The Boy in the Tunnel Part 16

The Boy in the Tunnel

by Gardner Linn

16.

Ron disliked Peter Kirkland, and he had disliked Peter Kirkland ever since the little shit had first stepped into his office thirteen years ago. Certain Information had kept him from getting expelled, and that same Certain Information got him a cash-under-the-table job with DUH after graduation; five years later, though, Ron had had it up to here with Kirkland and decided, Certain Information or no, it was time for Kirkland to go. But then, from out of nowhere, Certain Photographs had emerged, and so Ron was compelled to keep the smug fucker on staff, though in as hush-hush a manner as possible, and also to increase the amount of cash under the table by a significant percentage.

Ron didn’t just dislike Peter Kirkland, he hated him, and he had operatives scouring campus for these Certain Photographs, though Kirkland had recently hinted, in his typical oblique way, that he was aware of said scouring, and that even if the operatives found the Certain Photographs they would most likely not find Certain Videotapes and Audio Recordings, which, he further hinted, could be in the hands of local journalists within minutes of any (purely hypothetical, of course) cessation of regular sub-tabular cash transactions.

Peter was no fan of Marston either, but he considered himself a businessman and was happy to provide a service for his fees beyond keeping Certain Information and Media to himself. Ron, in his most charitable moments, liked to think of Kirkland as a pit bull or similar breed of muscularly ugly, snarling attack dog, someone he could sic on those who’d angered him the most. Dragan and Julian (whatever happened to him) were good for your more basic light reconnaissance needs, but when it came to really letting your enemies know that DUH was not to be fucked with, Kirkland was, Ron grudgingly admitted, invaluable.

Kirkland, just in his early thirties, still had the soft, unformed look of a freshman and the aggressively white, prognathous mien of the kind of frat brother who enjoys the hazing just a little too much. Ron preferred to conduct business with him over the phone, just so he wouldn’t have to look at that face and be tempted to punch it, but if Barlow and St. James were working together, the phone lines could very well be compromised. Safer to meet Kirkland out in the open, so even if they were being watched they couldn’t be heard; and Marston kind of hoped they would be watched, because he’d like to send a message of his own.

Ron and Peter met in the middle of the West Campus quad, where the diagonal walking paths crossed and there were no trees. Ron couldn’t see anyone watching from the trees or the buildings around the quad, but he was sure someone was there.

“Thanks for coming, Peter.”

“My pleasure.”

Kirkland was smiling that same doofy, overlarge, too-bright smile he always wore in Ron’s presence, the one that made him look like an overgrown Rockwell Boy Scout. Ron didn’t want to be in his presence any more than necessary.

“Avery Barlow and Charlie St. James are working together now.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“I get the surveillance highlights, same as you.”

Ron pushed hard against his upper left canine with his underbite. Someone in DUH was slipping info to Kirkland, and the guy was just standing there smiling like a retard, like “yeah of course I know about the tapes, so why don’t you tell me why I’m here?” Once this whole mess was sorted out, there was going to be a little restructuring around the office.

“Then I’m sure you’re aware that an alliance between the two of them is not in University Housing’s, and therefore your, best interests.”

Kirkland shrugged, still with that maddening smile, a real “What? Me Worry?” pose all around.

“Well let me assure you that it wouldn’t be.”

“If you say so.” Oh Jesus Christ Ron wanted this guy out of his life.

“What we need from you is to find out what they’re up to before they get up to it. I don’t care what you do, and I don’t want to know how you do it. I just want to know what they’re planning.”

“Is that all?”

Ron pushed against that canine as hard as he could. It was like he wanted to bite this asshole, just tear his throat out. Is that all. Go ahead and see how easy it is, you fuck.

“There’s one more thing. There was a girl—“

“Yeah, the Cassidy kid. I saw the tape.”

“Right. Turns out she’s one of St. James’s girls. You’ll need to find out how she fits into all this.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.

“No problem, boss.” Kirkland gave a little wave and walked southeast across the quad, away from Ron. Ron watched him leave with a sharpshooter’s eye, zeroing in on him, on the time when they could be rid of each other.

******************

The meeting, as Ron had anticipated, had been watched by one of Barlow’s people: Taddlington Taft, the Sergeant-at-Arms. Dave (as he insisted he be called, because who would want to go through life with a name like Taddlington), as Barlow’s right-hand man and chief problem-solver, served much of the same functions for the Nine Dead Men as Peter Kirkland did for DUH.

Kirkland rounded the corner of Stuttgart Hall, and Dave hopped out off the low branch he had been perched on to follow. “Taddlington” was an old family name; Taddlington Archibald Taft had been a member of UNWG’s first graduating class, and hardly a generation had gone by without a Taft traversing the Milligan Pass. Dave’s father had been one of the first of the Nine Dead Men, and had himself achieved the rank of Secretary of the Exterior, which rank Dave now coveted and dreamed about and wished all manner of ill on Barlow for.

Dave crept from tree to sheltering tree, keeping Kirkland in his sights and twenty yards ahead at all times. Kirkland strolled along—his was the manner of walking for which the word “stroll” was invented, Dave thought, for Kirkland whistled and stuck his hands in his pockets and bounced his elbows jauntily with each step—seemingly oblivious to his shadow, though Barlow had warned Dave of Kirkland’s apparent nonchalance and how quickly it could turn.

