A Bird in Hand Who: Louis Oswald NPCs: The Actuary, Darvin Cayo Where: 84th Floor, Personal Gym of Louis Oswald, First Gotham Building When: 14 August 2012, 6:23 AM What: Oswald is forced to move up his timetable... Rating: R
The bright scarlet Gotham sun was just beginning to bear down through the glass wall on the 84th floor of the First Gotham building, leaping over the horizon and chasing away the dark of night. The spacious room remained cool, for now. Sweat had long since soaked through the sleeve-less bleached-white t-shirt and slightly baggy black jogging pants of Louis Oswald.
He thumbed pause on the treadmill, 30% of the way through a staggered incline program and refocused his glare at the 5” HD video conferencing screen on the terminal.
“Tonight?”
“Why, yessir,” came the reply from Darvin Cayo. He too was sweating – but for an entirely different reason. It wasn’t everyday he got to talk to the boss. “We don’t have much time. They are moving in tonight.”
Oz was direct and to the point - “Are we ready?”
Cayo’s head shifted, casting around amongst his dumbstricken peers cowering in the background. He slowly moved his head back on point, paused to gather himself, and answered quickly, “no.”
Oz grimaced. He felt his fists clinching, his body tensing and launched into it verbally, “If we lose this chance, the blood will be on your hands. Those blood-thirsty motherfuckers can’t wait to move in. And you – you are there with your thumb up your ass! What the hell am I paying you for? Nothing! I am paying YOU! Don’t fucking forget that. Really fucking good money. And what did you do? You got complacent. I gave you one simple task – to watch one simple bird. One bird. And you fuck that up. You’re fired... You’re FIRED! And if the bird gets away – you’re a dead man.”
“Sir, sir, please...”
“Dead, I said. Dead. There’s not a place on the planet where you’ll be safe.” Oz couldn’t flip off the screen fast enough.
It was then that he felt a hand tug firmly on his shoulder from behind, forcefully pulling him around and off the treadmill. His white, silver trim and crimson red laced running shoes hit the slate tile floor, but didn’t make a sound.
He found himself toe-to-toe with, but towering over a 5’1” Asian-American with wire-frame glasses, short cropped hair, a dime-a-dozen baby blue checkered pressed white shirt with a collar and pleated khakis. He was Oz’ right hand man, the CFO of First Gotham, but in truth Oz knew him only by his nickname, the “Actuary.” His expression was typically unreadable. “We can still rectify this situation, Lou.”
Oz took a step back. “What do you propose?”
“Simple,” he quipped. “Your best team is already here. We can get them there, in and out tonight. Then bring the prize back to the bird’s nest.”
“We weren’t planning to move for several weeks.”
“Lou, these guys are professionals. They know how important this is to you. Especially after this… little tirade. They will get it done. And we’ll make space here for the prize by the time you get back.”
A smile tickled the corner of Oz’ mouth. “What makes you think I want to go?”
“C’mon, Lou. I know you better than that.”
“Do you?”
“I do.”
“Fuck you.”
“Lou –“ he countered, unphased by the profanity. “You have a chance at a Buteo ridgwayi – a Ridgway’s Hawk. You have been waiting for this for years. Make as many threats as you want – but you must do this yourself. I don’t think you trust anyone else that much – not even me.” He moved to a touchscreen terminal the size of a billboard on the adjacent wall and began entering a series of commands. “I think Gotham will be fine without you for one day. What’s the worst that could happen? But... but... you must get to that island before the land is cleared or all your preparation is for naught. OK... Yes, good – this will work. OK. Your private jet will be loaded and fueled up within the hour. Pack your gear, Mr. Oswald, you’re going to the Dominican Republic. Wheels up in two hours.”
“Two hours? I can be ready in five minutes.”
The Actuary grabbed Oz again by the shoulder and walked him back toward the door… and the treadmill. “Yeah – so you have plenty of time to finish your damn routine and work off a few fucking pounds or that plane’ll never make it off the ground. Then take a fucking shower or they won’t allow you in that damn country. I’ll call the Gotham Bird Sanctuary – we’ll be waiting for you when you get back. Oh – and I’ll call the media – they ought to love the story of the savior of the world’s rarest raptor.”
And with that, he left.
Oz’ gaze went back to the treadmill. The indicator blinked 70% of the program remaining.
“Aw, hell,” he complained out loud, to no one in particular, before vaulting himself back up on the conveyor and resuming the sequence.
But try as he might – all he could think about was that damn bird – 40 cm long, brown-gray on the top, gray on the bottom with a reddish-brown wash, black and white tail and yellow legs and bill. Just five minutes later he was done running – screw whatever that screen said. He was headed for the shower, a breakfast burrito half in his hand, half in his mouth – headed for the Caribbean, headed for the Ridgway’s Hawk… and headed for a night that he would not soon forget.