For now he strolls through Sunken Barrio, taking in the sights - in no hurry really, just looking around. The place seems to have both positive and negative aspects to it. On the positive side, it appears that many of the people in the area are tourists like Chris, and tourists are usually pretty easy marks. Also, there are lots of small businesses in the area, which is good.
On the negative side there are lots of uniformed Peace Force officers about. LOTS of them. In fact, the Barrio is crawling with them. They walk on the sidewalks. They drive by in cars or on motorcycles. They stand at intersections. And they are really heavily armed with automatic weapons. Chris gets the idea as time goes by that grubby individuals such as himself are less than welcome in the area, and that the Peace Force is keeping an eye on him. It might be the way their helmeted heads, faces hidden behind visors, swivel to follow him as he walks down the street. It might be the way they slap their truncheons meaningfully into their leather gloved hands. It might be...
"Hey you! Scarab! Hold it!" Two Peace Force officers - one male and one female - step out in front of him. One indicates that he is speaking to Cris by pointing with his truncheon. The accent of the one who speaks is certainly American. Deciding that his chances of outrunning a 9-mm slug are slim at best, Chris obediently halts. The two officers approach. They look him up and down. There is a short pause.
"And just what the hell do you think YOU'RE doing?" snarls the American.
"Uh...I was just walking down the street," Chris says nervously. As soon as that has been said, he glances to the left and right to see if he's stepped into some kind of special zone or anything. Or maybe he's just trying to avoid eye contact with the visors of the Peace Officers?
The female officer chimes in, "Just walking down the street, huh?" Her accent is distinctive, and KK will soon learn to distinguish it as that of an Al Amarjan native. The officer prods KK in the chest with her truncheon - not particularly hard but hard enough to show that she means business.
"And just where were you going walking down the street, Scarab?" she asks in a voice suddenly gone dangerously smooth and silky.
"Nowhere... I don't know... I'm new here..." Chris says quietly as he shrinks away from the officer. He doesn't look so tough and mean anymore. He figures that these cops are just harassing him like cops usually do when they can get away with it, and the faster he goes belly-up, the faster they'll leave him alone. Or maybe...
"Are you confusing me with someone called "Scarab"?" he asks cautiously.
The American officer laughs, but not in a nice way. KK recognizes it as the sort of laugh that generally precedes bruises.
"He thinks we're confused!" the officer says to his companion. He walks around until he is standing behind KK, then speaks over his shoulder.
"We are not confused," he says, and with a vicious kick to the back of the knee knocks Chris's feet out from under him, following up with a shove to the head that leaves Chris on his hands and knees on the pavement. He then puts his baton on the back of Chris's head, suggesting that now might not be a good time to get up.
"Tell him," the officer says to his partner.
"A scarab is a type of beetle," the woman responds, speaking as though lecturing to a particularly stupid student. "It is noteworthy in particular for its diet, which consists primarily of spoiled materials. And shit," she adds, almost as an afterthought. "It is also a slang term used here on our beautiful island to indicate bottom feeders, street scum, and undesirable individuals - particularly those newly arrived such as yourself. It is not considered complimentary."
"See?" says the male officer. "We aren't confused. You're the one who's confused. Here you are walking around in Sunken like you were an honest-to-god person instead of a shit eating bug. Now we of the Peace Force always hate to see someone like you confused, so we came over to help you out. Now that we're all clear, why don't you just lick that pavement a bit - just to get a feel for it - and then we'll be more than happy to trundle you off to Great Men or Four Points where you can find plenty of shit to eat without bothering the tourists. OK? Unless," he continues, "you would prefer that we take you to the Roach Motel in Arms. Or just step on you."
As Chris contemplates the grimy pavement and weighs it against his odds
of getting away from two cops, he hears footsteps approaching. He
struggles to put a lid on the rage and humiliation he's feeling, and rather
than licking the pavement he tries to catch a glimpse of the approaching
person.
First and foremost - the Terminal: its impossible architecture, the strange interview with C&I, the prohibition on Satanism and psychic powers. Could that possibly have been for real, or was it just her caseworker's idea of a joke?
