04.23.2008 / EP. 3
Through the Cold and Dark
It was pouring rain and pelting sleet. Hail descended. A visitation, Milly thought. Through the darkness, water pounded the roof of her car and bolts of ice savaged the hood. But beautiful fractal splash patterns formed in puddles beside the road. Sheets of water blocked her path. Milly slowed. Blue and red neon ads winked alternately across the water like visitors from another planet, offering enticement. Milly reached for the camera in her glove compartment. She changed her mind. Too dangerous. And she was in a hurry. Art photos could wait. She swallowed three Tylenol instead.
At a red light, she flipped down her mirror. I look like hell, she told herself. I’m married and I don’t want to be, she thought. I’m racing on the expressway with a ten-ton headache. It’s the middle of the night and I’m working, because a powerhouse contributor to the Governor’s war-chest thinks she can call me anytime. And I don’t even like Pam. More rain, sleet and hail. And another Tylenol. Very mature, Milly thought. You’ve come a long way, babe. The money is the upside. But would Pam reciprocate if I called at 3 in the morning? Not a chance.
I’m a mess, Milly thought. She applied lipstick quickly and a hint of gloss and shadow. She put the peddle to the floor. She could be safe in the morning. Now she was in a hurry.
Milly parked around the corner from the legislative centre. It was illegal, but so what? Let the Governor’s office pay the fine. She’d use the walk to settle down and assess the scene. Her heels clacked on the pavement. She took a deep breath. Paint a smile on your face, babe. Get into the rhythm. It’s show time.
The legislature of New York State had its administrative heart, so the brochures said, in the Dennis Quall building, a soaring office tower that glowered smugly over a sandstone replica of the Parthenon. The business of government took place in the Dennis Quall; the legislature met in the Parthenon, as it was called. Which brought a smile to Milly’s face. Administration didn’t have heart. It also didn’t have architectural taste. Everybody hated the Dennis Quall. It enshrined inefficiency and false grandeur like twisted strands of crepe DNA. And the New York Parthenon was as remote as the moon from an Athenian temple, the latter being the home of a goddess, the former the shelter of greed and conspiracy.
Milly admitted that Albany wasn’t at its best in a downpour before dawn in October. The local slums were a ragged landscape of crumbling brick and rusted fire escapes. An icy gust forced Milly to clutch at her collar. She was soaked. The hopeless gathered in these urban ruins at night or in the narrow parkland that surrounded the legislative centre. They gathered to buy oblivion. In contrast, Milly supposed, to the homeless, who traded for warmth anything they’d begged or stolen during the day. And if they had nothing else, they traded themselves. The result was the same. This was Albany. Forget the tourist posters that exalted flowers and gardens and towering red maples. That was the idyll, before the land was stolen from the Indians. Now Albany was glorious and free, aka addict land. The pretty maples were gone. They’d become gnarled and stunted. They couldn’t breathe. They saw hopelessness behind every shrub, like elderly and diseased widowers who refuse to live any longer. Perennials, cheerfully imported to Albany by rosy-cheeked gardeners, refused to grow. There hadn’t been perennials here for 20 years. Just annuals, bedded every May, happy to die after a few weeks. As Milly turned the corner, a barrage of icy knives stung her face. The artificial glow of the Dennis Quall building loomed above her like a smug, polished advertisement commanding her obedience.
Troops surrounded the legislative centre. No, thought Milly, they were the Governor’s security services. The patches were different, but the attitude the same. They were men trained to kill, who stood in a threatening ring about the Dennis Quall and its displaced brother, the Parthenon, weapons drawn. They were dressed in camouflage. They squawked into microphones in the chill morning air like irritated parrots. Pam said it was a burglary, Milly thought. Why are the troops here?
New York’s state legislature sat on an elevated landform carved by ancient glaciers. Representatives and senators had perspective, said the architect in public. They saw into the future. In private, less laudatory, he continued that they preferred the past and wanted the practical advantage of fighting their enemies from a height. They also liked luxury. The state congress and senate spared little expense. The initial, prize-winning idea was to duplicate the Parthenon in a garden, artfully decorated with shrubs, trees, ponds, and electronic surveillance. Legislators could exchange the deep thoughts necessary to their profession, while – for security purposes – nobody except their ten best friends listened in. But the Parthenon wouldn’t contain the apparatus of modern government. Whence the soaring glass Dennis Quall building. The architect had won an international competition for the design. It followed that everyone condemned to inhabit the building cursed him daily. There wasn’t enough of anything, from light through power outlets to chairs. It was reputed that throughout the Parthenon and Dennis Quall were scattered electronic eyes and ears, but even these weren’t sufficient to their task. Which was the legislature’s saving grace. Its incompetence was its strength. Privacy was an effort, but not insurmountable. I’m babbling to myself and it’s the middle of the night, thought Milly, but only fools burgle a building where every movement is recorded.
