No Flesh Shall Be Spared Part 25

"In the event of the employee's death or critical injury, all a.s.sets of said employee revert back to Weber Industries and its holdings."

In a nutsh.e.l.l, it meant that when-not if, but when-the Jimbo got himself tagged or injured, all of their a.s.sets-the money, property, stocks, h.e.l.l, even the Jimbo's body itself-was to be returned to the League to do with as they saw fit. One small sentence hidden away in the mouse print at the bottom of the contract made sure that what had once been The League's stayed The League's. It was a flimsy codicil which if the person was smart enough or if he had a lawyer savvy enough-could be broken, but... Jimbos were known for their brawn. Brains were something they didn't exactly have in abundance.

Abruptly, a knock sounded on the heavy wooden door at the far end of the room.

With a grin like that of a cat with an unending supply of canaries, Weber looked up to greet his employees.

Living Forever Learning to Fly The door to the limousine, which brought Cleese from the hotel to the airport, slowly swung open. With his body still feeling tired, he hauled himself out of the dark, luxurious interior. As his boots. .h.i.t the sidewalk with a thud, he sighed heavily-feeling the weight of his body more than usual. The air outside the car was hot and humid. The atmosphere felt suffocating and inhospitable. Heat vapor could be seen s.h.i.+mmering off of the pavement a short distance away. He reached back into the limo and hurriedly grabbed his bag so that he could get inside the air-conditioned airport as quickly as possible.

"It's been a pleasure driving you, Sir," his driver, Charles, said as he held the door open and smiled. The man was older, black, and had salt and pepper hair cut close to his head. Cleese felt glad that he'd been hired to drive him. The guy was sharp and had made an already difficult trip a lot easier. He'd been all too accommodating and, to Cleese's relief, he didn't talk much. Charles had managed to get him where he'd wanted to go and to get him fed without too much trouble or conversation. Being efficient and quiet were both pluses in Cleese's book.

Since his match, he'd lost the ability to move around in public with any sort of anonymity. In the past, he'd always had a way of making people nervous. It was as if the sheep suddenly sensed a wolf somewhere in their midst, but were unable to identify exactly where. It was something intangible, but it was enough to garner him his share of their attention. But this... this was different. His face was recognizable now by everyone from children to their grandmothers to the family dog. Lately, it seemed as if crowds followed him wherever he went, which was fine except that they'd sometimes swarm him in a way that was a little like how the UDs behaved in The Pit. Things could get tight and, even though they meant well, his defenses would go up. The last thing he needed was to react poorly to an overzealous fan. It wouldn't do for him to deck someone out of instinct and then come to find out all they wanted was for him to sign something.

This driver had seen to it that incidents like that were kept to a minimum.

As he pulled the strap of his Alice bag over his shoulder, Cleese palmed a hundred dollar bill and shook the driver's hand.

"You sure you don't want me to see you to the gate, Sir?" Charles asked.

"No, man... I think I've got this handled."

"Well, you be careful... both in there," and he nodded his head toward the metal and gla.s.s of the airport terminal, "and out there." It was pretty obvious by the way he'd raised his eyebrows that "out there" meant out on the sand of The Pit.

Cleese chuckled and looked Charles in the eye. "Will do, my friend. Will do."

He let go of Charles' his hand and hitched his bag up over his shoulder. Without any further goodbyes, he headed off toward the terminal door. Already he was catching glimpses out of the corner of his eye of people turning to notice him. It'd all started to follow a familiar pattern. First there was the opening wide of the eyes. Then, there was the dropping of the jaw and the subsequent smile. Finally, the person would turn to whomever they were with and begin whispering excitedly. If he was lucky, it stopped there. If he wasn't, they'd make the walk over and the autograph and photograph requests soon followed. He tried to be understanding and as cooperative as possible, but even after such a short amount of time it had already gotten tiresome and annoying.

