InkStains January by John Urbancik Page B

smooth. It burns my throat raw.
    “ I could use you,” Boss
says.
    “ I like being
independent.”
    “ I know, Joe, I know. You
come and go as you please. But we’ve all got our vices, Joey, and I
can keep you – shall we say satisfied – far better from the
inside.”
    “ You don’t need a man with
my particular skillset,” I remind him.
    “ Don’t sell yourself short,
Joey.” Boss reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out three
bottles. He sets them on the desk between us. “Here you are, Joey.
This is what you paid for.”
    His hand’s still on the desk drawer. I have
to lean forward to collect the black bottles. A grand each is the
going price – if you can find it. You could rave for less.
    He slides the drawer open as I lean in, shows
me rows of bottles, perhaps two dozen. “I can make it interesting,”
Boss says.
    I must admit, he’s got my interest. Last time
I saw that much ink in one place was before the war. I hesitate.
You would, too. I probably lick my lips.
    Boss lowers his voice. “I know what you do to
get the cash. I wouldn’t ask anything more from you.”
    “ Why me?”
    “ Well, aren’t you the
best?”
    I am. I don’t have to tell him that.
    “ Tell you what,” Boss says.
“Keep your cash. Keep the ink. Keep all of it. Come back tomorrow
night, have a go at Derek. He’ll tell you what he wants. Then you
can do your thing to Cassie, too, and keep her for the
night.”
    “ And there’ll be others?” I
ask.
    “ There will always be
others.”
    I’m done hesitating. I pocket the three ink
bottles, and the cash. “I can keep the rest here somewhere?”
    “ Already got you a room,”
Boss says.
    I curse. I meant to keep it under my breath,
but the Boss doesn’t mention it.
    I walk home. I don’t see Cassie on my way
out. It’s cold, and a long, dangerous walk, but I need the air.
I’ve got a three-room walk-up the far side of the neighborhood. Got
my chair in one, and the needles, my whole kit, a half dozen
pictures of my skin work on the wall.
    That’s not the only thing I need the ink for.
In my bedroom, I’ve got a small desk, something of a luxury these
days, and a quill. I’ve got plenty of blank paper – that’s easier
to come by than the ink – and a stack of poetry I’ve never shown
Cassie. Maybe now I will.

27 January
     
    Soldiers move through the trees – closing in
on their target, weapons raised – in a blanket of unnatural
silence. Their faces are greased, their guns cleaned, their boots
encrusted with mud. They move in waves. There must be two hundred
of them.
    Beyond them, forming a perimeters, several
Blackhawks hover – ready to fly, ready to provide support, missiles
loaded and anxious for their brief freedom.
    Further out, a half dozen fighter jets and a
half dozen bombers and a half dozen troop carriers keep an
inconspicuous distance. They fly low, so as not to be seen, and are
mostly of the stealth variety, so as to avoid other forms of
detection.
    Off shore, there’s an aircraft carrier, two
battleships, and a variety of support vessels on the surface, and
untold numbers of submarines beneath it.
    In short, they’re not taking chances.
    Their target is a simple cabin. It’s not
unoccupied. There’s a girl sitting at a table, both hands on that
surface, eyes closed so she can better see. There’s a boy pacing
back and forth, back and forth. He’s angry, frustrated, tired,
hungry, cold, and frightened – same as the girl.
    He says, “This is stupid.”
    She says, “Quiet.”
    The soldiers come closer. The boy goes to the
window but refrains from pulling the curtain aside for a better
look. They’ve been in these situations before. It makes him
nervous. It only takes one.
    He says, “Is it time yet?” He has a watch,
but it only speaks of time in the ways mankind has defined it.
    The girl wears no watch but she knows. She
opens her eyes. She lowers her voice. She says, “Yes.”
    The boy smiles. It’s not a joyful smile, but
he