Second, the police. Given that Sunken appears to be a quiet community, why are there so many? And why so heavily armed? Cops that she has seen wear flak vests and riot helmets, and all of them are carrying automatic weapons. And they seem to be everywhere. They seem polite enough, and most folks don't seem to even notice that they are there. Then again, "most folks" in this area appear to be wealthy tourists and local businesspeople. Doesn't Al Amarja have homeless folks?
Maggie's thoughts are shattered as she turns a corner and encounters two more of Al Amarja's Peace Force officers - one male and one female. In between them, on his hands and knees, is a rather shabbily dressed young man. The male officer is holding his baton on the back of the young man's neck, and Magdalena overhears a threatening speech.
She stops abruptly in the middle of the street, eyes widening as she watches the mis-treatment of a poor man. How could anyone in the modern world treat their fellow humans so badly -- and get away with it? Her dark blue eyes smolder in outrage, and she stands there quietly, hoping that the police have not yet seen her. Eyes narrowed, she lifts the black camera that is slung across her neck, and snaps several photos of the cops with the man. Then, slipping the camera inside of the sachel slung across one shoulder, she clears her throats.
"Excuse me?" She looks around the desereted street, allowing a nervous glance to shift from the male to female cop -- and then to their victim. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm lost..." She looks at the cops with a little smile, absently toying with one long wheat blond braid as she slants the abused man a sympathetic look. "I was looking for an art gallery... I am not quite sure what it is called. The hotel suggested I might be interested in what is being exhibited." She smiles, charming, the lies rolling from her tounge. "Perhaps this young man could show me the way? I'm sure he's not bothering you all that much..." Her eyes have a hardness in their blue depths, and there is a waryness in her form that belies what one sees on the surface -- all-American, wheat-blond hair, pulled into two braids; blue eyes, slender, open face...
The reaction of the two Peace Force officers is immediate. the baton is withdrawn and both turn to face Magdelena. Each reaches up and slides the plexiglas visor of his/her helmet up (to add that "personal touch" to the encounter) and their body language indicates deference.
Magdelena frowns at this obviously preferencial treatment, her two blond braids framing a heart shaped face. She stands there, hands in her pockets, wondering why there was such a turn around of behavior for her. Is it because she was a woman? Or because she is clean, and dressed moderately well? She looks down at herself, giving herself a once over. 9 west boots in brown. Light green cargo pants stuffed with tools of the trade-- (tape recorder, note pad, pens, and tiny spy camera); a cream colored raw silk blouse, top two buttons undone. And a green canvas sachel slung over one shoulder. Her hair is plaited in two pigtail braids that fall to midbreast.
"Well ma'am," the female officer says, "if you're looking for art you might try Art's Fine Arts."
"Oh, yes! That is it exactly... I just love art..." Magdalena smiles, stepping another step closer. "Do the both of you like art? Do you frequent Art's store often? Art gives me a real feel for the place i'm staying in." She continues to ramble- purposely -- as she sizes up the two police officers, and the man on the ground. "My name is Magdelena, and you are?" She smiles a little, wanting their names in case more trouble breaks out. She HAD taken somewhat incriminating photographs of them.
"It's on the plaza, number 70 I think,"directs the officer. "Just take Celebration Road here for two blocks to D'Aubainne Avenue, turn right, and the plaza is four blocks down. As for this gentleman," she indicates Chris with one gloved hand, "I don't believe that he can help you - he's new to the island. In fact, we were just giving him directions... weren't we?"
As the police speak of the man being new, she bends down, offering him a hand. "Really, where are you from? I'm new here too- just arrived in yesterday. I'm American -- obviously -- grew up in New York City before feeling the need to seek the world for a daily adventure." She smiles sweetly at the police officers. She turns as the stranger speaks.
"I don't think I need more directions... I bought this map, see?" Chris says as he cautiously gets up on his feet and pulls forth a tourist's map of the Edge from his grey trenchcoat. He looks as if he hasn't shaved for a couple of days, and his sneakers are filthy. His long black hair is greasy and dishevelled, and for protection against the sun he's tied a colourful bandanna around his head.
"But I've never been to an art gallery. Mind if I tag along?" he continues as he walks over to his saviour, counting on that the officers will keep acting as if they were honest-to-god public servants instead of fascist pigs.
