noticed when he did so a miniscule red light lit up where the pistol had been.
“What’s that?” he pointed it out to Ahmed.
“Try to open the door.”
“Huh?” Jason didn’t understand.
“Open the door.”
Jason pressed the button that would raise the glass partition between their booth and the ante-chamber. Nothing happened.
“Put the gun back.”
When Jason returned the pistol, the red light disappeared. He stepped back to the button and this time as he pressed it the glass partition slid open.
“This way no weapons leave the booths,” explained Ahmed.
“Ain’t that something…”
After Jason pressed the button he retrieved a .357 Desert Eagle from the wall. “I always wanted to fire one of these. Look out.”
Several hours later, their next meal was served in the cafeteria. Jason found Bronson and sat with him, Ahmed joining them. Everyone else ate as they had earlier in the day, individually except for the four.
“Either of you see any clocks in here?” asked Bronson.
“No,” answered Ahmed.
Jason thought about it. He hadn’t seen a clock once in the complex. “I usually have a pretty good idea of what time of day it is,” he remarked. “Like my body would wake up at exactly—I don’t know—five every morning, right? Or I could just tell it was around ten o’clock and when I checked on the clock, sure enough it was around ten o’clock.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But in here, I don’t know, I’m off.”
“You’re feeling it too, B.”
“Yeah.”
“Neither of you are alone,” concurred Ahmed. “Is it my imagination, or has it only been a few hours since we ate breakfast?”
“Youse right,” Bronson agreed, “but thing is—I don’t think that was breakfast.”
“What do you mean?” asked Jason.
“I mean, they fed us breakfast food and whatnot, right? But I got a feeling that was more like lunchtime. But what I know? Could be middle of the night outside now.”
“I was the last one to wake up and come in here. Were there many people when you guys came out?”
“I came in before those assholes—” Bronson gestured towards the little group “—and you came in after them. Homeboy here—” he meant Ahmed “—youse was here before me.”
“I was the second man to arrive in this room. He—” Ahmed indicated the only man who sat alone “—was here before me.”
“You check his eyes out yet, B?”
“No, I didn’t. And stop calling me that. It’s annoying. Buford .”
Bronson shook his head like Jason failed to grasp some elemental truth. “What’d you say your name was again?”
“Ahmed.”
“Oh. Youse another one of them real name motherfuckas, huh?” Ahmed looked confused. “We gotta kill that noise, ya’hear?”
“What is this you mean?”
“Don’t you worry. I’m on it.”
“You’re right, Bronson.” Jason had an eye on the man sitting alone. “Somethings up with that guy.”
“Somethings up with every motherfucka in here.”
“I talked to them today, earlier.”
“Who dat?”
“Those four.” Jason cocked his head at the table. “Two of them at least. You’d like them.”
“Nah, I don’t think so.”
“No, really. They already got fancy little nicknames. The one with the 1970s mustache calls himself Fleegle and the black guy’s Bingo. The fat one’s Snorky or something.”
“No shit, B?”
“No shit.”
“And let me guess. You don’t get that either, huh?”
“Should I?”
“How old are you, B?”
“Thirty-eight. And stop with the B-shit.”
“So you was an 80s baby, like my boy Joel Ortiz, huh?”
“I don’t know. More like late 70s. Who ?”
“You have a television when you were growing up?”
“Of course. Why?”
“Because I call you Buford Pusser and you never heard of Walking Tall . Those guys calling themselves Fleegle and Snork and you don’t know those are the names of the Banana Splits.”
“The Banana-who?”
“Damn. What’d you watch Saturday mornings when you was a
“What’s that?” he pointed it out to Ahmed.
“Try to open the door.”
“Huh?” Jason didn’t understand.
“Open the door.”
Jason pressed the button that would raise the glass partition between their booth and the ante-chamber. Nothing happened.
“Put the gun back.”
When Jason returned the pistol, the red light disappeared. He stepped back to the button and this time as he pressed it the glass partition slid open.
“This way no weapons leave the booths,” explained Ahmed.
“Ain’t that something…”
After Jason pressed the button he retrieved a .357 Desert Eagle from the wall. “I always wanted to fire one of these. Look out.”
Several hours later, their next meal was served in the cafeteria. Jason found Bronson and sat with him, Ahmed joining them. Everyone else ate as they had earlier in the day, individually except for the four.
“Either of you see any clocks in here?” asked Bronson.
“No,” answered Ahmed.
Jason thought about it. He hadn’t seen a clock once in the complex. “I usually have a pretty good idea of what time of day it is,” he remarked. “Like my body would wake up at exactly—I don’t know—five every morning, right? Or I could just tell it was around ten o’clock and when I checked on the clock, sure enough it was around ten o’clock.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But in here, I don’t know, I’m off.”
“You’re feeling it too, B.”
“Yeah.”
“Neither of you are alone,” concurred Ahmed. “Is it my imagination, or has it only been a few hours since we ate breakfast?”
“Youse right,” Bronson agreed, “but thing is—I don’t think that was breakfast.”
“What do you mean?” asked Jason.
“I mean, they fed us breakfast food and whatnot, right? But I got a feeling that was more like lunchtime. But what I know? Could be middle of the night outside now.”
“I was the last one to wake up and come in here. Were there many people when you guys came out?”
“I came in before those assholes—” Bronson gestured towards the little group “—and you came in after them. Homeboy here—” he meant Ahmed “—youse was here before me.”
“I was the second man to arrive in this room. He—” Ahmed indicated the only man who sat alone “—was here before me.”
“You check his eyes out yet, B?”
“No, I didn’t. And stop calling me that. It’s annoying. Buford .”
Bronson shook his head like Jason failed to grasp some elemental truth. “What’d you say your name was again?”
“Ahmed.”
“Oh. Youse another one of them real name motherfuckas, huh?” Ahmed looked confused. “We gotta kill that noise, ya’hear?”
“What is this you mean?”
“Don’t you worry. I’m on it.”
“You’re right, Bronson.” Jason had an eye on the man sitting alone. “Somethings up with that guy.”
“Somethings up with every motherfucka in here.”
“I talked to them today, earlier.”
“Who dat?”
“Those four.” Jason cocked his head at the table. “Two of them at least. You’d like them.”
“Nah, I don’t think so.”
“No, really. They already got fancy little nicknames. The one with the 1970s mustache calls himself Fleegle and the black guy’s Bingo. The fat one’s Snorky or something.”
“No shit, B?”
“No shit.”
“And let me guess. You don’t get that either, huh?”
“Should I?”
“How old are you, B?”
“Thirty-eight. And stop with the B-shit.”
“So you was an 80s baby, like my boy Joel Ortiz, huh?”
“I don’t know. More like late 70s. Who ?”
“You have a television when you were growing up?”
“Of course. Why?”
“Because I call you Buford Pusser and you never heard of Walking Tall . Those guys calling themselves Fleegle and Snork and you don’t know those are the names of the Banana Splits.”
“The Banana-who?”
“Damn. What’d you watch Saturday mornings when you was a
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