Quote:"Friendly Conversation"
Sometimes I like to screw with my friends' heads.
There are two guys in this whole wide world that I consider real, actual friends. Their names are Jimmy Biggs and Jared Frankenbeaner, and they live together in a crappy flat in Cincinnati. We were in OSS together during the war – I bar-hopped German officer's clubs psycho-analyzing high-ranking Nazis and confusing the hell out of everybody while J&J went out and made a whole lot of noise. When it ended, they ran off with a fortune in Nazi gold, and I got snapped up by the nascent CIA, who punted me over to a dirty-tricks division of their psychological ops apparatus.
Jimmy and Jared are so paranoid about the government realizing that they have a fortune in stolen gold that they live like hobos, selling tiny bags of powdered gold-dust every month at pawn-shops and jewelry stores in order to pay for rent, food, bullets and beer.
They're hilarious in a tragic kind of way, but they keep busy - Gold isn't the only thing they smuggled out of Germany. I know that if I need help Jared and Jimmy will always have my back. I drop by between assignments to drink and explain to them why, exactly, President Eisenhower should have Frank Sinatra killed.
It's a topic I'm passionate about.
The point is that they're professionally paranoid. The J's were field-ops for OSS, two of the only American spies who made it out of East Berlin after things with the Russians turned sour, and they never got out of the habit of jumping at shadows. This makes them really, really easy to fuck with. They over-interpret everything.
Which is why what I'm about to do is so funny.
We're sitting in a booth at a diner eating enormous bowls of chili. Mine has cheese in it. Jimmy is arguing that Frank Sinatra is just an entertainer, God Dammit Mike, and he doesn't deserve this animosity. We've had this conversation dozens of times, and I'm getting sick of explaining my argument.
Fortunately, I'm carrying around a floral-printed silk sock with a half a brick in it.
I've just gotten off one of the worst assignments of my entire career. Ralph, my boss, sent me to write up an extensive psychological profile and list of likely reactions to several preferred scenarios on the scumbag who runs most of the heroin trade on the East Coast. I don't know why the CIA cared, but it was a change of pace from pigeon-holing political agitators and it came with quadruple pay, so why the hell not.
I had to worm my way into an organization of really, really terrible people, and do a lot of things that are gonna give me nightmares for years. I had to be a career criminal good enough to climb the organizational ladder while still being quiet enough not to invite too much suspicion.
Usually my assignments last only a few weeks. This one took almost a year before I had enough for my report. Before his unfortunate, untimely death in a staged shoot-out with the police Bart 'The Bricksock' Bones was a masterpiece of social camouflage.
Having the sock on me got to be a habit.
Jared is waving his empty bowl of chili at a passing waiter. I plunk my brick-filled sock down on the table. Both of the J's stare at it like it's growing limbs.
“This,” I say, “Is my rebuttal.”
Jimmy looks hurt. “Are you threatening me, Mike?”
“No,” I say, sounding as offended as I can, “I'm arguing.”
Jared picks up the sock, pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“This is a sock with a brick in it.” he says.
“Half a brick.”
Jared studies it. “How is this not a threat?”
“Well, for starters you're holding the sock. Are you threatening me, Jared?”
He blinks. “No... no, I'm not. I... guess I see your point?”
He puts the sock back down.
I pick it up and give it a lazy, experimental swing, eying up Jimmy.
Jimmy slams a hand on the table, splashing our drinks, and jabs an angry finger in my direction.
“See! That! Right there! You're thinking about hitting me with a brick!”
Now it's my turn to look hurt. “Jimmy, buddy. Really? I'm just making a point. The sock is a metaphor. A metaphor for why Frank Sinatra is terrible.”
Jimmy still looks suspicious. “But what about the brick?”
“Why are you so focused on the brick?”
“Because you want to hit him with it maybe?” Jared supplies.
I put the sock down and slurp my chili.
“Why would I want to hit Jimmy with a brick?”
“Because he disagrees with you about Frank Sinatra.”
I think about that for a second, then nod.
“I'll admit that supporting Franky is a bricking offense.”
Jimmy opens his mouth to speak.
“However,” I cut him off, “Jimmy is my friend. I don't hit my friends with bricks.”
They both lean back, arms crossed, and give me an appraising stare. Sometimes it's creepy how in-synch they are.
Jared leans forward.
“Mike, how do we know that that fat fuck Ralph hasn't ordered you to run a game on us? This could be part of a plot to take our gold.”
“Because I'd tell him to go screw,” I say. “I thought we were talking about bricks?”
“I thought we were talking about Frank Sinatra,” says Jimmy.
“It's the same thing. Metaphor, remember?”
Jared frowns. “I thought the sock was the metaphor?”
“Look,” I say, thinking something up on the spot. “The sock is expensive, but it's in very bad taste, and if it hits you in the ear it'll cause brain damage. It's a perfect metaphor for Sinatra.”
“But it's the brick that causes the brain damage,” says Jimmy.
Jared nods. “The brick in the sock. I see. Civility disguising violence and crudeness. You're saying Sinatra's a thug.”
“A thug who can't sing.”
Jimmy eyes the sock. “So you're not threatening me?”
I shake my head, finish my chilly just as a fresh bowl arrives for Jared. “No Jimmy, I'm not. Do you want me to?”
Jimmy grins. “A little. At least then I'd be sure you're not playing one of your damn mind-games.”
“Is that what you thought this was?”
“Wasn't it?”
I shrug, laughing. “Beats me. It was fun though.”
Later that night, I get mugged as I step out of a cab. The guy asking for my wallet bares a startling resemblance to Frank Sinatra.
I hit him with a sock with a brick in it, and laugh all the way home.