Magda nods, her blue eyes grinning at him. "Oh, yes, I would love another opinion of Amerja art, please, join me." She winks at him, before turning to the cops. "Thank you so much for helping him... but i'm sure we can take care of ourselves now."
"My friends call me KK..." the young man says gratefully as he extends his right hand. Then he turns to look at the Peace Officers for any kind of reaction to this new turn of events, while at the same time he attempts to memorize their faces for future reference.
The Peace Force officers have very particular expressions on their faces. They say, as plainly as spoken words, that a) Magdalena is surpassing even the stupidity normally expected of those of the Burger persuasion in taking the side of this unwashed predatory street maggot and b) that the two officers know with weary resignation that if this stupidity leads to trouble it will land right back in the Peace Force's lap. Nevertheless, this rather unique facial expression (actually common to police everywhere) lasts only a moment. Then the woman nods, says "Enjoy your stay on the island, ma'am," and the two slide their face shields back into position and head off down the street. The man shakes his head and mutters something and the woman nods vigorously, making a slashing motion with one hand as they turn the corner and are gone.
"Phew... hope I'll never see those two again..." KK says to Magdalena as he watches the two officers disappear.
"So...are you really going to that art gallery? Or are you looking for more photo opportunities? If it's allright with you I'd like to tag along either way. I think I'll be a lot safer in your company...never thought I'd be the one needing protection..." he says, shaking his head in disbelief.
Magdelena glares at the two "Peace Officers" as soon at their backs are turned, and makes a rude gesture with her fist, muttering "bloody Peace Officers."
She then turns to KK, an ironic smile on her lips, "The art gallery?" She shrugs. "I don't really care. I just remember seeing it on a tourist map. Really, I don't actually like art. But -- do you think they'll check up to see if we really went there?" She shrugs, and turns to look at him.
"Geez, I hope not! In that case I might just pack up and go home..." KK says with a shudder.
"Do you have a place to stay? Maybe we should clean you up a little... might cause you a bit less problems with those jerks that call themselves peace officers..."
"Nah, I haven't got a place yet... usually I just drift around... saves a lot of money. But I guess I could take a shower somewhere. Think they'd let me inside a public gym?" KK asks while glancing over his shoulder.
Magdelena smirks, and laughs softly. "A public gym? Only the poor go --" She stops mid-sentence, a slight blush on her pale cheeks. "Why don't you come with me to my hotel? You can get cleaned up there, alright?"
"I'll take your hotel room over a public gym any day of the week," he replies with a grin.
"Well then. Let's go -- I have a suite at Cesar's." She smiles, lifts her satchel, slinging it across her right shoulder, and starts walking out of the alley. She pauses at the end, looking back to see that he follows. She just shakes her head a little, muttering 'a public gym' somewhat distastefully.
"What?" KK says, looking somewhat confused.
"Oh... nothing." She blushes a little, and turns to continue walking.
"Hello!" he calls "Do you remember me?"
The man is in his early thirties, stocky and muscular but with the body of someone who struggles with a weight problem continuously. His skin is very light, his nose is sunburned, and his hair is blonde (and starting to recede a bit from his forehead). He is dressed in an inexpensive (but not cheap) suit and tie (not a noose). His accent is sort of Dutch, sort of not. It sounds Afrikaans in fact.
Magdalena does not immediately recognize him.
Magdalena pauses midstride, a small frown written on her forehead. "I'm sorry... Should I? I've met so many people out in the field-- faces tend to blur." She looks from the affricaaner to KK, a little uncomfortable. She had a bad feeling about this... a VERY bad feeling. Who is this man, and why is he here on her potentially new home?
"What is your name, again? Perhaps that will spark some memories..." She smiles a little helplessly.
KK's eyes go from Magdalena to the man, back and forth. Silently he starts to wonder if it's time for him to look for public gym.
"Ah, I did not think you would - we were never formally introduced. We met in Badme last year - May I believe it was. Just after the Eritreans had overrun the town. You were there covering the story for someone."
