They Tell Me I'm The Bad Guy Read online

  I wiped my hand on my pants. "Shit like what?" I said, ready to burn him from the inside out at any second.

  "Uhhh, that," he pointed.

  I followed his finger and finally saw it. We were up on top of the twelve-storey Sudiak Building down by city hall. On the other side of town, bright as shit and at least a block wide, burned a huge fucking fire. Right around the Wilmont Avenue area.

  "Holy fuck," I said. "Holy fuck, man, I did that?"

  "Yeah, you did. I think it's a perfect opening act for the return of Das Biest von Feure. You feel me? It's time you got back to it."

  I turned my throbbing head back to the kid. "The fuck did you just call me?"

  "Guys like you can't hide forever," he said casually. "No need to be hostile, either. I come with tight-ass news for you. Four days, you go to the airport and get on the plane the ticket says." He winged a sealed manila envelope at my feet. "You're lucky, man, you almost got left out."

  I let the envelope stay where it landed. "Who the fuck are you?"

  "Name's Kamikaze. Know it and remember it because we're gonna be workin' together."

  "The fuck I am," I laughed with the taste of bacon-flavored vomit in my mouth. "Man, I don't know who the--"

  "How'd you like that bug in your drink, by the way?" he asked with a smug-ass look on his face. "Ugly lookin', right?"

  Shit. Was he psychic, too? The flying could have been with telekinetics. Mind shit. I hated that more than fucking fliers.

  He grinned at me. "Yeah, look at your face. Don't throw up thinking about it, now. Anyway, I don't like doing this, but the same person who did that's got no problem driving you and your people right out your fucking mind if you don't show up for this. You got a sister, right, and she's got a family? And your ex-con buddy?"

  That shit honed what focus I had like a laser beam. No mind shit from him. Third party. He could probably only fly. Fuck, I shouldn't have drank so much.

  The kid liked hearing himself talk. "Now, I don't want it to go down like that, but that's what's on the table. I hope you don't look at it that way, though, because that's not why I'm here at all. I'm really coming to you as the bearer of opportunity and an admirer, man. You and the Chaotische Sechs in Europe were epic. The jobs you guys pulled were balls-out crazy. An outstretched hand, that's what I'm offering you. Now, the threat is real, don't mistake that, but at the same time don't get hung up on it. If you play everything professional like I know you will, then we got no problems. We all part on good terms, and I throw as much work your way as I can. I like watching shit burn too."

  I let 'Kamikaze' feel what heat I could put in the moving air blowing up the side of the Sudiak and put a shitload of effort into not slurring when I told him, "Leave me the fuck alone. I don't know you."

  The kid smiled. "Man, you are old school. Everybody I deal with is more like, 'how much money am I gonna get,' but you don't even care about that. You're cautious. You a gangsta, man. But, seriously, I'm tellin' you don't sweat the family thing. That's just to make sure everybody's paying attention, and it lets you know that this is a serious opportunity, not some trife shit unworthy of a man like you's time."

  I spit out the taste of vomit onto the roof. "Or I could just melt that gay-ass suit to your skin and sear your fucking lips and ears off right here. Try flying away from that shit."

  The kid's hands went into his coat and came out with two nine millimeter Berettas. Black, of course. He didn't aim them my way, just let me see them. "This isn't play time, Donnie. This is serious."

  I fucking laughed at him. "So now I explode the bullets in those clips and blow your goddamn hands off. How fucking stupid are you?"

  He floated back up into the black night, guns still drawn. "Get on the plane," he said. "Don't make the mistake of discounting this and make everybody sorry. Read what's in that envelope and you'll see this isn't amateur night."

  "Fuck you," I replied, dizzy as shit watching him go.

  He shook his head and put one gun away so he could put his ear buds back in. "Sober up before you come, man. Lay low. Don't get caught for that shit downtown."

  "Fuck you," I told him again, knowing he couldn't hear me over the music.

  "See you this weekend." He took off flying with a rush of air like a jet airplane.