The military shifted their feet as Milly approached, hips swinging, a pneumatic blonde, 6’5″, drop dead gorgeous, tousled and unimpressed by their show of force. This wasn’t part of their emergency protocol. She didn’t stop. “Touch me and it’s your job,” she purred. “I have a world-class hangover. My feet hurt. I’ve had three hours sleep and just married an asshole. I am seriously annoyed. Get in my way. Please.”
To herself she added, I’ll throw up on the first person who talks to me. She decided to keep her gun in her purse. She refused the metal detector, but submitted to a retinal scan. A guard called upstairs for instructions. Milly could hear Carrie shouting through his earphones.
“See Ms Blythe on the tenth floor,” stammered the youngster who looked pale and frightened. Or he comes from Nebraska, thought Milly. They all look like children.
Carrie Blythe was the fierce, freckle-faced pixie who commanded the Governor’s security. Her appearances were deceiving. When she looked serene, she was toxic. A smile meant contempt. It was as though her parents, Irish immigrants, had mistranslated the book of facial expressions. They were all there, but in the wrong place. Milly treated her as an untaught savage with mismatched exterior and interior. It worked well. They were friends, insofar as Milly knew what the word meant.
Carrie met Milly at the elevators. She seemed rested and cheerful. Milly was jealous and wondered how Carrie managed the trick. In ten years, come to the circus and see Milly the blonde cow with haggard eyes, dewlap and wrinkles, Milly thought. While Carrie struts on stage, all pert and perky, a 110 lb dysfunctional gymnast. Unless there’s more to her eternal youth than luck. Like she knew something would happen tonight. “Who are the new kids downstairs?” Milly asked. More fresh-faced young men roamed up here. They sported shiny new guns and dark glasses, talked crisply into microphones, imitating the movies they’d seen on the weekend. The boys came close, but backed quickly away. Carrie plucked absently at her red hair. Wheat in a sunset field, thought Milly. What the hell am I doing here? I’m writing ads now. “Got any Tylenol?” she asked. Carrie gave her a couple. Her hands were steady. Her brown eyes probed. Carrie belongs with these two-legged Alsatians, thought Milly. And she’s the alpha; they’re terrified of her. “What are you thinking?” Carrie asked.
“I’m thinking you didn’t answer my question,” Milly replied.
“Them? They’re a new team,” said Carrie.
“I thought you moved out of security. You work with Fred Beaudine on the campaign.”
“I have a few security duties.”
“Those being?”
“Never mind,” Carrie’s freckles broadened into a wry grin. She shrugged. “The right ones,” she added. Forensic experts searched the rooms. Carrie watched the process absently. Milly waited. Carrie would explain when she was ready. She tossed the contents of a mug into the nearest waste basket. “The coffee here stinks. Let’s find breakfast.”
Milly shook her head. “It’s the middle of the night. And while I’m here, I want to check my office.”
“Later.”
Milly studied the armed troops, patrolling with pistols drawn. “You’re the boss,” she said.
April 25th, 2008 at 9:52 am
Is the Chinese spy a James Bond type? Can’t wait to see if he’s a pawn of the Chinese government or has a mind of his own. I prefer the latter. Give him some brains and brawn and money and good looks. You never know how far a man like that can go. Even better if there are two of them and one is a beautiful woman.
April 26th, 2008 at 6:10 pm
Anatole must have his wires crossed. The Chinese aren’t trained to think for themselves. That’s why they’ll implode. It might take 20 years, but no way they’ll come up with a James Bond.
April 28th, 2008 at 8:28 am
Max, the Chinese have had some of the world’s best spies for many years, why else could they infiltrate so deeply into the USA?? I think they have more than one Mr. Bond…
April 29th, 2008 at 11:31 am
Jodi, too true. And the spies are probably in universities or business, which gives them more freedom than politics. I see the Chinese trusting only their own, so Obama, Clinton and Mc aren’t Manchurian candidates. But come on now, do you really think Chinese culture trains people to think for themselves? People are partly products of where they’re from. Lots of obedient and attentive gnomes, but not much creativity. Of course innovation may be overrated. What’s really poking Milly in the novel here? Is she a China lover?