The Adjuster’s ultra-focused eyes slid beneath his still black brows, casting from onyx to amber under the dimming faux candlelight. Lisa and the sweetheart voice, a girl unnamed behind them, who Drake was not interested in, as she was only a “6,” continued their conversation, with a type of giggle that told of a tryst to come later in the night. Drake smirked, “Plane Jane, there, I’ll give her a kindly adjustment—the best in the sub-par arsenal against the universal fear—for being Lisa’s wing girl.”
“Ain’t the beer cold,” came the blubbery exclamation of Birthday Dad behind them. To this the Adjuster rolled his eyes, “Oxygen should not be free, Mister Brett.”
You know, “I talk about you to the men at the range, the good ones, shit-head adjusters that they are. Not by name, mind you. You are my edge. I speak of a Scraplander who I trade information with—a man too good to be my informant, to honestly meek to be weak. ‘Shoot a knife man,” they say, invoke the ancient 21 Foot Rule,’ that’s what they say. ‘Not me,’ I tell them. ‘The Lone Ranger had Tonto, so Adjuster Brule has Scrapo.’ Drake then leaned closer as his eyes caught their meal on the way, “Are you, a Scraplander, Mister Brett? I never have checked your I.D. We met before the UA mandate.”
Brett reached into the side pocket of his cargo pants, slid fore the wallet, opened it on the table, as the tray stand was being set up by Brittany for the steaming plates of beef and fish, and began sliding out his Old School Real ID. Drake’s hand covered his, “Well enough. Eat up, Sir. Here is that ace waitress, Miss Brittany, a soul for sore eyes who Melville wished he could have spent a year with on Typee.”
The skinny-legged, golden-skinned, man-bunned bar-back was shaking with nerves behind Brittany, until Drake calmed him with a mini-round, a blue adjustment credit, “Here, Slick, a plug in for that nice earbud to get you right.”
“Than, thank, you, ah, Sir,” quivered the poor put upon fellow.
Brittany served out the plates, touching Brett on his frozen shoulder, stiff-arm and dead hand each once, reassuring him of her Old School fascination, looking to his hands as she set down Drake’s plate and said, “My father was a mechanic, before that was automated. He had hands like that. Do you still work, Mister Brett?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” came his slave reply, the suck-up wants an attaboy bending of the social knee that kept him in barter, both out of the Machine and out of the Scraplands.
She stood, with a fourth calming hand on his shoulder, watching him slice the prime rib on the end, not even checking it but starting with the crisp fat, “What kind of work?” she said with a sweet, level voice.
“Meat cutter. They used to call us butcher’s in my dad’s day. Some folks don’t want the prepackaged cuts; they want it fresh. I work for one of those people.”
She then touched his dead rotary watch and nodded, “Never would have guessed, meat well-done and all. Would you bring me a custom cut one day? I get off just before dinner on the weekends—Mom’s the manager. She doesn’t like me here with the weekend drunks.”
He nodded, “A cut for her too. What do you prefer?”
She grinned in glee, “I’ve never had a custom cut—Mom talks about it. A Delmonico and a fillet! Friday, tomorrow. Mom will broil them. Mom’s my roommate—my BFF.”
“I’ll be here at 5:45,” said Brett, by rote, obedient to fool in such instances.
“Amen,” soothed Drake, “three of God’s good souls breaking bread in a real home kitchen. Things are looking up, Mister Brett.”
Brittany made off to attend to Lisa and Plane Jane, as the adjuster gingerly addressed his rockfish and Brett began horsing down his beef in small crispy bites ears keened for his instructions.
‘I’m his man now. One more shift, then out of the deep fryer and into the oil I go.’
The adjuster addressed him with the fork, turned short, rather than the knife along the center line, “Mister Brett, congratulations on the weight loss. You were quite stout when we met. Not a long lean squib like me, you carried it. But you’d never guess what I said to Ryan at Baynes boxing when he pointed you out as a knife instructor.”
“I will cut that fat fuck to pieces, is what I bet you said.”
“You have it again,” sat back Drake—“uncanny. What, its been twenty years—I was still with the Old Job then. That was before UA; before fake was official.” The adjuster leaned more closely, tapping his wrist phone with his fork. Back then, “Ryan, Baynes—God rest their souls, having gone to their final reward—they were the Real Deal. You and I were the Real Deal. Now its just us.”
Brett sensed it was time, “You have an assignment that is above the chain of responsibility, outside the hierarchy?”
“Yes, Mister Brett—can’t be spoken of. Not least because every adjuster is adjusted; minimally sure. Back in the days of the proto-vax, doctors and nurses would fake their injections. We can’t use that door—long ago closed. But, we are minimally adjusted—the good ones. The fuck-ups are adjustment basket cases. We occasionally have to adjudicate that.”
That was said in such a dark tone that Brett knew that his crypto-boss had been involved in silencing fellow adjusters. He was dealing with a man who was effectively an Internal Affairs mind cop.
‘This will end badly. Enjoy the steak.’
“Mister Brett,” hissed Drake, with some venom, “I just let you in to the snuff vault behind the peep show, and you are still able to enjoy that pre-cut, burnt steak?”
He looked up and met those piercing eyes, “Yes, Sir. I appreciate you paying out of pocket on the barter line. I know that you are giving me a deadly detail that goes counter to my bookish inclinations. That is why you have assigned this innocent child and her sorrow-sown mother as hostages for my good behavior.”
“Sharp, smart, like it—we are minds of a kind. You’re the better man. I did what this whole system failed to do, put a leash on you. I realize you beat me all the time because you have the empathy that I lack, even for those who are your opposite. Softball, first base catcher—genius sir, I salute you and will try not and get you killed until you have enjoyed your darling deserts. I found your Achilles heel, and your mine. But, honor, Honor… HONOR dictates that I grant a request. What will you have of me, Mister Brett?”
“You take her out of play—Mom too—on my word that I’m your man, till death does us part, as soon as my shift ends tomorrow at 7 AM.”
Drake’s hand slid across the table, “You got it, Sir. With one condition, two, since I’m in the catbird seat.”
Brett took his hand, squeezed just so, and answered, “Three conditions.”
Drake grinned, “Uncanny. One: you’re going to the Scraplands—after some time with Brittany, who will be safe and provided for against your good behavior. You get whacked, I protect her. Mister Brett, you are a killer that has not killed. I respect that.”
Brett nodded, ‘yes.’
The fork went up, “Two: I get whacked, you avenge me—promise, against anything.”
Brett agreed with his scarred chin nodding under his bent nose and battered brows.
The finger danced around the fork that remained in the palm, “Three: you clue me in now. You know, like some witch doctor knew that the whites were coming for his people’s collective soul, what is hunting me. Before you go…” and the man leaned in slope shouldered consternation forward, “what is hunting me and who owns it?”
Brett stopped and leaned forward, “I call it the Nightbird. I suspect that it belongs to a shadow system behind UA tasked with integrated observation of scraplanders and cryptids,” (pointing to self) and of the management and adjuster class. It’s no accident that I spotted it before the sun went down. This conversation is known, of course. Your anomalous work assignment tonight will be monitored. Since neither of us have any wish to oppose UA agency and seek only to serve, we should be in the disciplinary clear.”
“Eat up, then, Mister Brett, because, come 7 AM, I will have work for you to do—work that beats the hell out of cutting up factory-farmed cow.”