  I watched the fire burning from the rooftop. Sirens echoed through the dark. Fuck me, man. I hoped nobody died. The last thing I needed was to be put on trial because some passed-out tweakers or crack heads burned to death in one of those buildings.

  "Fucking shit," I cursed at myself. The column of smoke hung above the town, glowing amber from the street light.

  I propped my head up on the concrete lip of the Sudiak so I could just lay there and watch while I scaled the fire back gradually, letting it shrink at a pace that could probably pass for the firefighters just doing their job. It took a long-ass time and made my headache five times worse. I also threw up over the edge of the Sudiak and got to see what vomit looked like dropping from a hundred feet.

  When it looked like firefighters didn't need my help anymore, I opened up the envelope Kamikaze had given me. It had a ticket for an American Airlines flight out of Cincinnati/Kentucky International. First Class. A yellow sticky note attached to a fake Ohio driver's license with my picture and the name Clive Kimball said a car would be waiting to pick me up when I arrived. He had also included a typed letter.

  Mr. Donald Guillory,

  We would like to bring you into the loop on a pre-plan for a unique opportunity in an action-oriented team environment. Only those who can truly leverage what they bring to the table will succeed, and your expertise will be invaluable. You will be compensated for your time, and accommodations will be provided for the three days you attend. We look forward to your participation in this and future endeavors.

  'What the ancients called a clever fighter is one who not only wins, but excels in winning with ease.' - Sun Tzu, The Art of War

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  My head swirling with vertigo, I wondered how the fuck this kid knew who I was? I used aliases a lot back in the day. And on top of that, he knew I was running around with Jurgen Chaotischer in Europe? What the fuck? Who was this kid?

  I stared at the dying fire on Wilmont for a while, just in disbelief at how fucking stupid I had been to flare one up while drunk, then rolled away from the ledge onto my back to settle my stomach. Fuck, man, I hated this shit. A bullshit letter and a plane ticket; what the fuck? I would burn somebody's ass for digging me up.

  As soon as I figured out how to get down off the damn roof.

  And where I'd dropped my fucking keys.

  Chapter 4

  Questions and Lies

  Twenty-nine hours after Kamikaze left my ass on the roof, I sat in the office of my boss's boss, Chuck Ruiz, in an ironed shirt, tie and everything to interview for head machine operator at the factory. It had been twenty-two hours since I had sworn I would never drink again and eighteen since I had found out the pulled five bodies out of the burnt wreckage on Wilmont Avenue. That was about halfway to Psycho Silvy's number in Chicago.

  Chuck had a ketchup stain on his shirt pocket as if he had tried to cram a hotdog in there.

  "Why do you want this position, Don?" he asked me.

  I wanted more money, why the hell else? "I'm looking to take on a bigger role in the company," is what came out of my mouth. I had heard it on TV.

  "Is that all?"

  "Well, I don't mind the extra pay, either." Idiot.

  When Will had finally shown up to unlock the roof door on the Sudiak from the inside, he swore up and down that he had never told anybody what I could do or who I had been in Europe. I pushed him until he nearly threw me out of his car, but his story didn't change. So more than likely he was telling the truth, which put me in a whole new mess of shit.

  "What are some of your short-term goals?" Chuck asked. The air conditioning vent overhead kicked on and started gently blowing at his noticeably thinning hair
.

  "I'd like to get out of an apartment and buy a house," I answered, thinking about one of the limp body bags paramedics had carried out of the Liberty Bell Motel on the news. "I'd like to take part in the Leadership Program the home office offers for managers, and maybe go back to school and get a degree."

  Chuck nodded. "Always good to hear. What degree would you pursue?"

  Jesus, I felt like I was going to come out of my skin. "A business degree. Like business management."

  Chuck's large head went down. He scrawled notes with his free company pen.

  After Will told me he would smear my ass on the pavement if I kept accusing him of shit, I had used my phone to get online and hit up the Post-Human Database website. Turned out 'Kamikaze' had an entry and was wanted for a couple of armed robberies in Washington State. No fatalities; he had shoved a gun in a guy's face but never pulled the trigger. And all he could do according to the information people had put on the page was fly. The kid was a piss-ant nobody who had no fucking business employing a psychic for that centipede trick and threatening a guy like me.

