The Redeemers Page 5

  He then withdrew as though Carl were no longer there, retrieving a cigarette from his pocket. He paced the room back and forth before briefly speaking on the phone. Carl watched the older man eagerly, he marveled at how everything he did conveyed a sense of total command.

  Carl watched Norton’s cigarette like it was a rare gem. The editor noticed, offering him one.

  “Like smokes?” he asked.

  “Never smoked before. It’s banned in the city.”

  “Yeah, good thing there’s still some open space.”

  Hesitating, Carl accepted the cigarette but when Norton offered a light from his Zippo he politely turned it down.

  “I don’t feel smoking now,” he said.

  Norton flipped his Zippo shut and laughed, tossing a small matchbox over to Carl.

  “You’ll know when the time is right.”

  ***

  A minute later, the room was full again. Tom came in picking at a bagel with his fingers, while Fred carved at an apple with a small knife. They seemed tired from the night’s celebration, recovering the brandy’s lingering effects.

  Norton waited until they were seated and then he put his hands on his hips, announcing they were now going to learn how to prepare stories for publication.

  “Every submission will go through proofreading by our copy-editing team first,” he explained. “But I want to make sure that the process is as efficient as possible. They’re going to have a lot on their plate. I don’t want you making it heavier than it needs to be.”

  “We already know how to write,” Ian said. “Do we really need more training on that?”

  “I know you can write. The challenge will be learning how to do it with this.”

  He knelt and picked up a handled case. Setting it on the front table, a few inches away from Carl and Tom, he unlocked the two front clasps and pushed the top up, turning the case so that it faced them.

  They rose from their seat and marveled at the machine inside.

  A black typewriter sparkled like a freshly polished boot.

  Norton unlocked it from its secure position inside the case and lifted it out and onto the table for them to admire.

  Fred chuckled hard. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Not one bit,” Norton replied with a straight face. “You all will learn how to type.”

  “Why can’t we just use computers or laptops or something else? We don’t need the Internet.”

  “Your regular equipment was not built to last. I want something I can depend on to work when it needs to work.”

  He pointed at the typewriter. “All it needs is a fresh ink ribbon and occasional light maintenance. Providing, of course, that you don’t throw them or abuse them, right?”

  Fred shook his head continually in silent disagreement. The younger recruits studied the machine but seemed more trusting of Norton’s choice.

  Norton’s usual men brought in typewriters for every recruit, along with fresh sheets of paper and a spare ink ribbon. Norton hurriedly ran out unceremoniously when he was informed he had another meeting to attend. When his associates were done with the typewriters, they too left without further instruction.

  “You know how this works?” Carl asked Fred.

  Glaring at his typewriter, Fred uncrossed his arms and pushed a finger against his eye patch. He slowly rose and took his typewriter to the front of the room where Norton had been standing and set it down, cursing to himself.

  “Y’all lucky my grandpappy used one of these,” he said. “You have any idea what’s like to explain email to an eighty-seven-year-old man?”

  “Would you like us to make you relive that experience?” Tom laughed. “We can make it that difficult, if you want.”

  “Don’t test me. I’ve still got a headache from last night.”

  “Why aren’t they teaching us?” Duong asked. “Shouldn’t they be the ones telling us how it works?”

  The recruits debated it for a short time before Carl interrupted them.

  “They want us to figure it out for ourselves,” he said.

  “Why?” someone asked.

  “Because it shows we can figure other things out, I guess.”

  “Bad way to train.”

  “We’ve done alright so far, haven’t we?”

  Fred sat down and called their attention. Starting with a concise description of the machine, he ordered them to take out their notepads and take notes as he elaborated on its components, how everything they had once done digitally, such as setting the margin limits and double spacing that required manual changes. He went through each of the symbol keys and told them what it would be used for, along with the most commonly used keys such as quotation marks and apostrophes. He emphasized the carriage return’s importance and how they would have to anticipate the bell indicating when they had reached the edge of the margin. He then demonstrated to them how to utilize the white ink option in conjunction with the backspace bar to correct mistakes.

  “But this is all just talk,” he said. “Y’all need field experience, so get to it.”

  “Get to what?” Ian inquired.

  “Typing.”

  Nobody moved.

  Sighing, Fred sat down and began pecking at the keys. Although his thick fingers were a bit clumsy, the men were amazed at how easily he adapted. Soon, he was typing without even looking down.

  Seconds later the room was filled with a mechanical cacophony. Dozen keys clacked out of sync and in uncoordinated patterns, bells ringing with the atonal quality of a disorganized church choir.

  The noise initially distracted Carl, but he learned to block it out by concentrating deeply on his own work.

  Every so often he would look to his side to see how Tom was getting along. His friend struggled, quickly growing frustrated with the additional actions he had to perform to get the same results as if he were typing on a computer keyboard. Tom repeatedly pushed his typewriter aside and rubbed his eyes, trying to avoid Fred’s amused expression. Behind Carl, Ian and Duong were attacking their typewriters with zeal. In their haste they made numerous mistakes, forced to correct through the sequence Fred had taught them. The process was simple enough, but still far more complicated than a mere click on a computer screen.

