Deb: Maybe it's the idea that some of what you do to me isn't anything 
you planned. It has nothing to do with 'Bill'...and everything to do 
with Billy.

The change in emphasis was telling. I continued doggedly.

Deb: Used to be a terrorist was my man. Now my man seems to be 
a terrorist.

He dropped his eyes again. The man kept breaking contact.

Deb: The difference means a lot to me...and it just sort of stings 
to think that...

Enough was enough. I was straying back into those murky waters 
of sensitivity.

Deb: ...well, never mind why it stings. You get my drift.

Bill considered his words.

Bill: I never meant for you to love me.

Deb: You think I meant for it to happen? You were just someone 
to poke at. Then you showed up...and even bad novelists tell 
the occasional truth. It was too late, for me anyway, from the 
minute I saw you. After that, it didn't matter what you did or 
how nasty your reputation was.

Bill: So...how much do you know about what I do, baby?

I went with a hunch.

Deb: I don't know any more than I ever did. But I know this...if 
the government wanted you, they would have you...unless you're 
still working for them and you're so deep some of them don't know 
it.

The brown eyes were sharp and met mine squarely.

Bill: You figured it out, baby. My boss won't like that.

Deb: Your...boss?

Somehow the idea of Bill answering to someone just didn't want 
to make sense. Bill was the ultimate definition of loose cannon, 
so far as I could tell.

Bill: Maybe boss ain't the right word. Handler...contact...he tells 
me what the big boys want and takes what I find out back to the big 
boys.

Deb: Big boys?

Bill: One of 'em sits in a round office.

Deb: Oh, Lord.

The Bill and Bill Show. No wonder he was so apolitical...to 
the average mutt, he would be the guy who wanted to blow up the 
current regime without having any idea what to put in place once 
the blowing up was done. In truth, he was simply keeping up the
illusion of being out of the loop.

Deb: But, then who's your...your contact?

Bill: Don't know if I oughta say.

Deb: Come on, Bill...who'm I gonna tell?

Bill grinned briefly.

Bill: We'll see...anyway, you've never met him but ya know 
who he is.

Deb: What? Who...I'm not that bright, Bill.

He waited a minute before answering.

Bill: Casey Ryback.

Deb: Jesus H....no way!

The grin flashed again.

Deb: But...you...he...Harvey Dent...

Bill: That shoulda been your clue right there, baby. They 
had me cold. God Himself couldna got me off on that one, 
let alone that brainfart Harvey Dent.

Deb: So...you're still...

Bill: A government mule, that's right, baby.

For the first time in a while, he smiled and there was nothing 
artificial or cocky or hard about it. I was stunned at how natural 
and free he looked, and how twenty years dropped off his face in a 
second.

Deb: I...don't guess I should know any more than I already do.

Bill: And you just said ya weren't that bright. I expect you'll 
figure the rest out, ya read enough Tom Clancy. So now, when I 
tell ya t'watch your ass...

Deb: I understand.

In fact, my mind was whirling and the only thing I did 
understand was the need to try to be more attentive to his 
instructions, to curb my natural tendency to regard everything he
said as some sort of half-assed dare to be answered. He was 
reporting, through just one or two people, to the Arkansas 
Razorback Himself...the President. Tom Breaker, that stupid
shit, probably honestly thought Bill had turned.

Deb: You mean the whole Missouri thing...?

Bill: Was a put up job.

Deb: But...people were ki...

Bill: Movie, baby. You know what Casey Ryback really looks 
like? 'Course ya don't...short little shit...top of his class 
at Grambling University.

Deb: Grambling? I mean...not like that's a bad school or anything...

Bill grinned yet again. Because of Steven Seagal, I had never 
even entertained the idea that Casey Ryback might be anything other 
than big and white. Now Bill was telling me that he was the exact 
opposite.

Bill: I coulda busted him in half and we both knew it. I hadda let 
him take me so the rest of it would go off and I'd be free t'move.

Christ Almighty. So now he ran with some real mad dogs, and 
on behalf of the government they were convinced he hated. He 
watched the international arms market so the people who really 
needed to know could see what was out there and try to anticipate
how it would be used and where it might turn up. If any of those 
people even suspected him...

Deb: Those guns I ran in...?

Bill: INS knew they were in the truck. They never stopped at Tom's, 
never got that far.  Ryan offloaded 'em when you two were asleep 
and I picked 'em up.

Deb: Did...she...ever know?

Bill: Never let on if she did. She just didn't like what I 'did' 
and that was the end of it.

Deb: Billy...I'm so sorry.

Bill: Sorry for what?

Deb: For everything...the way it all worked out, I guess.

