Ground Zero

What the Cat Dragged In

Belle Flower. As Red leaves Magnolia Village in the dust of the rearview, you lift your head slow from behind the dash. The road unwinds ahead. Sunlight on the hood. Wind in your hair. You breathe like it hurts. Like coming back costs something.

Red turns to look at you, his eyes hard, jaw set beneath the moustache gone to frost.

“Kiddo, you brought a lot of heat upon yourself. I’ll help if I can. But if you got something to say, now’s the time to spill it.”

You shift in your seat, the truth clutches in your mouth like a dry stone.

“I got folks after me, Red. Bad folks. But I haven’t done anything wrong. That’s all I know. That’s all I can say.”

He nods. Like a man marking a grave.

“Just so it don’t reach my doorstep, that’s all.”

“I’m grateful. For the ride. For this.” You tell him.

He gives a soft grunt.

“Buck vouches for you. That’s good enough for now. Him and I, we go back. Big Top days. Place never did sit right with me. Felt wrong. I got out. You wanted out, too. Why I drove you to San Diego.”

You looked down, ashamed of what you weren’t saying.

“Thanks, Red. When I know more, I’ll tell you. I swear. You’re not caught up in something you’ll regret. Not knowingly. I just need time.”

Red stares straight ahead. Then glances sideways. A long, unreadable look. He knows you’re lying. But he let’s it ride. For now.

Red’s phone rings. He flips it open and holds it to his ear. Says nothing at first. Just listens. The road kept on.

“Buck,” he says, “she’s with me. She’s safe. Ain’t pretty, but she’s standin’.”

He tilts his head, listening, and then turns to you, handing you the phone.

“He wants a word, kiddo.”

You take the phone. Buck’s voice.

“Belle, honey! You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m pretty banged up, but I’m trying to figure out my next steps. But, yeah, I’m okay.”

“Thank goodness!” He says. “We just rolled into Phoenix. Gonna pitch tent, get the crew settled. Soon as thats done, I’ll put wheels to pavement, head west. If I push it, I can make San Diego by nightfall. You need anything, Belle? Somethin’ I can lay hands on’ fore I get there?”

“Yeah. Could you get your hands on a phone that I could use? I don’t think there’s any way that I’m gonna be able to get back my own phone. And by now someone’s probably tracking it. I need a phone. Can you get me some clothes? I’m a small, petite. Some clothes and some shoes, please. Once I have my phone, I can take care of everything else.”

“All right, sweetheart, “I’ll see you tonight.” he says and hangs up.

Red doesn’t say a word for the rest of the ride. The tires hum low over the blacktop. You look up at the rearview mirror and scan the horizon behind you. No one’s pursuing you. Just traffic. Then, the sign: Kearny Mobile Home Park. You’ve driven past it a hundred times, a thousand maybe. Never knew he was here. Just down the road all these years.

There’s a wrongness to it.

A man like Red doesn’t live quiet unless he’s hiding from something or waiting on it. And all this time, all these years, you thought him gone to rust or rambling long-haul routes through the desert. Not parked up two miles from you, tucked in behind chainlink and oleander. If he was that close, why didn’t he ever reach out? Why didn’t Buck say?

You stare at the sign and your stomach turns, not from fear exactly, but from the wrongness of it.

Something’s off.

Either Red’s been watching you this whole time… Or he’s not the only one who knew where you’d end up.

Red guides the Bronco slowly through the entrance and weaves between trailers and driveways. He pulls into his slot easy. He reaches across you steady and sure and opens the glovebox. His hand finds a pistol resting there and takes it up without a word. He leaned forward and slipped the thing into the waistband at the small of his back. Metal against spine. His face gave nothing. Like a man readying himself for a past he’d hoped was done with him.

You step out. Across the way, a woman with a hose in her hand watches you like she’s measuring you for a box. Her face cut from something sour. She shakes her head once, low and mean.