  “It is going to get harder,” Ian said. “Eventually we must copy things down and make sure we get them right. For now, we can just type whatever we want.”

  “In due time,” Fred replied. “You can bet they’ll force us to practice that, too.”

  “Are you sure they didn’t know that you could type?”

  “Everybody here knows how to type. It just takes a little practice to get used to it.”

  “Not exactly what I was thinking of when I left Minnesota,” Duong wryly observed.

  “Wasn’t what I had in mind, either,” Fred said. “But it still beats paying alimony.”

  Once they had typed for a couple hours, Fred had them stop to watch him demonstrate how to replace the ink ribbon so that when they resumed typing the ribbon would move properly and not remain still.

  “Other than that, just use some WD-40 on it and it should last,” he said, tapping the side of his typewriter. Deliberating over whether to speak, he eventually looked at the recruits with total sincerity. “I got to hand it to our boss on this one. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I know what he’s doing.’

  “I don’t get why we can’t hire someone to deal with it for us is instead of us having to learn all of this otherwise useless knowledge,” someone said.

  “You can always ask him,” Fred joked. “Or go join another newspaper, I suppose. You want to do that?”

  No one replied.

  “We’re a team,” Fred said. “I don’t know if you’ve picked up on it, but the entire newspaper isn’t just a company. It’s a team. We all got our part we got to do. If someone doesn’t do their job, we all suffer. If you don’t get your work done, we don’t compete as well against other newspapers. If that happens, we don’t make
money. If we don’t make money, then nobody’s got a job. It’s my business if you don’t know yours.”

  He then added, “I ain’t doing this out of charity. I’ve been in units where one of the members was a dumbass. Dumbasses get you killed. If you’re here, I’m going to make sure you ain’t one.”

  “And make sure we’re smartasses, just like you,” Tom said, taking the chance to poke at him. He was disappointed to see Fred chuckle.

  “When are we actually going to start working?” Tom asked. “I’m getting restless.”

  “I wouldn’t be,” Fred said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m guessing that when things finally start, we won’t be getting much rest.”

  ***

  Norton’s men came back with an announcement:

  The newspaper has found them new quarters in a nearby hotel that Norton had bought up. They would be relocating them there that night. Instructed to get their things and take it with them, the recruits cheered as headed to the lobby and out into the street where a bus awaited them. They drove about half a mile before stopping in front of another brick building with scaffolding on the right and left side.

  “It’s perfectly safe,” one of Norton’s men said. “The entire structure was renovated.”

  “He’s got a weird thing about rebuilding shit,” Fred remarked as he got off the bus.

  They entered to find the place considerably better than their previous lodgings. The interior was sparse, smelling strongly of cedar and cleaning supplies.

  Carl walked side by side with Norton’s men as they took the stairway up to the second floor, where they were shown a variety of rooms to choose from. Each one was essentially the same; they had a single bed, a coffee table, a writing desk, and a sink and bathroom. The carpet on the floor was bright blue and vibrant, hinting that the type of décor Norton had originally conceived for the rooms, and the hotel itself.

  “Pick whichever you want,” one of Norton’s men said. “Doesn’t matter. Just stay on this floor. Don’t ask why, his directive.”

  The recruits went about selecting their preferred room. Carl chose the one nearest to the stairway; if they had to get out, he wanted to be as close to the exit as possible. The window was a last resort, as the distance to the ground was farther than he was prepared to leap.

  Once they had their belongings set up inside the rooms, Norton’s men had them go back to the bus and drove them to the newspaper.

  Norton was there to greet the, accompanied by a group of dressed men similarly dressed in a three-piece suit. None of them appeared friendly as they exchanged apprehensive looks.

  “My men have told me you’ve been hard at work today,” Norton said. “It is good, because we’re going to be putting out our first issue ahead of schedule. You’re going to have to get your feet wet before we planned. You’ll all manage well enough, I’m sure.”

  He smiled. “In the meantime, you’ve all been cooped up inside this place for long enough. There’s a place up the street run by an acquaintance of mine. I’ve done him a few favors, so he is willing to let you all have a few - on the house.”

  The men cheered.

  “Come on,” Tom said, grabbing Carl’s arm. “Let’s get a drink!”

  The “place” Norton had referred to turned out to be a very small pub barely large enough to fit all the men inside. They entered and huddled around the bar counter, where a female bartender was standing by. She was a tall slender brunette with a jaded gaze that strangely seemed to complement her generous figure.

  She said nothing as she proceeded to fill glasses with beer and hand them out to the men. Some of them tried to strike a conversation, but she behaved though they were silent.

  “What’s your name?” Carl asked.

  She studied him facetiously. “Do I need to card you?” she said. “You look like you’re not even old enough to have a driver’s license.”

  They all chuckled. Still eying her, he took a small sip. It was a dark stout, most likely oatmeal-based. Finding it tasteful, he nevertheless set the glass down and addressed the men.

  “Boys let’s go find another place,” he said. “This one doesn’t cut it.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” she asked.

  “It’s alright.”

  “Alright? It’s better than anything you could brew.”

