and looked up contritely. He moved to the desk and retrieved his weapon, shield, and ID. "I, uh, I need the key to the locker," he said quietly.
"You know where it is." Bobby took the key and left.
Deakins sat and put his hands on his face. Jesus, that was just like talking with – yelling at – Julie, his youngest daughter. Instead of the firing range, it was cleaning her room. I don't need a son, he thought.
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Gleason huffed and puffed her way to the top of the stairs in George's Books. She stood at the top of the steps and caught her breath. When she was able, she began to look around.
"Hello," a young, good-looking, light-haired man stood up from the floor where he was dusting shelves.
"Hello. You must be Casey. I met your wife downstairs. She said the good stuff is up here," Gleason said.
"Yes, we've got some nice things. We're fortunate, I guess. Is there anything in particular you're looking for?"
"No, not really; I'll just look around if that's ok."
"Certainly." Casey smiled and returned to his dusting.
Gleason strolled around. The area up here was less cramped. Books sat on shelves in short cases. An old glass fronted barrister's case held a collection of first editions. She saw E.B. White, Wanda Gag, even a J.R.R. Tolkien!
She really liked this bookstore. It could become a favorite place. She liked this young couple. They were kind, she could tell. They were a lovely, young couple.
Thinking of them made her think of Bobby. Suddenly her heart sank. She missed him. She thought of his shy smile. How he looked at her. The way she would catch him stealing looks at her. His hands, fingers – and what he did with them. His body. How he made love to her. Oh, God, she did love him.
"Excuse me." Casey looked up and then stood. "You don't have anything by Reuben Lesky, do you?" she asked.
"Actually, yes! He's very popular in this area. He spoke here three years ago. He was great, but kind of hard to understand, his accent and all. But it was terrific to have him lecture. His agent or whomever had put his lecture on slides and they were projected. Have you read him?"
"No, not me. A friend has quite a collection of his works. I thought it might be nice to find something to add to the collection."
"What does your friend already have?"
"Oh, goodness, I couldn't even begin to name them," Gleason admitted. "He's got a whole shelf full."
"Well, does your friend have any of Lesky's poetry?"
"I don't know. But I would guess not. I'm not sure he knows Lesky is a poet."
"Not many people do. Actually, most of his poetry is quite erotic." Casey said this and then looked down. Gleason could see him redden slightly. What a sweet man, she thought with a smile.
"Would you have a copy of his poetry?"
"Oh, yes we do. It's a signed first edition. Here, let me show you."
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Bobby unlocked the top weapon locker, his, and set his holster and weapon inside. He locked it and returned the key to Deakins office.
"I'm going to the range. Then I'm going home. OK?"
Deakins looked up. "Bobby. . ."
"I know. I know," he said sadly, putting up both hands. Bobby turned and went back to his desk. He shut down his computer, straightened up the folders. He cleaned off the top of his desk and picked up his portfolio. He grabbed his coat and turned to head to the lifts.
Eames was coming right at him. He watched her look away and then slow down. He knew she was trying to avoid him. Bobby stopped and then went toward her.
"Eames," he said and she stopped. "Look, I, I'm sorry for that back there. I'm not sure what's wrong with me. I can't control it. Things are not good. I probably shouldn't even be here." He said all of this looking at the floor. His hands didn't even move. "I'm, I'm just really sorry." He looked up at her with this.
Eames saw pain and defeat, worry and such sadness. "Bobby, it's OK. I know things are weird right now. It will get better." She didn't know what else to say.
He nodded and headed to the lifts.
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A green van backed into the drive between the first and second buildings in the second row of storage units at Big Apple. Four women got out and one lifted the door to the first unit. The two opened the back of the van and started folding and stowing the rear seats, enlarging the cargo area. The other stood and sniffed.
"Jeeze, do you smell that?" she asked.
The other three entered the storage unit and began shifting boxes to the front.
"What?" the pretty one asked.
"That smell. Smell it? Like something dead."
"Ha, there's probably a body in one of these units. Can't you see it? Film at eleven!" the stupid one suggested.
"It's probably a dead animal over in the brush over there. Here, set these in the back first," the smart one said.
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Bobby drove to the NYPD Redman's Neck Firing Range in the Bronx. He swiped his ID to sign in and checked out his usual weapon. He walked to the furthest open lane, racked a 24x45-paper target of "The Thug" and ran it out all the way on the pulley. He slid on goggles and sound blocking earphones, took his stance, aimed and shot.
He nailed seven of twelve shots within the center oval, the kill zone, on the target. Not nearly good enough, he needed at least ten of twelve shots within the center oval. He needed to do that every time. Bobby was shooting at the Advanced Silhouette Target, SP-83A. It showed a broad-shouldered male outline with a smaller oval set inside a larger one. The larger oval outlined the area from neck to waist and the smaller oval indicated the central chest – lungs and heart, the kill zone.
Bobby ran the target back toward him, unclipped it, stuck the corner in the time stamp machine at his station and initialed the corner. He ripped another target off the pad hanging on the corral wall separating his lane from the next, clipped it to the rack and slid it out.
