He lives on the other side of the tracks, so I took a train out to his place. It wasn't too long a ride, but more than I would have wanted to walk. I was in a hurry to get to the bottom of this, and I didn't want to arrive at his home sweaty and nasty -- it hadn't rained in months, and the humidity was intense!
I hadn't spoken to my soon-to-be host, a high order Police State muckamuck, in some weeks, but I figured, on this special occasion, I'd need whatever he could tell me. The guys'd been MIA for over 12 hours.
I walked up the long roadway to his posh home in Uptown. I rang the orchestral doorbell, and waited for a response.
The thin boy, my State liaison, arrived at the door and silently let me in. He put his finger to his lips, gestured me in, quietly. He walked me through an opulent living room and an obscene game parlor, up a long marble staircase to his room. His apartments were pristene: white, with nothing but a desk, a bed, and rug. Oh, and one wall with various Police State uniforms and various and sundry accoutrements.
"Sorry to disturb you, D_____--" I said, but my host put his hand up before me.
"No names," he said, "Since this is in reference to the," he subtly clasped his hands, "Police State, please use my organizational title."
"I know your real name, you know."
"Nevertheless."
"Everyone does. It's what we called you in school every day for four years at school. D_____ this and D_____ that."
"My gang name, please."
"The idea of a gang tag is so that your real identity is kept secret, not so that you'd be called a fruit."
"My name, if you will."
I sighed. "All right, Semicolon Olive."
He sat down behind his desk, with the afternoon sun placed conveniently behind him. I could see few of his features with the blaze at his back. His sandy brown hair with its neat little part, his carefully chosen clothes, his pale complexion and thin skin, all were silhouetted by his almost intentional lighting. I could barely see him arch an eyebrow.
"And I'll call you --"
"Pol," I said.
"Very well," he smiled wanly, politely, "What can I do for you, Pol?"
"Some of my friends," I began, looking down past the sun to this most important person, "Had a difference of opinion with some of your friends."
"At Arnie's party," Semicolon Olive, high-ranking lieutenant in the new and improved Police State, said, "Rutabaga Period said she'd go there last night. Against my better judgement."
Period. Karen's gang tag. "She told you what happened?"
He arched his other eyebrow, I think. I wished he would turn down the sun. "Perhaps."
"I'm a little worried," I continued, "...Period might have taken things the wrong way."
"Your friend harrassed her."
So he had heard something.
"I wasn't there last night," I explained, "Did the Police State do anything to them?"
"Like what?"
"...Communicate with them."
"Communicate with whom?"
"Steve and John."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean..." I struggled, trying to ask in appropriate gangspeak without really saying anything, if my friends had been beaten or killed in some hideaway somewhere. Olive, of course, was giving me nothing for free. To hell with it. "You haven't hurt them, have you? I mean, they can be annoying, but you didn't --"
"Didn't what?" Innocent, amused, Olive asked.
I moved up close to his desk. From here, the sun was a little less blinding, and Olive a little less imposing.
"Damage my friends." I said, monotone.
Olive looked up to me, hands steepled, smile still plastered on. "Maybe."
I waited, hands clenched. I, too, have wanted to do serious harm to my buddies -- particularly John -- but that's my prerogative. What right did this boy and his organization have to damage one of my posse?
"Maybe," he repeated.
"What did you do to them?" I said sternly. "Tell me now."
"No," Olive said, "I don't think I will."
"Tell."
Olive laughed, and stood up. He walked past his table, and faced me, sort of. He came up to my chest.
"Pol," he said softly, "In high school, you were a big fish. You were someone to stay away from. The State respected you, and left you alone. Months ago, one of your friends threatened me, said that your group was going to gang bang with the State. Still, I showed respect, gave him some information, and sent him on his way."
"Appreciated," I said, "Worked out fine."
He nodded, turned, paced to the window. "Now, though, that idiot John has offended Period, harrassed her, embarrassed her. Do you expect the Police State to take it lying down?"
I took in a sharp breath, walked over to the window with Semicolon Olive. I made sure to keep my hands behind my back so I wouldn't do him any damage.
"Just tell me where they are."
He looked out, seeing the sun still hours from setting. Still, twilight was coming, and the imposing colors of the set were beginning to shine. Olive continued to give me his back. "School's out, Pol," he said, "The rules have changed. The Police State's organization is free until September. Members can't be suspended for gang activities. The Police State are flying high. And you," he finally turned to me, "Can't do anything to change that."
I didn't want to hurt him. Well, I did, very much, but that wouldn't help the situation at all. This little thin boy before me was dictating about my friends, giving me no knowledge if they were alive or dead or anything; all I wanted to do was break something.
I left before I would.
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