Page 84 of Lone Wolf

Permanent Damage

IT’S CALLED THE HOMEOWNER’S ASSOCIATION, the flyer screamed from the door to the Castle Heights lobby. SO LET’S ASSOCIATE!!!

Standing on the landing of the dim garage, enervated in the wake of Allman’s nihilist ramblings, Andre’s misery, and the Wolf’s competent vigilance, Evan was unsure what he was in the mood for, though he sure as hell knew it wasn’t weaponized cheeriness punctuated by an excess of exclamation points.

Smaller lettering beneath declaimed: Crafts ’n Chit-Chat at the Rez of Your Current HOA Prez! Tear tabs at the bottom, scissored into hanging chads, provided date, time, and Lorilee’s apartment number. All but one of the tabs had been torn off. Was it possible that a full dozen residents were desperate enough to partake of crafts ’n chit-chat? Or had Hugh Walters ripped them off himself in order to sabotage his nemesis? Either way, the escalating machinations over nominal political control of Castle Heights wore on Evan’s frayed nerves.

Setting his jaw, he pressed through the door.

The lobby was tranquil save for the faintest bump of Chicano rap from the direction of Joaquin’s security station. As Evan neared, Joaquin tilted forward on his chair and slapped at the radio, changing the station to golden oldies.

“Evening, Mr. S.”

As Joaquin adjusted his oversize blazer, Evan spotted a neck tattoo peeking out from his shirt collar. He felt an added measure of respect for the young man. That kind of ink meant Joaquin had some street in him. He’d always played his role here, doing his job and doing it well. Working an hourly wage made it likely he lived in a multigenerational household, maybe with his grandparents, a kid at home, as much an impostor in this world as Evan was.

“Put your music on,” Evan said. “Until someone complains.”

Joaquin summoned the elevator remotely for Evan, scratched at his throat where the tie chafed. “Someone already complained.”

“Who?”

Joaquin hesitated.

“I won’t rat you out,” Evan said.

“Mr. Walters. He, uh, registered his objections when he laid these out.” Joaquin gestured at an array of bright materials resting before him on the laminate surface of the curved reception desk.

Evan veered from his path to the elevator to take a closer look.

Glossy custom buttons featuring a bus-stop-worthy portrait of Hugh Walters’s face, along with pens sporting a campaign slogan: THE RIGHT HUGH OF LEADERSHIP!

A rare burn of acid reflux singed the back of Evan’s throat. “Good God.”

Joaquin allowed a half grin. “I just work here, man.”

Evan picked up a pen. Lettered down the tube: STRONG, STEADY LEADERSHIP.

The lobby door opened, Lorilee stumbling in from the porte cochere riding a gust of wind. Red, white, and blue balloons bobbled around her, a dedicated micro-cloud. Each one featured her visage, inflation distorting her screen-printed face to even greater rubbery proportion than its Botox-enhanced real-world counterpart. Given the flurry of movement, it took some effort for Evan to piece together the sentence emblazoned across the blue balloons: LORILEE’S YOUR SALVATION … FOR THE HOMEOWNERS ASSOCIATION! In case the rhymed couplet proved insufficient, the reds and whites featured individual messages: KUDOS TO YOU FOR VOTING FOR COMPASSION! KUDOS TO YOU FOR VOTING YOUR TRUTH! KUDOS TO YOU FOR DEMANDING THE LEADERSHIP YOU DESERVE!

There were more kudoses but he’d lost the will to keep reading.

“A sandwich board was too unwieldly?” he said.

“Huh?” Lorilee batted at the balloons, clearing a lane to oxygen, emerging from the hydra-headed confusion. “Ev! I was hoping you could come to my special—”

“No.” He stepped backward into the elevator, which had swooped down to his rescue. The doors closed blissfully around him, and he exhaled.

A black-and-white version of Hugh’s portrait peered out from commercially printed Post-its spattered around the floor buttons: DON’T FORGET TO EXERCISE YOUR RIGHT TO VOTE AT THE BALLOT BOX THIS SUNDAY! A green check mark ticked the box next to Hugh’s name.

A flute-intensive Muzak rendering of Handel’s Water Music accompanied Evan and the colorless Hughs up. Evan tried four-square breathing to ease his aggravation.

It didn’t.

He strode down the corridor of the twenty-first floor.

A bright yellow advertising hanger dangled from his doorknob.

It featured a glossy rendering of pantsuited Lorilee peering intrepidly into the middle distance, face lit sunnily, hair lifted behind her as if by a headwind. Her fists were set on her hips in a show of resoluteness. Her augmented chest was puffed further with intention, Washington crossing the Delaware. Distinguished script read, LORILEE SMITHSON. TAKING US INTO THE FUTURE … TOGETHER!