For the next hour, Bobby shot twelve targets. His best score was nine of twelve inside the kill zone and his worst was six of twelve. At his consistent best, before he broke his hand in a fit of temper, Bobby shot ten and eleven of twelve. Deakins wanted those scores by Thursday. He would have to work hard to get back at those scores in a week. He'd have to be here every night. But not tomorrow night, not Saturday night, not Sunday night. Gleason's coming home.
He replaced the goggles, wiped and stowed the sound muffs. He gathered up his targets, rolled and banded them and then stopped at the cleaning station and cleaned the weapon. He walked to the front and returned his weapon, turned in his targets and slid his ID to sign out.
It was six forty. He headed for the gym.
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"Did he threaten you?" Sledge asked Eames. They were having a nice quiet dinner at a new place on Mulberry. He had suggested it when she met him in the parking deck to tell him to stay at his place tonight.
"No, he didn't threaten me. He just went off, verbally. I saw him catch himself, though, before he completely lost it."
"Man what is wrong with him?"
"I told Deakins he should take Bobby's piece."
Sledge looked at her. "You did what?"
"I told Deakins I didn't think Bobby should be armed. Frankly, I don't trust him the way he is."
"Did Deakins take it?"
"I saw Bobby at his weapon locker, so I have to think so."
"Jesus, Alex. Do you know what that says?"
"Yes, Edward, it says that my partner is mentally ill right now and should not be carrying a gun. What? Do you think I was wrong to say something?"
"No. Not wrong. It's just . . . Christ, to have your weapon confiscated." Sledge thought this through for a moment. "Do you think Goren's ever going to be the way he was?"
"I hope so," she responded sadly.
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"How are you this evening?" The pretty girl at the front desk in the gym was nice to everyone. She was especially nice to Bobby. She flirted unabashedly. "You've been coming pretty regularly, huh?" She smiled and leaned forward over the counter, presenting her assets for Bobby's perusal.
"Yeah, hi," he responded, setting down the pen and walking toward the locker room.
He's the best thing to come in here in a long while, the pretty girl thought. He's really kind of quiet, but I bet there's good noise to be had under that suit. She went back to her magazine.
Bobby changed and went to the treadmill first. Once again, he raised the incline and started running. He picked up speed over the minutes. He felt good running. Once again, he saw himself running away from his life. Away from his anger, his temper, his job. He ran from Eames, Deakins, and Ritchie. He ran from his mother. Gleason came to mind. Bobby ran toward her. He ran faster and faster.
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"This is wonderful," Gleason said with awe. "Look at this." She was examining the copy of Reuben Lesky's Erotische Poesie. The slim volume was bound in deep brown, soft leather. The tome bore beautifully marbleized end papers, poems were written on rich vellum paper with deckled edges. It was in German. And signed.
Gleason looked up at Casey in disbelief. Bobby speaks German! He will be able to read this. "You, you don't happen to read German, do you?" Gleason asked.
"'Gehzunheit' is about it," Casey said with a shy smile.
"Oh, this is perfect," Gleason said. "I'd like to purchase this, please."
"Certainly. Let's go downstairs. Lisa will take care of that for you." Casey led the way to the top of the stairs and let Gleason go first.
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Bobby sucked air as he slowed on the treadmill. He had run faster, further than ever before. He needed to lean on the arm rails. He felt tremendous. He was soaked.
"Boy, you really ran hard," said the pretty girl from the front desk. She looked sixteen, but was probably legal. "Here, let me get your towel," she grabbed it from the floor where it had fallen. Bobby reached for it, still gasping, but she slipped it away and climbed up on the incline behind him. She put the towel on his neck and rubbed gently, massaging. He reached up and stopped her hand. He turned around, without letting go.
The pretty girl looked up at him. He is gorgeous, she thought. So big, strong, sweaty. Look at those arms. She smiled. He looked hard at her. She was flawless. So young. Tight. Willing.
"Uhm, do you want to get something to drink?" she asked. "I can get you something now. Or, we could go get something somewhere else. You don't need to shower, if you don't want to."
Bobby still hadn't said anything. He thought about what she was offering. She is beautiful, he thought. "How old are you?" he asked her.
"I'm twenty-two. I know, I get carded all the time." She smiled an incredible smile. Her eyes slid down his wet tee shirt, to his gym shorts, to the slight stiffy making itself known. She felt his thumb stroke the back of her hand. His hand swallowed hers.
"Well, do you want to get something or what?" she asked.
Bobby looked at her. He moved his eyes from her face to her neck to her chest. She was what one would call 'endowed.' Her bra top was cut low enough and high enough to show everything to its advantage. He looked at her flat, tight stomach stretching bare above the jeans slung on her hips. Those jeans also showed five inches of flat below her navel. Jesus.
"I want to do several sets on the weights," he said deeply.
"Sure, you go on. I like hard men." She smiled innocently and set her hand on his chest. "I'll wait for you at the desk. You don't need to shower." She turned and showed the rest of her assets as she walked away. Bobby watched and felt himself stiffen further.