“My, my, my. Look what the cat dragged in.”

Red doesn’t so much as glance her way. Just lifts his hand, middle finger in salute.

Under his breath, he mutters, “We had a dalliance a while back, her and me. Since then, she don’t cotton to women I bring home. Rookie mistake. Don’t shit where you eat, kiddo.”

He fishes a key from his pocket, the metal catching what light there is, and unlocks the door.

Swings it wide.

“Welcome to Casa Mathers,” he says. And you step inside.

Red’s trailer is neat in the way a man keeps a space when he’s the only one who’s got to live in it. Sparse. Ordered. The couch is old but well-kept, a throw blanket folded square across the back. There’s a stack of car magazines on the coffee table, an empty ashtray, a battered paperback of Lonesome Dove dog-eared and spine-cracked. No photographs. No clutter. No trace of anyone but Red.

The kitchen’s small, but every dish is washed and put away. The garbage bin’s empty, save for a flattened cigarette pack. The floor swept clean.

But the table in the living room—that’s where it cracks.

There, in the center, sits Red’s kit. A spoon blackened on the underside. A small, glassine bag folded neat like a love letter. Cotton pulled apart and stained faint brown. A capped syringe lying crossways over a strip of rubber tubing. The needle sharp and gleaming. The heroin measured out, waiting to burn. You can almost see him there, rolling the sleeve, tying off, eyes already slipping half-shut in anticipation before Buck’s voice pulled him back.

The rest of the trailer is clean.

But the table tells the truth.

Red looks at the table, then at you. “It’s a free country.” He says. “Bathroom’s in the back. I’ll lay out some clothes. Oughta fit. Close enough.”

You’re no stranger to folks chasing ghosts in bottles, needles, or smoke. You seen it plenty under canvas, behind the sawdust ring, men and women alike unmaking themselves in slow, cruel ways. It doesn’t scare you, but it doesn’t sit right either. You’ve not had luck with the kind who use. Been four years since you laid eyes on Red, and now he looks hollowed out, like something carved from meat and left in the sun. It doesn’t make you feel good being near him. Like you could catch the unraveling.

But you’re slick with sweat and dried blood and city grime. The stink of panic on your skin. You need the water.

You study him and ask, quiet: “Red, are we safe here? How well do you know your neighbors?”

You think of the woman outside—her stare.

“We’re cool. I been here a long while. Too long, maybe. Know some too well. The rest just enough. I wave when I got to. Keep to myself otherwise. What I do in here ain’t no one’s business.”

“So if someone doesn’t belong, you’d know?”

You look to the closed door of the bathroom. “I can’t watch the place while I’m in the shower. Keep an eye out. Just holler if anything doesn’t feel right. I’ll be quick.”

He nods. Then sits himself down like a man settling into old pain. Draws the pistol from his back, lays it on the table, and lights a cigarette. Smoke curls up to the ceiling.

You make your way back and find the bathroom. It is as unadorned as the rest of Red’s home. A man’s place. Functional. No frills.

You strip out of your clothes, the sweat-stiffed fabric peeling from your skin. The stink of the street, the stink of fear and flight, rises off you like steam. You step beneath the spray, the water hot, sluicing dirt and filth from you. The water runs. And you let it. Because there is no washing it clean. But you stand there anyway.

You think on Red. On what he was and what he’s become and what of him you might’ve invented in your head to feel less alone in this world. You wonder what you’ll do if he’s not the man you want beside you now. You don’t know what he’s capable of anymore. You don’t know what he isn’t.

You move quiet through the bathroom, the fan like breath behind the wall. In the medicine cabinet: razors, disposable. Deodorant. A bottle of aspirin with the label peeled halfway. Nothing strange. Nothing out of place. Still. You don’t meet your own eyes in the mirror. Not ready for that.

You think about exits. Bathroom window is small and tight as a coffin lid. You could squeeze through if you had to. Might leave skin behind, but you’d get clear.

