In The City Part Eleven: Miasma
Oz dropped Amy and Justine off at the base, then walked to meet Riley at a nearby bar. The evening weighed heavy on him—one moment, it seemed they were finally gelling as a team, the next, he could tell they were a miasma of neuroses. Then he thought about the word, “miasma,” and decided he liked it. It means, “an influence or atmosphere that tends to deplete or corrupt.”
“Huh,” he thought. “So what do you do when everyone you started with was corrupted to begin with? Well, everyone except …”
The bar didn’t have a sign out front, and no one seemed to give a damn about California smoking regulations. Which annoyed him—he had a sensitive nose. There were a few scattered patrons, and Oz could tell from the moment he entered the room that the beer was watered down, and there were no fewer than five illegal narcotics that he could identify.
“Well, if this gig pans out,” he thought, “Maybe I can go be a police dog.”
Riley was holed up at a back booth. Which must have took some doing, in this joint. Oz imagined that everyone wanted the back booth. But then, he figured, no one around was listening to anyone else, anyway. This was a place where you were better off not knowing what was going on. Not that he had any choice. He heard damn near everything.
Riley had a bottle of Miller Genuine Draft and a copy of the LA Times. Oz, likewise, got himself a Miller. Not his favorite, but this joint didn’t have a lot of options.
“Hey,” said Oz.
“Hey,” said Riley. “How’s the team coming?”
Oz thought before answering, then took a sip of beer. Which tasted remarkably good at just this moment.
“Ethan will try to kill us as soon as possible,” he said, finally. “Amy could sell us all out, or just leave when she’s bored. Justine’s OK, but she’s cracking up. I don’t know why Connor’s hanging around, but I’m not sure it’s all good, and then there’s …”
Oz let the thought trail off. “Yeah,” said Riley. “Told you it would be tough.”
“You did,” said Oz. “And I believed you. But man. This is something else. Riley, why am I doing this?”
“You were the best man for the job.”
“Thanks, but … look. Why aren’t you out in front? Or better yet, why don’t we just …”
“Go running to Buffy?”
“Well, yeah. You have to admit, she’s better qualified.”
“Thought about it. I mean, if we went and asked again nice enough, I’m pretty sure they’d capitulate.”
Capitulate was also a good word, thought Oz. Kudos.
“But the boss picked this team very specifically, and very specifically ordered me off the field,” said Riley. “He was quite clear.”
“That’s another thing,” said Oz, taking another sip of beer. “Who is this guy? He’s not military, I’ve figured that much out. How does he know so much about us?”
Riley smiled that broad, farm boy smile of us—a smile as wide and open as a Nebraska field.
“You know the rules, Oz. The boss needs his secrecy.”
“Well,” said Oz, “That’s the thing about secrets. Hold ‘em too tight and they bubble out at the wrong time … Wait.”
Oz stood suddenly, spinning toward the bar. Seeing his reaction, Riley stood also, reaching for his gun. “Inconspicuous?” thought Oz. “No time for that right now.”
A tall, leather-clad brunette was at the bar, hanging off a shaved-headed biker. She kissed the man on the lips, and then flung him into the wall. She turned to face them.
“Faith,” said Oz, barely audible enough to hear.
Oz hadn’t seen Faith in a while. Last he saw her, in fact, she had her crazy on something fierce. That’s how she looked now—ready to fuck or kill anything that moved, and she didn’t particularly care which. People had told him Faith had reformed, but that’s not what it looked like, here.
“Oz, old buddy,” she said. “Heard you were back in the game. And Riley Finn. How’s it hanging, lover boy?”
Oz didn’t dare turn around to see the look on Riley’s face, but he could pretty much guess. Pheromones were flying, and he could taste blood in the air already. Then he saw the knife she was (continued...)