Out of those flung-open doors now stepped many old acquaintances. Of his. Good God: many indeed. Drifting toward him through the Belgian dark. Having been made aware that he was here. Each holding an ominous-looking satchel. Hoo boy. Hot dog. Among the friends: Overton, Finley, Henry West, Bryce Philips (dragging along that familiar oxygen tank with the smiley-face decal on it). (With friends like these, who needed enemies? Lord God.) Here was Al Billingsgate, Jerry Kasin, Rory “Red” Randall. Here were Hayes, Brindel, and Riggs from PR, here that gaggle of worthless lawyers from the late-1980s incarnation of Legal, cowering behind their erstwhile leader, Glenn McDougall. Near the end of every briefing, the whole submissive gaggle would always start nonsensically cross-yammering, so as to not appear mere McDougall lackeys.
He’d often made it a point back then to say something disparaging to McDougall, just to take him down a notch.
Some suit, McD.
McD, sign up for a night class. You seem to be getting antiquated.
Why are you right on top of me, McD? You think being closer to me makes you smarter?
Well, it might.
Wouldn’t be hard.
Like that.
Good lawyer though, McD. He’d hammered Anson, hammered Manders & Culley, hammered (bankrupted) Elverson Colley, hammered numerous intrusive citizens’ groups and wacky, fringe—
At the head of the enemies was a college kid who’d come up to him once after one of his talks. In Chicago, maybe. Smart kid. Articulate lad. Looked like a girl, with all that thick curly hair. His suit jacket had seemed used, or rented, or like a Halloween costume: faded, too large by a size or two, missing its top two buttons. At least he’d bothered to wear one. That showed respect. The kid had taken his watch off and was nervously passing it from hand to hand as he politely posed a series of questions in the rapidly emptying auditorium.
His eyes were positively piercing.
Quickly he got into iffy territory.
So my charge had to shut it down. By walking off in the abrupt, purposely dismissive way he’d developed over many years of telegraphing displeasure to absolute nobodies.
Sir, come on, the kid called after him. That’s disrespectful.
Is that even possible? he almost called back. For a man of mycaliber to be “disrespectful” to a naïve brat like you, who’s done fuck all?
Here in the Grand-Place the enemies, led by that kid, merged with the friends and the whole miffed shebang began closing in on him in a strange halting ghoulish lockstep.
Jesus H. Christ.
This was going to be bad. They’d feared him in life and he’d been able to keep them at bay but this was serious and they must not, they knew, lie, not even a little.
They were about to lower the damn boom.
Are these folks dead or what? he asked nervously.
No, I said. You’re making them with your mind.
So, not real, he said.
No, I said.
And you? he said.
Real, I said.
Uh-huh, he said.
His acquaintances paused, taking final preparatory glances down into their ominous satchels so as to be better able to accuse him more precisely and with less mercy.
You made them with your mind, I said. Unmake them the same way.
Immediately, his acquaintances began moving churlishly backward, still in lockstep, retreating into the hulking structures, the ancient doors of which, having accepted them, slammed shut all at once.
And the Grand-Place fell quiet.