You are not helpless. You remind yourself of that. You’ve lived through worse. If it comes to running, you’ll run. If it comes to bleeding, you’ll bleed.

The bathroom’s your excuse. The window’s your plan. The fear is yours and yours alone. And it hums in your bones like a thing with teeth.

The steam curls about the room like smoke and you stand there in the hush of it. You dry yourself. A ritual. The mirror stares back. You catch your reflection and flinch as if struck.

You don’t look long. Don’t linger. Mirrors aren’t safe. Never have been. They call back the old voices, the ones that spoke in praise and pain both. Your mother’s tall shadow, your father’s surgeon’s hands. The freak tent. The blood. The whispers. You don’t understand now, but you will. And maybe you did. And maybe that’s why you can’t look too long without seeing the ruin they left behind.

You check the damage. Bruises like old fruit. A cut on your elbow. A scrape on your thigh. All of it fresh, soon to be counted among the older scars. A map no one else reads. You press your palm to your ribs and breathe deep.

Out there, the world basks. California sun gilding the flesh of bronzed gods and half-naked saints. They move through the light like it owes them something. The cult of body. You are not among them. You walk a different road. Covered in dark fabric, head down, eyes sharp. You don’t wear your pain on the outside. You hide it like a weapon.

You live online. In the hum of servers and glow of screens. Where no one sees. Where no one touches. Outside, the heat presses close, but you wear long sleeves, thick pants. You don’t care to be seen. Not really. Not anymore. You tried that once. All it did was invite the knives.

Outside the bathroom door, folded with care, you find a black tee and pink sweatpants laid neat atop a footstool. Beside them, a pair of pink, bedazzled flip-flops.

You pull the shirt over your head. It clings to your damp skin. Across the chest, the mirror throws it back at you in reverse—“David Allan Coe.” A skull grinning mean beneath a Confederate slouch hat, DAC above the brim. Crossbones beneath, not bone but a Winchester shotgun and a guitar bearing the rebel flag. Behind the skull, a burst of stars and war feathers.

You slide into the sweatpants. Pink as bubblegum and stitched across the ass in faded block letters—“Juicy.” Must belong to one of Red’s lady friends, you figure. You run your hand through the pockets and come up with a pair of folded twenties, faded and sueded. Money that’s been through the wash.

From somewhere in the trailer, a radio plays the low, mournful twang of steel guitar and sorrow.

Then, a knock at the door. Three sharp raps. Measured. Unhurried.

The feeling of ice spills down your spine. You ease the door ajar. Just a slit. The hallway beyond washed in the pale gold of morning. Red is moving. Slow. Deliberate. Toward the front door.

You hiss his name. “Red,” you whisper. “Don’t let anyone in.”

But he does’t turn. Doesn’t answer. Just keeps walking. And the hush that follows is thick enough to drown in.

“Police. Detective Malcolm. Mind if I come in?” says the voice. You recognize the New Orleans accent.

Red’s voice, steady. “Sorry, officer. Not without a warrant.”

“I’ve got one. I’m holding it up. You can see for yourself.”

Red steps to the door, gun in one hand. Presses his eye to the peephole. Then, there is a sound that is not loud but final. Red falls to the floor.

There is a hole in him. Blood comes out.

“Oh, God!” The words don’t rise to your lips but rattle in your chest like dry leaves in a gutter. You dive for Red’s pistol. Your fingers close round the grip like you were born to it. You run. Bare feet on linoleum. The hallway narrows like a throat. Red’s groan follows you like the cry of something already dying.

You slam the bathroom door shut, twist the lock. It clatters beneath your hand like it might come apart. Footsteps. The man’s. Then the door flies inward just as your body clears the sill. Half out the window when the world erupts behind you—gunfire like a cannon from the front of the trailer.

Arms snatch your waist and drag you back inside. Your elbows rake the window frame and split like fruit skin. You hit the floor hard. Bone and tile. The taste of metal in your mouth.