Dave was happy to do this task for Barlow, as it could only strengthen his standing among the Dead Men—but, crucially, there could be no official recognition of this stronger standing. He would remain Sergeant-at-Arms until graduation, because he and Barlow were both seniors, and only the most egregious of foul-ups could demote one of the Nine to a lower rank. (Dave could, of course, choose to stay at UNWG for a fifth year, but that was something a Taft simply did not do.)

This alliance with St. James and her girls, however, could very well prove to be Barlow’s undoing. Barlow had not divulged his plan to the rest of the Nine, save Dave, and when they found out (which would be soon) Dave was pretty sure they would have a few things to say. Dave himself viewed the plan as a necessary evil at best—the enemy of my enemy, etc. Dave thought there was pretty astronomical potential for the whole thing to blow up in Barlow’s face, and when it did, he, Dave, would step in as SecEx.

All he had to do now was stay on Barlow’s good side and help him out without actually getting too involved with the alliance. And if that meant following this Kirkland guy around, no problem.

Up ahead, Kirkland stepped into Thorn Hall. Dave waited twenty seconds, then followed him inside. Dave pretended to be engrossed in the Comp Lit announcement bulletin board, while keeping Kirkland in his peripheral vision. Kirkland stepped into a bathroom.

Dave lingered by the bulletin boards for another couple minutes. Kirkland was still in the bathroom. No use in going in there and risking blowing the cover when the dude was just dropping a deuce. Dave went back outside. Kirkland would have to leave by the front door anyway.

Dave took an Ambassador from the newspaper box by the front steps. He turned to the Op/Ed page and skimmed his column, noting how nice the new picture looked (he was the only columnist to wear a tie in his byline photo). Dave’s role at the paper was the designated good-ol’-boy conservative on the editorial page; his byline was the only place he used the name Taddlington, because it sounded more old-money ridiculous. His latest column was some bullshit about how modern college girls were robbing Southern men of their traditional masculinity by not letting them open doors for them, and how in turn modern college males were not showing good Southern women the proper respect they deserved by refusing to give up their seats on the bus. His was the most popular column in the paper, drawing more mail than any of the other writers’ combined, evenly split between praise and condemnation. He hadn’t bought a drink at a downtown bar since sophomore year, thanks to enthusiastic fraternity fans, but he’d had many of those same drinks thrown in his face.

Dave wrote the column at the last minute every week after listening to ten straight taped hours of Rush Limbaugh and drinking a fifth of Wild Turkey; he found it physically difficult to spew out the chauvinist nonsense otherwise. The column’s true purpose was to deliver coded messages to the handful of faculty members friendly to the Nine Dead Men; this week’s message concerned the alliance with St. James. Those few professors responded in a column that ran on Fridays, written by one “Sunshower Johnson,” the most obvious parody of a trust-fund hippie imaginable. Sunshower’s column was added to the paper after Taddlington Taft’s musings proved so popular and controversial that the editor-in-chief decided it needed its own weekly rebuttal, like a Presidential radio address. Suffice it to say, the editor really added the column after being leaned on by various shadowy figures, but they were happy to do it, as the weekly Taddlington/Sunshower debates raged all over campus and brought the Ambassador its highest circulation figures, and therefore ad revenue, ever.

Dave looked forward to Sunshower’s column tomorrow, partly to see what new fake outrage he had helped concoct this week, but mainly to know the friendly faculty members’ reaction to the news of the alliance. He imagined it wouldn’t be altogether positive.

Dave checked his watch. Kirkland had been in the restroom ten minutes. Dave decided it was time to check on him.

“Taddlington Taft?”

Dave looked behind him, toward the source of the voice—it was Kirkland, his hands in his pockets, that big white icthyoid smile on his face. “I’m a big fan.”

***********************

Ron Marston had not anticipated his meeting being observed by anyone besides one of Barlow’s operatives, much less by the young woman whose motives he was so intent on discovering. But Kenya and Chet had seen the meeting, and though they couldn’t hear what was said or recognize who Marston was talking with (Marston himself was familiar to all University Housing residents as a kind of Big Brother figure who delivered a video address to the assembled residents at the beginning of each year, and whom if you ever saw him in person after that you were most likely in deep, deep shit), they both suspected—independent of each other—that it had to do with the incident in the JFK Room. Neither was quite ready to broach the subject with the other, not even to say something as innocent as “What do you think ol’ Marston was up to down there?”

For his part, Peter Kirkland would have been very interested to know that he was being observed by the current resident of his old room. He still had some business in that room.

After the meeting ended, Kenya rolled in the swaddled blanket to face Chet, to distract herself by renewing ardor with him, and so she didn’t see anyone drop lightly from a tree and tail Marston’s mysterious friend. Chet, however, his eyes still open in the moment of anticipation of the kiss, did see this, and he was able to recognize Taddlington “Dave” Taft by the blue blazer he wore to reinforce his reputation as the school’s premier under-40 conservative. As his eyes closed and Kenya’s lips found his and his hand slid down her hip, he decided it was time to have a talk with the Secretary.