Page 9 of Antihero

Underling No. 3 rose to show Devine a pleading email on one of three phones he carried. The head of the German opposition party had been caught frequenting a “massage parlor.” There were photos. What was he to do?

Devine shuffled through scripts in his head, plucked out the best response, and then spoke through his black box to the invisible team standing by to execute his orders and see to his whims. “He should issue a statement: ‘Clearly this is a deepfake. My penis appears too small.’”

Back to the young woman. Something shimmered darkly beneath the surface of her flat eyes, an infectious hesitation that had leapt onto him. She’d experienced some kind of dislocation, a recent trauma no doubt. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled again, a touch drunkenly, as she yanked her top roughly down over her torso.

“It’s okay,” he said, wrenching himself into the present and trying to slow down. Something was wrong within her and, despite his legion wicked impulses, he never took advantage of the afflicted. “What happened?”

She staggered across to tumble onto the bed. “… was … so awful. This girl … she got taken…” She burrowed beneath pillows, hiding her head. She swirled in and out of view—wait, no. That was him.

The full glory of his imbibement kicked in, dolly-zooming his perception. He goggled at the scene before him, recalling now the shambolic party spread throughout the master suite. A German tattoo artist perched in a director’s chair. A trio of Manhattan socialites swanning around behind Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, leaving perfumed wakes of Shumukh by Nabeel. A high peaty scotch Devine didn’t own soaking into the carpet. Two Pekingese dogs prancing about, one of whom had left a tidy arabesque of shit on the shag rug in the corner, the other trapped with the mannequin beneath the coffee table, Devine’s role in the matter a hazy recollection. Though he didn’t smoke, Luke seemed to be holding a lit cigarette and his mouth burned. In the fireplace, a pyre of logs roared. His unbuttoned linen shirt clung to him like Saran Wrap.

It wasn’t that he didn’t remember the chain of events that had gotten him here. It was that the chain of logic that had so compellingly brought this moment into existence no longer held.

His stomach pitched with the plummet. He imagined the feathers fluttering down with him, the sting of melting wax. The windows were grayed with dusk—no, cloudy morning. Moments ago—hours ago?—he’d been peering into the inner workings of the universe, his thoughts resonating with each clockwork twirl. Now there was just chaotic rumbling filling his chest, dense enough to blot out clarity.

He tried to say something but the words felt fragmented, puzzle pieces that wouldn’t fit together. His stomach churned and roiled. Only now did he realize that the engine block of his brain had come apart, scattered across the floor, whirring and clicking, mechanical parts severed from purpose. The darkness was dizzying, vertiginous, rushing through him, leaving him breathless.

The young woman needed help.

More acutely, he needed help.

What had he done?

What else had he done?

And worse: What might he do next?

When he set down the black box and reached for the phone, he noticed the tremor in his hand. Dehydration? Meds? Booze?

Fear.

He had lost control. He hated losing control. It was worse, he realized, than death.

Gnawing at the edge of a thumbnail, his knee jacking up and down, he dialed. His breathing came shallow, irregular.

One ring.

Another.

And then that voice, soothing in its equilibrium: “Do you need my help?”

5Eternal Outsider

Evan sat in his Ford F-150 in a shaded parking spot across the street from the Clark County Firefighters Local 1908 Union Hall. Visible through a water-stained fixed window, the memorial service for his closest friend proceeded. Various folks cycled past the podium and the transmitter he’d hidden beneath the platform lip, offering up their remembrances.

Earpiece screwed in, he streamed the proceedings: “—when guess who charges outta the barracks in his chonies, waving a locked-and-loaded boomstick? But who’s on the roof? Not some muj Santa but the fucking radioman from Operations. Dude screams, almost falls off the roof. Turns out he was up there diddling with the dish when Stojack stormed out and gave him the brown-star cluster.”

Laughter rolled through the earpiece, along with murmured conversations, the clink of bottles, the noise of someone sobbing quietly and receiving comfort. From the other side of the road, Evan noticed the faintest tremble of the windowpane. He could not see the podium from this vantage but he could make out a swath of mourners. Ragged beards on the men, luxuriant hair on the women, a few folks missing limbs. Carrot sticks with dip, cubed orange cheese on Dixie plates, Pabst Blue Ribbon toasts despite the morning hour.

Alone in the truck that Tommy Stojack had built and outfitted for him, Evan listened and observed. The faintest tug at the base of his lumbar on the left side announced itself, a lingering ache from a violent showdown he’d had in a ghost town a couple of months back.

Stretching in the driver’s seat, he looked at the military challenge coin leaning against the dashboard’s instrument cluster. It read NO GREATER FRIEND. NO WORSE ENEMY.

He’d been given it by a woman he’d once helped. More precisely, he’d been given half of it. The other broken piece she’d gifted to Tommy, who’d been lowered into the dirt of the Southern Nevada Veterans Memorial Cemetery last month.

Before he’d died, Tommy had soldered the halves together for Evan.

“—really loved him. He was a crusty bear. Big ol’ softy inside, though. When my … When my niece got raped, he took her out twice a week for a year, taught her to shoot. So let’s all hoist a glass. Fair winds and following seas, you dear, sweet man.”