The barrel of his gun presses to your head. Cold. Oily.

“I told you,” he says. “You run, I follow. And here I am.”

His voice is a stone dropped in a still pond.

“We got seconds. You know what I’m here for. What’s not on the laptop? Not on the drives? Don’t lie to me. I’ll know.”

The pistol. Red’s. There, just out of reach. You stretch. Hope flickers. His boot comes down on your wrist like an anvil.

Pain floods you, white and blinding. You twist. Flail. A knee connects, maybe. He grunts. His gun barks. And then the world folds in on itself.

Darkness takes you. Swift. Without mercy.

Chokehold

Agent Nicholas Grayson. The second you slam the Crown Vic door, Guthrie’s already got his foot in it, tires chirping. He’s got one hand on the wheel, the other snatching up the radio. “Control, this is Charlie-1. Requesting a plate check on California, 3-Yankee-Delta-3-2-1. Light Green Bronco.”

The radio spits back static and the voice of Dispatch: “Copy, Charlie-1. Stand by for return.”

Guthrie doesn’t blink. Eyes locked on that Bronco. Deadpan he says, “So what’s the deal, partner? That guy owe you child support? What’d I miss?”

“Spotted the Bronco earlier—stood out. At the time, it had a single occupant. Now it’s got two. That’s a discrepancy.”

The radio comes to life. “Charlie-1, plate comes back to a William Mathers, resident of the Kearny Mobile Home Park.” says the dispatch, providing an address on Convoy Court. “No wants, valid registration.”

“Pull over or pursuit?”

“Let’s just tail on for a while.”

As the words leave your mouth, a black Chevy Impala slides smooth into your lane behind the Bronco, ghostlike, efficient, the way a man moves when they don’t want to be seen moving.

“Interesting,” says Guthrie. “Your rodeo, Agent. What do you advise?”

“Keep tailing. Be discreet.” Maybe another agent from the Bureau, you wonder.

Guthrie leans forward and snatches the mic from the dash.

“Control, this is Charlie-1. Run this plate quietly; no alerts: California, 3-Tango-Delta-4-7-3. Black Impala.”

The reply scratches back across the radio. “Copy, Charlie-1. Stand by.”

“Charlie-1,” Dispatch returns after a spell. “Plate comes back to a David Patel, out of San Diego. No wants, valid registration.”

The black Impala keeps its distance, gliding behind the Bronco like a shadow. You track them both as they roll up Convoy Court, into the sprawl of the Kearny Mobile Home Park.

The Bronco pulls into the driveway of a trailer that could belong to any man. Plain. Faded aluminum siding. The jade paint of the Bronco still catching the light of the sun, gleaming. Bill Mathers, who you think of as the cowboy, reaches across the girl. Pops the glovebox. Something in his hand. Leans forward and slides it down the back of his jeans like it belongs there. Pistol, you think.

Out steps the cowboy. Belle climbs out after, her hair looks like hell. She wears the morning’s ruin on her skin—sweat-stained shirt, feet raw and red.

Across the way a woman with a hose in hand watches them come. She wets her begonias, eyes Belle and scowls at the cowboy and says something to him. The cowboy doesn’t look her way. Just raises his middle finger. Then he and Belle disappear inside the trailer.

The Impala rolls to a stop half a block down. And waits.

You tell Guthrie to hold back, park where the dust won’t kick up, where the sun doesn’t glance off the windshield and give you away. He nods.

You flip open your laptop. Type in the digits. David Patel. Rancho Bernardo. Dentist. That’d make a cool nickname. Clean record, clean car. Clean as a whistle. His photo stares back at you. Wire rims, neat smile. A man who flosses.

You murmur to Guthrie without looking. “Stay here.”

You step out. The heat’s already pressing in. The world smells like rust, dry weeds, and old oil.

You need a disguise.