  "And where in the company would you see yourself using that degree, Don?"

  "In management. In shipping management."

  "We don't have many openings there. Just to let you know, those positions typically only come open when someone retires." Chuck sounded like he really didn't give a shit.

  "Okay," I nodded.

  The Database had come up with forty-nine confirmed and ninety-seven possible/rumored matches for 'telepath.' Just in the United States. That was a lot of people who could fuck with my mind with that whole bug thing. The ones I checked didn't seem to have any connection with Kamikaze, either. They were all women, too, which was pretty typical. Psychic stuff and being able to do stuff with the mind turned up mostly in women; guys mostly got the physical powers, strength and all that. I caught a lot of shit back in the day for having what was pretty much a mind power.

  Chuck flipped to another of the three pieces of paper before him. "Well, Don, I'll be honest, your production levels are just above the minimum we're looking for. As you know, we've always got an eye on that cycle time, so my question is, do you think you would be able to inspire others to meet and exceed their production goals to make that happen?"

  "Yes, sir. My numbers, well, my numbers are getting thrown off because I've just become used to the job. I've been doing it for four years now and it's getting to where I feel like I need something different. I need a new challenge, and I want to take on a bigger role in the company."

  "So compared to someone with higher numbers, what makes you the more qualified candidate for the position? What would be the benefit of hiring you over them?"

  Fuck. You. Chuck.

  Before I had given up on the Database, I had typed in 'Das Biest von Feure.' The same one paragraph entry that had been on there for years still came up: Ability to manipulate molecular activity to create heat and self-sustaining fires. Real Name: Unknown. Date of Birth: Unknown. Country of Origin: Unknown. (Rumored to be Germany, Netherlands). Height: approx. 6'. Weight: Unknown. Eye Color: Unknown. Group Affiliations: The Chaotishe Sechs. Last seen during the Second London Blitz. Presumed dead.

  Thank God.

  While Chuck eyed me, my eyes searched around the room for an answer longer than they should have. My brain went to wondering if someone had gotten me on camera being carried to the top of the Sudiak. "I think that I bring a better attitude to the position. I get along with everyone very well; I know how to talk to them and they know I'm a stand-up guy."

  "And that translates to you being a better supervisor?" Chuck said dickishly.

  "I think the . . . it, it makes me better suited to be a leader because I'm willing to listen to them and put myself out there for them. That, I think, inspires people to do better."

  Chuck made another note on his pad. He leaned back in his black padded seat. "One of the main things we're looking for in a Lead Machine Operator is someone willing to go that extra mile for the company. Name a time that you made a suggestion to improve an existing procedure."

  I had nothing. "Including previous jobs?" I asked lamely.

  Chuck nodded his large head slightly.

  "When I worked at a mechanic shop after high school, I suggested a few new package deals we could offer to customers. It was basically bundling services like a discount on a lube job when you buy an oil change, free carwash with a state inspection, shi--'scuse me, stuff like that."

  "And what was the result of that?"

  "My boss took my suggestions and put them on the board. Within a month, we had increased business by four or five thousand dollars." Bullshit. Never happened.

  "Was that a lot?"

  "For the size of the garage, yes."

  "Describe yourself with five words or phrases."

  I don't even remember the bullshit I made up to answer this one.

  "Have you ever held a position where you had people under you?"

  "I haven't yet. I'm hoping this will get me started."

  He went on asking me all kinds of shit about what my thoughts were on the kanban system for the stations and how I would improve it, anything I saw as frequent problems with the WIPs, if I was fluent in Spanish, all that kind of shit.

  Finally, he looked at me kind of emotionless and just said, "Tell me why I should hire you out of all the candidates? What do you have that they don't?"

  I leaned forward and tapped my finger on his desk. "I can guarantee you that no one wants this job more than I do. I'll do whatever it takes to succeed in it. If you want me to work overtime, I'll work overtime. If you need me to come in holidays, I'll come in with a smile on my face. I'm looking to move up and move out of where I'm at. And I'll put more effort into it than anybody else."