Magdelena nods once, and smiles-- a small, careful smile. "Ah... Badme... wasn't THAT a fright! I wasn't sure what would happen -- the Eritreans, the Ethiopians -- it was awful. But a brilliant story that won me a national award." She shrugs a little. "So much was happening, I am quite impressed that you remember me! And that you could spot me in the crowd..." She frowns a little. "What did you say your name was, again? And what are you doing on Al Amerja?" She smiles a little more, and stands, head tilted, blond braids framing her heart shaped face, and waits for his reply.
"In my line of work it pays to have a good memory for faces, AND the skill to spot them in crowds," the man replies, returning Magdalena's small smile with a somewhat more generous one.
"Forgive me, however, if my memory for names is somewhat poorer. When one changes names frequently, they tend to blur after a time. Let me see... it was..." he seems to turn inward for a moment, as if going through a rolodex in his mind.
"...Kastern? No. Doidge? No. Vey? Yes, that was it - Christopher Vey. I was nominally a Major at the time, not that the rank really meant anything. I actually appear in one of the photos you published in the Times, by the way. The one of the rubbled building with the bodies in the foreground? I was in the background of course, on the left side of the photo. Just a blob really, but you can make out the white work shirt I'm wearing, and of course there's the skin color." He motions to the back of a very caucasian hand.
"It's not really surprising that you don't remember me - we never spoke. I remember you because one of my jobs at the time was keeping you alive. You and the other journalists. Those Eritreans were pretty sloppy soldiers, and half of them were drunk besides. Needless to say it would have been a serious propaganda problem if they had dragged you off behind some building, raped you, and put a bullet in the back of your head, so I had a few reliable sorts keep an eye on you and the others."
Magdelena watches the man, trying to split her attention between the frightening implications of what this man is saying -- he's watched her -- and the gangster wannabes that are trying to attract KK into a shady life of crime.
"You kept me and my fellow reporters alive? How so? And who exactly appointed you to this task?" Her smile is a little nervous, and her hands shake slightly as they toy with one of her braids. If she didn't already exhibit a pale complexion, one could say she turned white as a sheet. What could this man have seen? If he saw what she did -- her career is over.
The man waves a hand airily. "Oh, it was Colonel... Colonel... I can't really recall. Some Kaffir name or another - they all sound like a mouthful of shit to me. He was one of those political hacks from the capital. The government knew that it was going to need all the good press it could get with that stunt - I mean, good lord! Trying to convince the world that they had a legitimate claim to the area based on maps drawn up by fascist Italy? Stupid idea anyway. If I hadn't needed the money to cover some Monte Carlo debts I never would have taken the damned job. Anyway, it was just for that afternoon while the press tour was in town. Easy enough really, just keep a couple of reliable types on hand to go and knock any troublemakers on the head. Not too rough... there were certainly enough women alive at the time that the troops didn't have to go looking to the press for entertainment."
He shrugs. "Well, no doubt you remember. As for what I'm doing here at the time, I'm really just between jobs at the moment."
She nods. "Yes, I remember... It was brutal... It makes
me sick that photographs of such brutality sell in the western world."
The youngster strides up to KK with no apparent apprehension, comes to a stop just in front of him (his followers staying slightly behind) and without preamble says "Salaam Burger. You want some action or are you planning to stay a zero?"
Behind him, at least one of his followers titters.
"What kind of action are we talking about?" KK replies after glaring suspiciously at the tittering follower.
"Yo!" says the kid, speaking not to KK but to his followers, "The Breeder wants to know what we're talking about!"
More titters. The kid in the suit turns back to KK.
"Well boyo, what we talkin' about is some class chunky clam clockin', ya deep? Fresh brassos, grip to katch yer luggage, comprede? Somethin' that might make ya a player, 'stead of a mookster. We're talkin' a stupid rook job, a turkey shoot with a big spash at the end, hai? No black work, no hot and heavy lead, just warm yer bucket and you'll have some slick buttons. You wanna be a blooper sidle along and we find some emerald and chat some specs. You wanna stay a trippin' street burp then keep hoofin'"
"Very impressive. Are you trying to sell me a language lesson, or what?" KK asks, momentarily distracted from Magdalena's presence. "I could really do with some language lessons..." he adds as an afterthought.
"Smatta, Breeder? You not com-pre-hendin'?" The kid sneers. "OK then, maybe I spell it out for your aging Breeder brain."