You move through the trailers. Knock on one—the door opens slowly. A man stands there. Sagging flesh and mottled skin, like someone who’s outlived their own use.

“Can I help you?”

You show the badge. Flash of federal steel. “Sir, I’m sure you’ve heard what’s happening in our nation today. I need your help. Something’s going down. I need a change of clothes. Hat’d help too.”

The man frowns, draws breath like it costs him something. “I pay taxes,” he says. “That means you work for me, son. I’m on a fixed income, and if this was any other day I’d tell you to go to hell!” He shuffles back, opens the door wider. “Take what you need.”

He bitches all the way to the bedroom. The place smells of mildew and time.

You grab what you need. A floral shirt loud as birdsong. Shorts. Sandals. A bucket hat to throw shadow across your eyes. You holster your sidearm and look to the man.

“If I don’t come back,” you say, “you can keep the suit. Worth a couple thousand if you know where to sell it.”

That shuts him up.

You press the mic. “Guthrie. I’m heading in. I’ll be the guy in the hat.”

“Copy that,” he says.

You step into the sun again. Slide around back. The Impala waits. The man who steps from it isn’t Patel. You know it the second he moves. Bald head. Goatee. Gray suit. He pulls gloves on like a man settling into old habits. His walk’s casual. The kind of casual that’s practiced. Something about the set of his shoulders and his stride tugs at your memory, but you can’t place it.

He looks around. Moves behind Red’s trailer. Reappears.

You look through the Impala’s window. Empty.

The man raises a hand. Three knocks on Red’s door. Each one deliberate.

Then he holds up a paper to the peephole. The moment stretches.

“Guthrie,” you say. “We’ve got something. Call it in.”

Of a sudden there comes the sound of muted gunfire—a silencer. Then the door gives way with a crack of splintered wood and the man in the gray suit steps into the gloom like he’s always belonged there.

You run after. Feet finding slick blood on linoleum. The cowboy sprawled on the threshold, gutshot and gasping like a landed fish. His hands clutch at his belly. You leap past.

Down the hall. The man is there. Moving. You fire—the report deafening in the narrow corridor. You miss.

“Guthrie,” you bark into the comm. “Get around the back. He’s going to kill Flower!”

The hallway tightens. The world becomes the width of your shoulders. You push forward—the sound of struggle. A woman crying out.

The bathroom door hangs on busted hinges. And there she is. Belle. Blood in her hair like a crown. The gunman looming over her like judgment itself.

And then you see the shape of him. Something behind the eyes. It’s Mercer.

You crash into him. Get him in a chokehold.

The world becomes motion. Flesh and drywall. The mirror explodes. Shards of it rake Mercer’s face. He doesn’t cry out. He drives backward like a bull. You hit the wall hard enough to rattle teeth.

He tries to throw you. Your grip holds. His strength’s fading. His body goes slack. Collapses under your weight.

You roll him over, wrench his arms back, cuff him with hands still trembling.

Then to Belle. She’s breathing. You press a towel to her wound. It blooms red but slow. A graze. Just a graze.

“Guthrie,” you rasp. “Take him. Flower’s been hit. I’m handling it.”

You gather her up in your arms and push past Guthrie’s bulk as he moves into the trailer.

The street outside is alive now. Sirens. Voices. The stink of heat and cordite.

You find the first-aid kit in the Crown Vic, patch her as best you can.

A crowd gathers. The buzz of it rising.

When the ambulance and cruisers arrive, you grab Guthrie’s shoulder. Look him in the eye.

“You handle this. I’m taking Miss Flower someplace safe.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it again.

And then you’re gone. Her in the backseat. The engine turns over beneath you like a prayer.

Flesh. Hair. Bone.

Senator Wexley. Your limousine rolls south down the FDR like a hearse, black and sealed against the sound of the city. Inside, you sit alone. The tinted glass offers no shelter from what looms beyond it. Smoke pours from the island’s heart. Not a pillar, not a plume—a wound. Thick and rising and without end.