I reached over and touched his hand, then withdrew. I was more 
confused than I had thought possible. The only thing I knew with 
any certainty was that my own feelings hadn't changed. Of course, 
now I was hearing Johnny Rivers music in my head and was about 
thirty seconds from hopeless laughing, but it didn't matter in the 
end.

Deb: Was I ever...like a cover?

Stupid question, but I had to ask. If he'd had ulterior motives 
in putting up with me, if the relationship had been or in any way 
remained a sham, I had to know. If it was, I would give him the 
chance to make an exit, since there would be no need to maintain 
the charade.

Bill: No, baby. It was always pretty easy to keep ya out of the 
middle of that.

Bill moved slowly, slipped back under the blankets and finally 
succeeded in dislodging Gus. He drew me down beside him and settled 
my head against his hard shoulder.

Bill: First I kept ya around 'cause ya were a goof and ya cracked 
me up. Things changed on me...ya know when. What I said, I meant 
then and I mean it now.

Another hell of an admission out of the boy. Time to stop him 
before he went positively mushy.

Deb: No need to be redundant, Billy.

Bill: That's my girl.

I twisted in his arms, put my back to him. I felt him fold 
himself around me in that uconsciously protective way he had. 
Once again, he had managed to find it in himself to assure me 
that my place was secure. Once again, I swore to myself that I 
would do my best to deserve that place.

Meantime...back at the ranch, as they say...

Jade’s Journal, or Decent into Madness

Day One
Bill went to get Deb, so he says.  About time, too.  Sometimes I 
want to kick that man square in the ass.

Day Two
There seems to be a question about food preparation.

Day Three
Jesus Christ!  I get up to fix a meal and you’d think the goddamn 
world was coming to an end!

Day Four
Idiots, both of them.  “Darlin’, ye’re not t’be out of the bed.  
We can feed ourselves.” – Ryan. “Lay down, Darlin’, you look 
like hell.” – Sam.  I feel fine, for God’s sake!

Day Five
Now I see how they plan to feed themselves.  The managers of 
the fast food places around here must be just about shitting 
themselves.

Day Six
Elmore brought KFC tonight.  I can see how this is going to go.

Day Seven
Oh, yes.  Straight to hell, that’s where it’s going.

Day Eight
Sam brought Chinese.  Imperial beef, yummy!
I hate Chinese.  What’s wrong with meat and potatoes?

Day Nine
Get the hell out of my journal, Gaerity!
Ryan found someplace that could send out steak dinners.  He 
didn’t specify the kind of potato he wanted.  He spent the 
rest of the night in a severe snit.
Damn chips, needed vinegar.

Day Ten
I’m not kidding, Ryan.
More Chinese.  I’m not complaining, but…
I am.

Day Eleven
I need to hide this journal.
Nice try, Darlin’.

Day Twelve
Damn, damn, damn!  New Gerard’s in my journal, too!
More Chinese!  Does he like it that much, or is it 
something he can eat without thinking about it?
Would a simple tatie with salt and butter be too 
much to ask for in this blighted land?

Day Thirteen
I went down to the kitchen today, on my way to Wendy’s 
to get Ryan his tatie.  The man is losing weight.  Anyway, 
Deb will shit bricks when Bill gets her back.  There are 
white cartons from one end of the room to the other.  The 
cats are picking through them.  I think I saw a ferret
sleeping in one.  I know I *smelled* a ferret.

Day Fourteen
Sam came in with a gift for Ryan today.  “I hear you like 
toys,” he says and hands him a Mr. Potato Head.

Day Fifteen
Ryan has fixed it so that Mr. Potato Head can give Sam the 
finger.  Sometimes I forget how inventive he is.

Day Sixteen
Elmore smuggled us in a New York Style pizza.  Elmore’s so 
sweet.

Day Seventeen
Ryan is losing his sense of perspective.   He cursed a 
potato chip commercial, said they were false prophets.  
We were watching an old Francis the Talking Mule movie 
and Donald O’Connor was peeling potatoes.  It was supposed 
to be a bad thing.  Ryan was having a cow… what better 
thing for a good mick to be doing than removing the 
jackets of God’s Own Tuber.  I don’t know how much longer 
I can take this.

Day Eighteen
Sam called a radio station today… requested a song called 
‘Mashed Potato Time’ for Ryan.

Day Nineteen
Sam isn’t badly bruised, but I think Ryan might have broken 
a knuckle on his head.

Day Twenty
Elmore brought in Beef and Cheddars from Arby’s.  What would 
I do without Elmore?

Day Twenty-one
Sam stood in the back yard, feeding potatoes to the llamas.  
Apparently Rama kicked the crap out of Ryan when he tried 
to save them.

Day Twenty-two
This isn’t funny anymore.

TO BE CONTINUED......

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