He purposefully strode across the sidewalk and the electric doors slid open invitingly, welcoming him into their air-conditioned embrace. Like being wrapped with a cool, wet towel, the air swirled around him and he felt the perspiration that soaked his skin begin to dry. He felt worlds better already; so much so that the awkward meeting with the Three Stooges was becoming a distant, albeit unpleasant, memory.

Well, almost...

At first, he'd been amused by how easy the negotiations had been. Sure, he popped off a little, but for him, that was a given. His mouth had a way of getting him in Dutch, but this time things were different. This time, he had something they wanted. This time, he'd proven himself. This time, he'd made good on the promise of being the commodity they'd thought he was in the beginning.

Then, a thought started itching at the back of his brain. It was slight in the beginning, but as the hours wore on, he realized that they'd been almost too compliant, hadn't they? It was almost as if they'd been willing to agree to just about anything he wanted. He probably could have asked for the moon as well as a b.l.o.w.j.o.b from ol' Monica Johansson herself and they would have gone for it. She probably would've even worked his b.a.l.l.s without complaint.

The question was, why?

Maybe they believed in him.

Maybe they saw his potential.

And maybe they knew he'd probably not live long enough to collect on any of it.

It was an intriguing thought, but one he decided to put out of his head for now. He made a mental note to spend some time considering everything that had occurred some other time; a time when there were no distractions and he could reflect on things more fully. Right now, all he wanted to do was just get back to the compound and spend a night in a familiar bed.

The airport lobby before him was a wide, open s.p.a.ce with a tile floor set in colored squares radiating outward. The ceiling was a cavernous metal framework with banners that welcomed travelers to the airport in several different languages. Hanging like sleeping bats beneath the metal struts, set every fifteen feet or so, were dozens of large televisions. Their placement around the airport was strategic and literally everywhere. High-def images ran the same scenario again and again like plasma-screened deja vu.

As Cleese walked across the foyer, he glanced up and saw multiple images of One, the little girl from his match, splashed across the screens. In ultra slow motion, the Beretta slid into view like a hungry black mamba and the barrel b.u.t.ted up against her little upturned nose. Her eyes crossed in confusion as they focused on the pistol being shoved in her face. Cleese turned away in shame as an abrupt explosion of dark maroon filled the screen.

It was harder than he thought it would be to see himself shoot a child in the face.

Continuing on his way, he saw the smiling face of a newscaster on the screen out of the corner of his eye. The pretty blonde clapped her hands and laughed in delight. Then, to his disgust, the image cut back to a replay of the bullet slamming its way up the kid's nostril and the whites of her eyes blossoming a sudden red. He lowered his head and made a note to avoid looking up until he was out of the airport.

An information booth sat in the middle of the room like a squatter in a tenement. Behind its counter, a middle aged woman in Fifties cat-eye gla.s.ses sat looking tired; the caterpillar from Wonderland come to life. All she needed was a hookah and a mushroom to sit on.

The lobby wasn't too crowded this early in the morning, but as the day wore on, it was sure to become a nightmare. Travelers would come and go, the ebb and flow of their pa.s.sing as sure as the tides. As he moved through the lobby, more heads turned and gawked at him. Word certainly did get around. He considered himself lucky when he saw the ticket counter he needed and found no line there.

A plain-faced Asian girl was working the desk and she looked up as he stepped up to be helped. Small of frame and wide of smile, her hair was pulled back into a tight bun which left her face looking open and inviting. Her blue uniform looked almost military with the exception of the brightly colored scarf that circled her throat like a floral python. Her nametag read, "Akiko Yamas.h.i.+ta."

"Ohayo gozaimasu," he said and smiled. "I have a reservation that I need to pick up a Boarding Pa.s.s for."

The now familiar look of recognition lit up her face and she smiled a wide and welcoming smile in return. "Do you have a confirmation number, Mr. Cleese?"

Cleese handed her the slip he'd been given back at the hotel and she began busily typing into her computer.