He hands over to his briefcase to one of his followers, who takes it carefully. Then the youth begins to 'signify', waving his arms in time to his words.
"I got a little job that requires some time
You look to be a Burger and so you'll do just fine
It don't require killin now, nor violence nor hate
Its really pretty simple, and the pay is first rate
Now me and all my posse are out here on the street
We huntin' and a searchin for a Burger to greet
I'm thinkin' that you might just be the Burger we need
A bit down on yer luck now, but a tough, hardy breed.
Here we are out on the street a talkin' to you man
But out here in the open I've said all that I can
If you be a smart Burger and are lookin for cash
We need to move to someplace thats a little less flash
Once there you get to find out what I want you to do
And just for listenin' there'll be twenty dollars for you.
WORD! YO!"
The kid takes the briefcase back.
"Comprende Burger man?"
"Amazing. After that show, how could I say no?" KK says, and then glances back towards Magdalena.
"Seems I'm being offered a job, so I figured I'd check it out. Can I meet you at the hotel later?" he asks her, not really wanting to either interrupt her conversation or leave her with that other guy. But money is still money, and the rhyming little guy seems to be swimming in it...
Maggie frowns a little. "A job? What kind of job?" She looks KK level in the eyes. "Think carefully about this, KK... you saw what kind of welcome the Peace Enforcers gave you." She pauses a moment to let the words sink in, and then continues: "What kind of welcome do you think you'd get if they caught you doing something less than legal? Because I'm sure whatever your job it's -- it's not legal." She holds his gaze, wanting him to think about her words.
"Hey burger man, it's icy, you can haul your luggage along," replies the kid in the suit.
Maggie narrows her eyes, removing them from KK, and turning them on the kid. She is silent, but it is obvious she is displeased.
The kid in the suit is no more pleased than Maggie. Neither are his sycophants.
"My backpack? I was planning to... always good to have all the things
you need close by..." KK says while throwing a few glances at Magdalena.
The kid didn't just call her "luggage", did he? Not as bad as being
called a shit-eating bug, but pretty bad nonetheless...
"Coffee?" She looks to KK.. "Well, I don't know..."
"Hey, if you'd rather come with me, that's fine..." says KK, "or we could go straight to the hotel... I'll let you decide." KK smiles at Magdalena, relieved that she doesn't seem all that interested in the man's offer.
She shakes her head. "I don't want anything to do with your 'job.' I'd rather keep my nose clean."
The kid in the suit snorts. "Hey street burp, keep your tits outta this. I said you could come along, not fuck everything up. You gotta lot of room to talk breeder. Prob'ly got lotsa cash an' jewelry an' shit. My mon here, he ain't so priv-a-liged, so why don't you climb down to the streets for a minute, yah?"
Turning to KK, "Your luggage is gone bobo! You flash on this or you want to zero your accounts?"
Magdalena looks back to the pudgy man at the coffee shop. "Maybe another time... But I'm a bit tired, and hot -- and I'd like nothing more than a cold shower and a nap." She eyes him a moment. "I hope you have a good stay on the island... but really, I must be going." She smiles once more and turns her back on him, and says to KK, "It's your choice... me and the hotel -- or the kid and the job."
The kid in the suit snorts "Breeders! Fah!" His companions murmur assent.
The man who used to be Christopher Vey smiles. "I understand," he says, waving a hand. "Unpleasant memories, no doubt. It has been a pleasure speaking with you. Good luck on the island."
"Well, he does raise an interesting question," KK says thoughtfully. "I'll be running out of money pretty soon... unless you're offering me some kind of free ride. Not that I've been much for 'free rides' in the past... but I guess being new here is a good enough excuse..." he adds quietly. "I don't suppose I could take your card and call you later, eh?" he then asks the little suit.
"Job's a Fedex, Burger Man," sneers the kid in the suit. "You wanna feed your breedin' pole 'stead of your gut, thats your gig." He leans forward, "I give you this for free though Burger Man - you can buy a lot more gash with cash, than you can buy food wit' yer dick. Word! Yo!"
The suit's entourage bursts into appreciative laughter.