Sirens wail. A procession of red and blue. Streets are choked with fleeing bodies and men walking toward death with the stunned gait of sleepwalkers. You watch them pass.

You see his reflection in the window—hollow-eyed and soiled—and behind it, you. Polished. Whole. The one that stayed behind in Alpine. The one that smiled for the cameras.

The driver says nothing. Eyes fixed forward. The phone buzzes once—Whitman’s number, your political advisor.

“Bryce. You still in the city?”

“Yes. Just left Doherty’s studio.”

“Everyone’s watching it. Everyone will remember it. Which is why you’re going to get out of that damn car and go downtown!” He snarls. “Chaos is the mother of opportunity. You need to be seen. On the ground. Covered in soot. Looking presidential. A man of the people. Not hiding behind tinted glass in Midtown. Now’s your chance to be the one who stood there when the rest ran. Trust me, this photo will outlive you. This is legacy!”

“Well, you do know best. It sounds annoying, but I suppose I must.”

The line clicks dead. You lower the phone. The sirens outside scream like distant birds.

The door opens. You step out, blinking against the smoke and soot. Your shoes splash into the gray water snaking along the curb. A crowd has gathered behind the barricade, dazed and murmuring. Firefighters stagger past. A man collapses near a lamppost.

You will not forget the smell in the air. Not in this life nor in any life to follow. The concrete burnt, the steel ran molten in the girders. But that was not the worst of it. There was plastic and rubber and paper, the foul offal of industry turned to ash. Wiring charred and walls crumbled. Carpets gone to cinders. Thousands of screens gone dark. But more. Flesh. Hair. Bone. The meat of man unmade. The stink of jet fuel and death. A reek that had no place in this world. And yet it came. And it lingered.

You walk forward, slowly, deliberately. A flashbulb pops.

A young photographer lowers her camera. “Senator Wexley? Can I take a few?”

“Of course,” you say “try to catch my good side.”

She raises the camera. The shutter clicks. Soon there’s a gaggle of other photographers taking photos for the newspapers and magazines. Tomorrow they’ll run your likeness above the fold. Sleeves rolled. Jaw set. The hard angle of your chin catching the light. Eyes like flint. The face of vengeance clad in a man’s skin. A leader born not of ballots but of fire.

A crew arrives. A boom mic floats overhead.

“Senator Wexley, any comment?” asks one of the reporters.

You square your shoulders before the ruin, and your voice cuts through the ash-laced air.

“They have woken a sleeping giant,” you say. “And they shall be afraid. For it is we who are strong!”

The wind turns. Carries the cinders like snow, and the sky weeps gray.

Flip the Tables

Bryce Wexley. You glance at Lucky. You squint. And again it comes. The light. Not bright, but warm. A halo like late wheat swaying under heaven’s hush. His face calm. His presence a balm. You feel it in your bones, in the quiet place that knows before knowing. He is not of this place. He is one of the good ones. Of the ones who watch. Who wait.

You step slow. Reverent.

“Lucky, I know that you’re one of the good ones, one of the ones from… from… from outside. I know about the secret deal.”

He turns from the screen where the towers bleed black into a bright morning sky. His eyes distant.

“I’m sorry. What you say?”

“I know,” you tell him. “I know that things aren’t what they seem, that the, you know, those in power are pulling the wool over the eyes of everyone! I need you to help me! They’re chasing me, Lucky! They, they want me for something. They said, I’m, I’m the door.”

He looks at you with a kind of gentle alarm. Like you’d just told him you saw God in a drainpipe. Then he smiles. A soft sad thing.

“All right, I’ll help you. However I can. What you need?”

“They’ve… they’ve replaced me with… with someone that looks like, like me, but he’s better than me, and I can’t get any money from my accounts! I could use, I could really use some money so that I could, I could help. You know, I could, I could figure out what’s going on.