  “You’re telling me you didn’t like those beers we brewed together?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The beers we brewed together.”

  “I don’t even know you.”

  Still maintaining the grin and mock serious tone, he shrugged. “And yet you know so much about my beer brewing skills. You must be a psychic. I should just go to you for the answers in life.”

  “Maybe I’m just good at reading people,” she said hesitantly. Her tone had improved.

  “Like I said, a psychic,” Carl said. “Care to tell my fortune?”

  “It’s not a good one if act like this at every pub you go to.”

  “Well, I’m not a psychic, but I can definitely predict the future of a pub where the bartender doesn’t seem very friendly.”

  She turned away to hide her apparent blush. She then lifted her head and smiled playfully.

  “Is that better?” she asked.

  He grinned. “Much better. I can see your fortune improving quite immensely.”

  Thrusting his hand out to her, he introduced himself. He intentionally avoided asking for her name. She took his hand cautiously.

  “Emma,” she said. “My friend owns this place.”

  “So how did you get the job?” Carl asked, placing his elbows on the counter. “Did you predict his future? Or did you tell him you already knew you were going to get the job and why bother with the interview? I did that once. Unfortunately, my crystal ball was malfunctioning that week and it was the wrong job, so here I am.”

  She held back a giggle, breaking off for a second to confirm that the other men had gotten a beer. As soon as she had done, she placed her elbows on the counter beside him. Her chin was in her hand.

  It was too easy. Just like all the girls before.

  Carl had never decided quite what it was that made women so receptive to him. He wasn’t so egotistical that he attributed it all to his charm. A part of him really didn’t care, and that seemed to make all the difference. He also didn’t take them seriously, and for some reason that intrigued them. He didn’t fully understand it, but he wasn’t going to change what already worked.

  Emma broke off from their conversations to refill someone’s beer. Carl tore a sheet from his notepad and wrote on it hastily before folding it. He then reached out and gently took Emma’s hand, placing it inside her palm and closing her fingers around it.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  He squeezed her hand softly. “I thought you were psychic. You should know without having to look.”

  “Then why give it to me?”

  “Don’t read it and find out.”

  She took the folded note and slowly pushed it down the front of her open shirt. Carl took his beer and moved to the other side of the room. There, Tom was sitting by himself in the corner. The others had congregated around one of the larger tables across from him.

  “Not feeling social tonight?” Carl said as he sat down, raising his glass. “It’s not like we got beers on the house at our last job.”

  Tom had a contemplative air about him. His glass was almost full. He silently toasted with Carl and took a long sip before resuming his former abstract gaze.

  “You like it so far?” Carl asked.

  “Of course,” Tom said, gesturing with his eyes over at Emma. “And you seem to like the people.”

  “What can I say?”

  “You don’t have to.”

  Another sip of beer, then Carl said, “You just haven’t said much lately. I know this was my idea and all, so…”

  Tom cut him off with a hand gesture. “I’m not having se
cond thoughts. Not at all. I’m just thinking about we’ve gotten ourselves into. I knew when we left what we’d done, but it’s starting to sink in. It’ll take some getting used to.”

  “Of course. New things always do.”

  Tom drank more beer and then pointed at Carl, speaking as if the thought had been on his mind for some time. “I think you and I came here for different reasons.”

  “How so?”

  “I don’t know. But they aren’t the same.”

  “Does anybody come here for the same reason?”

  “I couldn’t know.”

  A minute passed. Tom emptied his glass and swallowed hard. “You think about her at all?”

  Carl scowled. Even when referring to her indirectly, the word stung in his ear like slap to the side of the head.

  “Not really,” he said. “Too busy focusing on what’s in front of me.”

  “She knows you’re here?”

  “No. Just where I’m never going to be again.”

  His bluntness didn’t bother Tom. Carl hadn’t told him the gritty details of what had actual happened. However, he had said enough to know he would have nothing to do with her from that point on, and that he had good reasons for it.

  “You think she’ll regret it?” Tom asked.

  Carl raised his hand before Tom could add more. “That shit is for another night. Tonight, let’s enjoy ourselves.”

  They ordered another round and chatted with the other men before making their way back to their table. As the rest trickled out one by one and in pairs, Carl eyed Emma at the counter.

  The folded notes were still tucked between her breasts. He tried to ignore Emma’s gaze as she bade the two of them good night. He wasn’t worried.

  At the hotel, they took the stairs up to their hallway. Slightly tipsy, Tom waved goodnight to Carl and slipped into his room. Taking out the key given to him by Norton’s men, Carl entered his room. He shut the door, went to flip the bolt lock. Considering it for a moment, he then smiled and locked the door shut. He then stripped and got into his night clothes, preparing for bed.

  Taking a cue from Fred, he lined the front of the door with paper they had taken from the training room and covered the floor around his bed with it. He then slipped into bed and worked hard to suppress the voice flooding his mind, ridiculing his decision to leave everything he had known. It tormented him with doubt as to who he was, what he believed, and whether Norton could be trusted. He fought it all off by suppressing the thoughts, supplanting them with his own affirming self-convictions.