Neal Pollack

The dark outside the window now. He’'s lived so long craving it. It was the light, all that light. He thinks now that he—

Now that he what?

He flicks on the lamp for comfort. He watches his face in the window. His laugh begins slowly, like a murmur. Eventually it’s loud enough to wake the birds.

THE NEAR REMOTE

BY JEFFERY RENARD ALLEN

35th & Michigan

The Police Superintendent sat bent forward at his sturdy mahogany desk, a big man in a big leather armchair, framed by a floor-to-ceiling window looking out onto the vast and vicious wonders of the city. He was reading a file, which lay flat upon the leather-topped surface of the desk.

Ward slammed the door shut.

The Police Superintendent raised his eyes from the file and saw menace, tall and bony, standing in his office. If he was surprised that someone had been watching him, he didn'’t let on. He wet his thumb against the blotter of his tongue, picked up the file between wet thumb and dry forefinger, and placed it on top of a stack of papers at the corner of the desk. He curled his small and enormously pink lips into a smile, placed both palms against the desk edge, and scooted his chair backwards. Then he gripped the padded armrests, rose up from the seat, and came around the desk, carpet muffling the sound of his white cordovans shined with a high polish, and came over to where Ward stood, with a hand extended in welcome.

“Ward,” he said. “You’ve decided to come.”

“I had to see you for myself,” Ward said.

“Pleased to have you with us.”

Ward stuck a finger inside his nose and worked it around. Only then did he offer to shake hands. The Police Superintendent looked at the finger, looked Ward straight in the face. Ward seized one cuff of the Police Superintendent’s white linen shirt—so out of season, the thinnest fabric in the coldest weather—and cleaned the finger on the sleeve.

To Ward’s regret, the Police Superintendent slowly raised his line of sight, offering a face lacking any signs of anger or distress or revulsion, a face betraying no emotion other than authority and duty. He spoke to Ward in polite, even tones, asking that he be seated, motioning to a leather armchair directly in front of his desk. Cautiously Ward settled into the chair. The Police Superintendent walked over to a second picture window and stood looking out, dust drifting like unmoored astronauts in two smoky shafts of sunlight on either side of him.

“A damn nice secretary you have,” Ward said.

The Police Superintendent seemed to be looking off at a skyscraper surprisingly small and dull in the afternoon sun. He was a heavy man, so heavy that he might at any moment sink through the floor and plunge forever downward.

“‘Go right in.’ Damn nice. It can’t be easy for her.”

The Police Superintendent made slow steps away from the window, then sat down leisurely in his big leather armchair, eyes trained on the desk, giving Ward time to study the lumpy mass of his head. Light from the window gave the desk a liquid glow. The Police Superintendent joined the fingers of both hands into a meaty cup. He cleared his throat.

“Might we get to it.” He lifted his eyes to Ward’s face. “I cannot stress enough”—gesturing with his hands—“how important it is that we follow our plan to the letter”—his palm held upward in supplication. “Unless you can adduce any legitimate grounds for some fresh course of action.” He locked his fingers before him on the desk.

Ward watched him in silence.

“I am sorry. Profoundly sorry,” the Police Superintendent said. “Every one of us should be entitled to a private corner in the garden.” He shook his head, weary, defeated. “Alas—” He parted his hands, nothing to offer. “If your associates had been more careful in their actions, perhaps we could—”

“My associates?”

“Yes. Speaking plainly.”

“Let me ask you a question. Did you spend your lunch hour bobbing for turds?”

Just like that. He began unbuttoning his black overcoat.