He sighs. Pulls a worn twenty from his apron and presses it into your palm.

You stare at the bill. Rage climbing you like fire up dry wood.

“A twenty isn’t what I need! I need more than that. I can’t, I can’t… What am I supposed to do with a twenty?”

He only shrugs. “Sorry. Best I can do.”

“Don’t you have a spaceship or something, or some, some technology that can protect me?”

He steps back. His face closed now.

“Settle down. Settle down. I think it time you leave.”

“Keep your secrets, then!” you shout.

You straighten your coat. What’s left of it. Shuffle out under the blue sky. He watches you go. Then turns back to serve his patrons, glancing up now and then to watch the horror unfolding on the television.

“This man is an alien!” you yell. Some heads turn. None stay.

Once again, you’re outside. Exposed. Where they can find you. The twenty crumples in your fist. But it’s a start. You can find Caruso.

You walk the streets. North Park. Too early for the kind of help you need. Still, you find a kid—Kangol hat, white tank, pants dragging. You know the look.

You approach him. “Do you happen to know where I could score some drugs?”

He wrinkles his nose. You reek. But then he softens.

“Look, man, you can have this for free.” He pulls out a joint from behind his ear and hands it to you.

“Oh, thank you. Thank you! You know, I’m a veteran.” You lie, “I fought in the war, so the joint, yeah, it’s good for me.”

“All right, man, you have a good day.” He nods and walks off.

You follow him until he enters an apartment building and closes the door behind him.

You realize your plan is flawed. This is taking too long.

Then a number comes to you. Vince. He made you memorize it. “Payphone only,” he’d said.

You see another kid, leaning on a wall, skateboard at his feet.

“Hey, kid,” you say. “Want to buy a joint?”

His eyes widen. “On a day like today? Fuck, yeah!”

You trade smoke for ten bucks. You walk to a nearby laundromat, exchange the money for quarters, and spot a pay phone.

You feed the coins into the slot. The receiver’s slick with old sweat and breath, and you wedge it to your ear with your shoulder, eyes on the nothing stretched out in front of you. Whoever comes after can clean it if they care. The line rings. And rings. Then he answers. Voice flat. Tired or suspicious or both. “Who’s speaking?”

“Vince, it’s Wexley. I need your help. Some, some. I need your help.”

“Hey Senator — caught your little appearance on Tough Talk this morning. Damn shame it got clipped early, real shame. Word is Abu Dhabi TV got a ring from those clowns in the Democratic Front for the Liberation of Palestine. They’re saying they’re the ones behind the whole goddamn mess.”

“Oh, that wasn’t me. That’s another me, but they’re after me. They’re after me! Vince, who?”

“What are you talking about?” He sounds confused.

“The, the bad ones, the ones the government has to deal with!”

“Whoa, whoa, man, slow down. What are you talking about? Bad ones?”

“These guys are real bad that make us look like clowns. They’re after me. Vince, you owe me. I need your help!”

“All right, Senator, you and I go way back. How can I help you?”

“I need a new identity. You, you have safe houses, right? You’ve got stuff like that, yeah?”

“Uh, yeah, I can certainly do that for you, Senator. When do you need it?

“Right away.”

“All right, I have connections in New York City, but it’s going to take me a while to get you a safe house there.”

“What can you do for me in the meantime?

“What do you need, Senator?”

“Some money, a weapon.”

“Alright. I can arrange that. Where are you in the City right now? I’ll make some calls and make it happen. See who I can send over.

“I’m not in New York.” you tell him. “I’m in San Diego.”

“No, man, I just saw you on TV. I know you’re in the City.”

“I told you, that’s not me!

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—“

You interrupt him. “Vince, they made a fake me! They made one in a lab.”

“Oh. Ah, sure. Senator, break it down for me ’cause I’m lost. What do you need?”

“I need a safe house. A new passport and at least $5,000. And, uh, a bulletproof vest, and a gun and some ammo.”