  Chuck made a note.

  "Anything else you'd like to add before we finish up?"

  "Not that I can think of, no."

  "Do you have any questions for me?"

  "No."

  "Okay." Chuck stood. I stood. He shook my hand.

  "Thanks for coming in, Don."

  "Thank you."

  I shut Chuck's door behind me and stared out at the production floor. He was a dick. I didn't 'improve procedures' because nobody listened to me. And I was just there to work, not to reorganize the goddamn company or put new policies in place. I didn't get paid for that. Management did.

  I pushed through the steel doors outside and threw my wadded ball of interview clothes onto my backseat. It was hot in the parking lot, but I couldn't feel it. The interview had been bullshit and was stacked against me from the start. Chuck didn't want to hire me. It was all a bunch of bullshit. It didn't matter what I had said or done, it wouldn't have made a difference. I lit a cigarette and fumed before I punched back in for work and put my brain on the other problem I had.

  Five people were dead because of me. My sister might have been in danger. Just in a couple of fucking days and a couple of stupid choices. Fuck, man. And then I realized I'd lit the cigarette in public in broad daylight with my powers instead of my lighter. I was fucking losing it.

  I got a buddy to pick up my Saturday shift and put in for bereavement time with human resources to get Monday and Tuesday off for whatever the hell Kamikaze had planned. Will stayed with me most of the weekend. He would keep his phone on him like a rash for the next few days; if I gave him the word he would drive like a bat out of hell to Wooster to keep tabs on my sister.

  Saturday morning, I had the barber give me a short buzz cut that made the thinning hair on top of my big head less noticeable. At home, I over did a hard workout with the dusty weight set under my bed to try and give what I had a little definition as it would fool people into thinking I wasn't a lazy bastard.

  And I pulled my old fireproof suit out of the closet.

  "You think I should bring the costume?" I asked Will Saturday afternoon.

  He ripped open a bag of Doritos, crushing half of them. "Are you wanting to wear, like,
the whole outfit?"

  "I don't know. Maybe I should bring it. For all I know, the job is tomorrow, not just a planning session. I don't want to be the only dumb motherfucker in his jeans."

  The suit I had from the European days was a lightweight, dark burgundy fiberglass weave invented by Jurgen Chaotischer. Technology had just now catching up to him on its design. I had matching fiberglass and meta-aramid fiber burgundy and yellow gloves with removable fingertips and a pair of thick boots lined with the same type of heat shielding they used on stock cars. Up to around a thousand degrees, I was good to go, but even though I couldn't feel the heat from having all that on, I had to make sure to take in a lot of fluids so I didn't dehydrate. I had sold the non-descript oxygen tank and breathing apparatus that went along with the suit three years before when I needed cash and I had lost the skull helmet in London, so if I got out of hand in a burning building there would be nothing for me to breathe. But that probably wouldn't happen.

  "I don't know, man," Will said. "That would fill a whole suitcase, wouldn't it?"

  "Yeah. I only got one."

  He wiped Dorito cheese on his shirt. "Fuck it, bring it with you. Give me your card, and I'll go pick you up another suitcase."

  I stared long and hard at the suit. "All right. The card's in my wallet on the dresser there. Get something cheap but pretty big."

  "Just like your mother, got it. You need anything else while I'm out?"

  "Yeah, asshole, get me a case of bottled water. I'll bring a few so I don't dehydrate."

  "You want anything else to amp you up?" he asked me. He was talking about pills, PCP or speed or that kind of thing that some guys in the business used to get their powers really ramped to new heights. I'd been known to use pills back in the Europe days.

  "No, just the water, man."

  He asked me if I was sure. I told him I was.

  I ate donuts until I thought I would puke to build up my reserves while watching the television. I didn't really hear the words or see the pictures. I thought more about what would be waiting for me. My elbows, chest and back were starting to feel sore from working out. God, I was out of shape.