"Ok, well..." she said and smiled that smile again as she picked up a telephone handset. "It would seem that you are expected. I will page an escort to take you to your gate."

Cleese nodded, bowing slightly. He thanked her and stepped to the side of the counter and waited patiently. This new treatment was definitely something he felt he could get used to. Normally, calls to security would have been made by now and, at the very least, undercover guards-most of who were about as unnoticeable as a cat at a dog show-would be lurking nearby. Instead, he was being called "mister" and "sir" and being thanked for his patronage. Celebrity did have its advantages after all.

All of a sudden, he felt a slight tugging at the hem of his jacket. For some reason, he immediately thought of Chikara. He looked down and saw a small boy of maybe eight or nine years old looking up at him. The kid had a round face with a small b.u.t.ton of a nose and wore a knit toque and BMX tee s.h.i.+rt. Puffs of blonde hair poked out at odd intervals around the rim of the cap. He gazed up with the bluest eyes Cleese had ever seen. A mental image of the girl from his match flashed before his eyes and then was gone.

"Ex-excuse me," the boy said.

Hey, at least the kid was polite; many weren't these days.

"Hey there!" Cleese said and smiled. "Can I help you with something?"

"You're Cleese from the WGL, aren't you?" he asked and then looked down toward his shoes. The kid pointed upward toward one of the TVs and quietly said, "You sure look like him."

Cleese set his bag down and squatted in order to be eye to eye with the kid.

"If you promise not to tell anyone, I'll tell you," he said and looked around as if nervous. "You promise?"

The kid nodded his head vigorously, his cap s.h.i.+fting like a bowl on his head as he did.

"Ok, then..." and he leaned in closer. "Yes, I am."

The boy got excited immediately and clapped his hands. Words fell like lemmings from of his mouth.

"OmiG.o.d, I saw you on TV at home too and you were so great! I totally thought you were going to choke during the first round when that girl snuck up on you, but... Man, it was so cool!! I told my best friend, Johnny Mischon from school, that you are my totally favorite fighter now."

The boy's voice had gotten loud and Cleese noticed more and more people were looking his way.

"Listen, Pal, can you keep your voice down, ok?"

"Oh," the kid said and clapped his hand over his mouth and then whispered, "Sorry," through his fingers.

"Thanks, Buddy."

"Cleese," the kid said leaning in, "will you sign something for me? Johnny Mischon ain't never gonna believe I met you."

Cleese looked at him for a moment was struck by how weird his life had become. A short time ago, a kid like this would have avoided him like the plague. He cut an imposing figure and many grownups were oftentimes leery of interacting with him. Kids treated him like Frankenstein. Now... Now, they looked up to him-idolized him.

It was funny how quickly things change.

Cleese fished a League promo card out of the front of his bag and found a Sharpie.

"Ritchie!" a female voice cut in excitedly. "I told you to stay with me. You promised me you wouldn't run off."

Cleese looked up and stared straight into the eyes of a young woman, roughly early thirties, who bore a remarkable resemblance to the kid. She was pretty: blonde hair like his that tumbled across her shoulders, and eyes you could fall into, drown, and feel good about doing so. Her attire was sort of business casual with a large Prada bag slung over one shoulder. The whole look was a carefully constructed facade that was designed to get her noticed.

"Cleese," the boy said, looking down as if he were almost waiting for his mom to steal his little thunder, "this is my mom. Mom, this is Cleese."

For a moment, his previous excitement returned to his face.

"Cleese is a WGL fighter, Mom."

"Yes, Ritchie," she said, running her fingers through her hair in an attempt to straighten it up, "I know. The television has been playing highlights of his match virtually non-stop."

Cleese stood up and bowed at the waist.

"Nice to meet you," he said.

The woman smiled and put one arm around the young boy's shoulder.