You hear him whistle. “That’s some serious shit there, Senator; I can have one of my boys pick you up, and take you to a safe house; where are you at?”

You look at the cross streets you are near and tell Vince.

“All right, Senator. I don’t know what’s going on, but you know, we’ve been scratching each other’s backs for a while now. If that’s what you say, if that’s what you want, I’ll have a man sent to your location in thirty minutes.”

“Thank you, Vince! You’re a good one. I knew, I know I could trust you.”

The line goes dead.

While you wait for Vince’s man, you buy six bacon-wrapped hot dogs from a street vendor, sit on the curb, and eat them. They burn your gut but settle your nerves.

A limo pulls up. Man in slick clothes looks around, confused.

“Hey, hey, hey!” You yell as you approach him, bits of bread and onions spray from your mouth.

The man steps back, putting his hands up, “Man, I don’t got no time for you. Got no money for you. Fuck off.”

“Vincent sent you for me. You’re Vince’s boy, right?”

He looks at you. “What the fuck?”

“I’m Bryce Wexley. I’m Bryce Wexley!”

“All right. All right.” He goes to his trunk, pulls out an expensive blanket, and covers the back seat. “All right, man, if you say so.” Under his breath, you hear him mutter, “What the fuck?” as he opens the door for you.

You collapse into the back seat. “You would smell bad, too, if you had seen what I’d seen.”

“Right, right. Whatever you say, Man, whatever you say.”

As you drive away, he picks up his phone. “Yo, Mister Caruso, Tommy here. I picked up the… Senator. He’s in rough shape.” He turns to you and offers you his phone. “Hey, Senator, he wants to talk to you.”

You hold the phone to your ear. “Senator?”

“Hey, Vince, your man here is not too polite.”

“I’ll take care of that. Tommy’s a good boy. He’s going to take you to a place in La Jolla. You can hole up until we can talk face to face.”

“Vince, thank you, Vince! You’re a saint. The good ones, you know, they’ll, they’ll, they’ll think about you.”

Tommy takes a phone, wipes it on his pant leg, holds it to his ear, listens, and nods.

“All right, all right. Yeah, I’ll get him cleaned up.”

You drive to the outskirts of La Jolla. Tommy pulls up into the driveway of a decent house. He gets out and opens the door for you, treating you with the respect that is your due. You step out and he won’t meet your eye though you see the question there, flickering. The not-knowing. The what-the-hell-happened-to-you.

Tommy knocks on the door of the house, which is answered by a man in his twenties, eyes bloodshot.

You follow the man and Tommy past a kitchen. On the floor is a stained mattress circled by video cameras on tripods. On the kitchen table are several laptops. A girl wearing nothing but a tight T-shirt and panties walks by, bow-legged. She doesn’t look at you so much as through you. She drinks water from a plastic bottle like it’s the only real thing left.

Tommy says, “Senator, anything you need, I’m at your disposal. If you want to clean up, there’s a bathroom down the hall.”

You grab the towel from his hand. You shower. Hot water. Mercy.

Afterward, you clothe yourself in what’s been left. Gym shorts thin at the knees and a t-shirt bearing the faded logo of San Diego State University. You pull it over your head and it smells of detergent and old sweat and something fainter still. You stand before the mirror. The glass is smeared and tired. You wet your fingers and try to set your hair to how it once was or how it ought to be. Like the man on the screen on Tough Talk. The clean one. The one who speaks and the world listens. You rake your hands through the mess of it but it will not hold. It’s hopeless.

“Tommy!” You yell.

“Yo?”

“I need a stylist. I need a shave. I need a suit.”

“You got it. Anything else?”

“And the cash. And the gun. And the bulletproof vest.”

“You got it, Senator.”

The future is looking good. You don’t have a plan yet. You’re still trying to figure out what’s going on with the aliens. But you’re Bryce Wexley, old boy, and you will flip the tables on them.