The suit snaps his fingers and one of his sycophants proffers a card. "You want to come snooping for ducat later on, you get word through my service, hai? An offer from the CEO is shamrock. You don't find one every day."
He turns and starts to walk away. The one holding the card motions for KK to take it, obviously anxious to follow.
"Hey, hey, hey! It was only a question... Just let me finish this and I'll be with you in a minute", KK says as he grabs the card and gets a pen from his backpack. He proceeds to jot his pager number down on the back of the card, and then hands it to Magdalena.
"Call me if you need me, I still owe you one", he says to her before turning around to try and catch up with the "CEO" and his crowd.
The diminutive CEO turns and scowls. "HEY!" he shouts. "Whatthefuck wrong wit' you bucket, mon? You think my business card just some piece o' scrap paper you can jot breeder notes on? You think I jus' give my number out to anybody? You stupider than even a Burger Man got a right to be! Dumb shit!"
"Geez... now I know why I'm not the one wearing a suit", KK mutters under his breath. Then he just stands there quietly for a while, gathering his thoughts. Is this guy for real? Among the many possible retorts, KK finally picks one, and delivers the following through his clenched teeth: "You just gave that card to a complete stranger. If that's how you treat all your important stuff, then let's do business!"
"I," responds the suit, "gave my card to a JOB APPLICANT, Burger Man. That is common BIZNEZ practice, ya? This is a TRANZAC-SHUN between you, the potential employee, and me, the employer. You follow me so far? There is a certain UNDER-STANDING between the two parties involved in the TRANZAC-SHUN. The employer - das me - is admitting to the potential employee that he's interested enough to want the cabrone to call him back. The potential employee - das you - is admitting to the employer that he's interested enough to maybe think about calling. I lose you yet Burger Man? OK. So, whatcho think you are sayin' when you take onna MY biznez cards, embossed and printed on brisol card in black china ink and gold leaf - an EX-EK-YOU-TIVE card Burger Man - a card which has on it the telephone number of my EX-EK-YOU-TIVE secretary you unnerstand - and treat it like a PostIt note? Like when you dug dat pen outta your pack you couldn't be bothered to use any o' the paper you got in there, cuz it so much more fuckin' VAL-YOU-ABLE than my biznez card?"
The suit pauses for a moment, looking inquisitively at KK. Without warning his face contorts into fury.
"I TELL YOU WHAT TH' FUCK IT MEAN SCARAB! IT MEAN THAT YOU AIN'T GOT NO FUCKIN' RESPECT! LIKE YOU FUCKIN' THINK YOU CAN USE MY BIZNESS CARDS FOR FUCKIN' TOILET PAPER TOO? YOU THINK YOU CAN USE THEM TO WIPE YOUR ASS? HUH? YOU THINK THAT FUNNY? WELL I'M NOT LAUGHIN' BURGER MAN! I AIN'T LAUGHIN'! AN' YOU DEAD! YOU FUCKIN' WALKIN' AROUND, BUT YOU DEAD! NOBODY SHITS ON THE CEO AN' GETS AWAY WITH IT! NOBODY DISRESPECTS ME, LEAST OF ALL SOME STREET BURP SCARAB! YOU START PRACTICIN' YOU BEGGING SCARAB AN' MAYBE YOU CAN TALK ME INTO LETTIN' YA DIE A LITTLE EASIER WHEN THE TIME COMES! THEY GONNA FIND YOU IN FUCKIN' PIECES ALL OVER THIS TOWN! NOBODY DISSES ME! NOW TAKE YER LUGGAGE SOCKET AN' START RUNNIN', 'FOR I CARVE YOU UP ON THE STREET HERE AN' NOW!"
As the CEO finishes his tirade his sycophants begin fanning out behind him.
"Tsk, tsk," comments the former Christopher Vey to Magdalena vaguely. "Pissing off the locals is a really bad idea."
"Gotta go!" KK says as he turns around and starts running for his life.
While running he begins to think about how much it'll cost to get out alive
from Al Amarja. Hopefully the CEO brat won't live up to his appearance,
or the cops and customs officials will all be on his side... damn suits
and uniforms, they're all in it together... He sprints off down the
street, leaving the suit and his cronies cursing and threatening in his
wake.
To Be Continued...