"You're quite the media star," she said with a flirtatious pout. It was an obviously calculated move on her part and one that had undoubtedly worked on men before. "I hope Ritchie hasn't been bothering you,"

"No, he's fine."

"Well, we're both big fans of yours. We've enjoyed all of your fights and the last fight was one of the best I've seen."

An internal bulls.h.i.+t detector went off like a fire alarm in his head. He had, after all, only had one fight. The woman was obviously making an attempt to ingratiate herself. It might have helped if she'd done a bit of homework. He was merely a target of convenience. The whole thing made him feel a little played.

Cleese looked down and saw a wave of embarra.s.sment wash over Ritchie's face. He felt sorry for the kid. He knew it was hard to grow up male in the shadow of a single mom. With no dad, he would have little he could call his own-male-wise. In order to survive, he'd have to be tough... and receive a little encouragement.

"Thanks."

Cleese started signing the card and then stopped.

"Ritchie, was it?"

The boy nodded and smiled.

He quickly scribbled, "To Ritchie, I'm glad you're in my corner. Your buddy, Cleese" and handed it to the boy. He was happy when he saw the kid's eyes light up like a neon sign.

The kid's mother plucked the card away from him and looked it over.

"Oh, isn't that great, Ritchie?"

She looked up and smiled again.

"My name's Judith."

"Nice to meet you, Judith," he said and playfully plucked back the card from her and smiled. He handed it back to the kid and ruffled his cap and hair.

"I could sign one of those for you as well, ya know."

She laughed and lightly touched his arm; another calculated move. Cleese liked the kid right off. Mom, however, was quickly becoming a manipulative pain in his a.s.s. He'd seen her type before... in bars. Bra.s.sy and sporting a lethal combination of a severely inflated sense of self and an egotistical sense of ent.i.tlement, she'd made presenting herself to men into an art form. Richie had undoubtedly come about as a result of some bad planning and a few missed periods.

Now, he was little more than a fas.h.i.+on accessory.

Looking down at the kid, he felt all the more sorry for him.

Then, to Cleese's relief, a man in an official looking white s.h.i.+rt walked up and saved him from further interaction with Judith Paininthea.s.s. The dude's hair was cut high and tight and Cleese immediately figured him for ex-military. His posture was a little too straight and his tie was tied a little too perfectly to be anything else. Black epilates and official patches augmented his uniform. A clip-on TSA credential hung like a Christmas tree ornament from his pocket.

"Sir," he said in an authoritative voice, "my name is Paul McDaniel and it'll be my pleasure to escort you to your flight."

Jesus, Cleese thought, what's with everybody calling me 'Sir?'

Cleese excused himself, once again smiled at Judith, and then patted Ritchie on the head.

"Be good, Ritchie," he said. "And tell that Johnny Mischon I said you were The Man."

The boy's face almost split in half from the smile that blossomed there.

As Cleese turned and walked away, he could feel Judith's disappointed gaze heat up his back. For some reason, he was sure her ego would live.

Paul the Security Guy led the way past the metal detectors and x-ray machines and on toward the departure gates. About midway down the main corridor, he turned and, pulling at the keychain connected to his belt by a retractable cord, used a key to unlock a side door.

"This hallway will get us to your gate faster and help avoid any unwanted attention, Sir," Paul said. He held the door as Cleese walked through. Cleese got a good vibe off the guy and relaxed a bit. The dude just seemed like someone you'd want to have some beers with; someone who'd done his service when things got tight and was now riding out his time keeping order in the civilian world. Cleese kind of respected that.

"Sir, if I might say something?" Paul asked.

"You can say anything you want there, Paul, as long as you stop calling me 'Sir.'"

"Fair enough," he said and smiled.

"Before doing this security gig, I was in the Marines..."

"I sort of figured that out for myself, Paul. You don't strike me as someone who set out to be Airport Security. No offense."

"None taken. It's a paycheck, ya know?"

Cleese laughed.

"I do indeed, Paul."

"Which brings me to my point."