The Pseudo-Chronicles of Mark Huntley

Nothing but the Truth - 10/20/04

Wednesday, October 20, 2004

Got a call from Dale yesterday. He said, and I quote, "What the hell! I just heard that you got fired?!" 

Note the double punctuation at the end, like something out of Dale’s manga. What do they call that, the interrobang? Well, I think the interrobang summarizes the general sentiment not just from Dale, but the other ex-co-workers (Carrie, and surprisingly, Deb) who called me. I was such a cool guy. They never saw it coming. Was I okay? I must be pissed off, right? They'd be happy to be references.

I accepted their sympathy, knowing it couldn't do squat for me. Nice, though, to know that my work friends really were friends. Mark C. Huntley, Unemployed Vagabond, Esq., had at least made a good impression on a few people in the working world. Ryloff was, perhaps, the exception. 

In any case, that’s now a former life, isn’t it? And I can look forward to alternative employment prospects. I’m sure I can think of at least one extraplanar organization who’s hiring.

Dale asked me if I wanted to meet up after he got out of work for a couple of MGDs or more. Let me tell you, in spite of everything that I have to worry about now, all the people I have to watch over, all the shadows I have to watch for, it sounded like a capital idea to me. Cold beer... a chance to loosen up for a little while, let the old demonios of the buzz take over. Autopilot. 

It took a lot of effort to refuse his offer.

Still no word from Rafael. But you know, there are other pits to dig in. There are secrets all around me. Being held from me. 

I think I'm going to follow up on some good advice and try to shake down a couple of young ladies I know who seem to be holding back. 

The first, one Naomi Darren, I'm going to give a couple of days before I do so. Though she's definitely hiding something from me, my priority for the time being is to protect her, not interrogate her. There's no question about the fact that she's in danger. I think the incident at Silver Spring proved that enough for my purposes. 

How do I protect her, though, when I barely see her? She's been staying at her friend's place— finally told me where it was, it’s over in Adams Morgan. I stopped over tonight (after a stalled day doing nothing but hanging out with the still-recovering Rence, who I think could be the next candidate for a pink slip), just to check in with her. 

Her friend, a quiet girl named Sam, seemed nice enough, though she wanted to know who exactly I was. Clearly Naomi hadn't filled her in on much, or else had given her a bullshit story. I kept things vague for Naomi's benefit. The girl of the hour herself had just come home from work (day shift waitressing at a high-class restaurant, we'll say Alexander's). Though she wasn't unhappy to see me, I could tell that my presence still set her a little off balance. 

Why do you think that is? Hmm, I wonder whether it was the flaying of a man with a mystical knife? Or the part where I pushed a guy off a twenty-story building? Let’s also not forget that the first day we met ended with her calling me “psycho.”

The second young lady— Gwendolyn St. John, childhood friend extraordinaire— I have no hesitation about grilling. Her answers have been reluctant at best from the start. And I know that it's not just the weirdness of dredging up all that stuff from when we were nine. She's holding back. 

If I call her on it without adequate preparation, though, she could slip away from me. And then whatever information she's got will be gone. 

So while I was talking to Dale yesterday, I asked if he was still in touch with his sources at the National Institutes of Health that had helped him with an old Divide story. He said he'd check out his files and see what he could do. Today he called me back and said that they were still friendly, that if a door needed to be opened, it could be opened. 

And so I called Gwen... we're going to meet on her lunch break from Freiholt & Wagner tomorrow, down in Arlington. Now I’ve got something for her. She'll get her access to Dr. Lukasik at NIH, with my help. But only if she comes clean about everything. No more half-answers, or papers she forgot to bring along. Just the truth.

I have to resolve this whole business one way or another before too long. I have to put together a plan. The purples, the muchos, they're still out there on the streets of Washington. I've seen them, today and yesterday. And unlike before, I get the feeling that all of them now know who I am.

posted by Mark Huntley @ 9:29 PM

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