Heathern by Jack Womack

into the deep.
"She bought a factory loft in Tribeca," I said. "Her fiance
came down to see the place. She stepped into the elevator to
take him up to the roof to show him, but the elevator wasn't
there."
    "I'm sorry," Lester said.
    "She'd be even unhappier now than she was then," I
said. "You want a drink?"
    "Bourbon'd be good," he said. "A little one."
    "I wouldn't want to corrupt."
    "Don't worry," he said. We entered my apartment's Food
Preparation/Interpersonal Interaction Core; here the designers had so unyieldingly followed a black and white
pattern in both fixture and wall that, entering the room, one
felt to have fallen into a crossword puzzle. There were
burners and microwaves and convection ovens; cabinets
and blenders and gadgets enough to supply large restaurants. In a cabinet I kept one knife, one fork, one spoon, and
two plates.
    "I've never seen a refrigerator this large," he said, staring
at its bulk; Bulganin refrigerators were the finest made, I'd
heard, but I suppose Russians understood ice. It was large
enough to hold half a steer. "Entertain much?"
    I poured our drinks into the two glasses I kept ready for
socializing. "Bernard tells me I more often depress." When
I handed Lester his bourbon he took small sips, as if drinking too rapidly might sear shut his mouth. "Strong
enough?"

    "I don't drink much," he said, sitting on a black stool,
leaning against a white countertop. "I don't see what got
him so interested in me. It's not as if I just started doing
this."
    "I have no idea," I said. "I think he thinks he can use you
to intimidate."
    "Intimidate who?"
    "A limitless number of candidates."
    "Seems he sees too many squirrels in the trees," said
Lester. "What does he think I am, anyway?"
    "It should be obvious," I said. "It was obvious; he only
wanted to hear me say it. "He thinks that if you're not the
messiah, he can use you as such."
    "To intimidate," Lester said, smiling, not appearing happy. He ran his fingertip around his glass's rim as if to make
it sing.
    "He's been playing it cagey. He's impossible to figure out
after a point, he doesn't even tell his wife what he's up
to-
    "Would it be more to my advantage to be the messiah or
to pretend to be the messiah?"
    "Same difference," I said. "He'll keep working on you."
    "She seems preoccupied with something besides me," he
said. "What else is going on that might tie in to his plans?"
    "A member of our organization was murdered without
our consent," I said. "He's already decided who's guilty,
and you never know what the punishment'll be until-"
    "Murdered?" Lester said.
    "It's business," I said. "What do you expect?"
    "That's why you were so afraid," he said. "When you
thought somebody was shooting at us."
    I nodded.
    "Then he's meeting a Japanese representative on Tues day. Bernard's cooked up some treaty of alignment. Thatcher isn't keen to go along. He tends to see connections where
none exist, and I think he's seeing a connection between the
murder and the alignment. The Drydens are dysfunctional
unless they're lurching from crisis to crisis-"

    "Then sometime I might wind up as part of a connection
too?" Lester asked.
    For several moments I stared into my drink's melting ice,
gazing into smooth translucence as if to read the future; saw
nothing that comforted or disturbed. "You might. I might.
You never can tell."
    "That must make for uncertainty ..."
    I nodded. "Once he gets his paws on you he'll adhoc it for
awhile, until something gets rolling. Figure he'll set his
sights low to start."
    "It's good to have low expectations," said Lester. "Messianic hopes are the worst kind. He's bound to be disappointed."
    "He doesn't like to be disappointed," I said. "Show him
the angels. That'd shut him up."
    "He couldn't see them," said Lester. "Not even if he
wanted to. Are you sorry you saw them?"
    "I'm not sorry," I said. "I'm not glad."
    "They were glad to see you."
    "Must be pretty boring up there, then," I