I feel the infrasound burbling under my stomach as they approach. The door that isn’t a door rattles faintly.
The pitchmen have a uniform. They wear black slacks. Gray shirts. Silk ties in blue, yellow, black. They wear wide grins around porcelain-white teeth.
“Hello!” the one in the blue tie says in a rich, authoritative baritone. “Thanks for taking the time to meet with us.”
“Absolutely . . . ,” Rosso replies, sounding far from absolute.
“We represent the Goldman Dome branch of the Axiom Group,” the one in the yellow tie says, and apparently their organization doesn’t care for gender-neutral titles because this pitchman is a pitchwoman. Her brown hair is tied into a neat ponytail, and her makeup is the heaviest I’ve ever seen on a post-apocalyptic female: bright red lipstick and a thick coat of foundation that gives her skin the matte dullness of a rubber glove. “The Axiom Group offers tried-and-true solutions to new problems.” Her tone is so genial it seems about to overflow into laughter. “May we come inside and discuss what Axiom can do for your enclave?”
“It was my understanding that Axiom collapsed eight years ago,” Rosso says, keeping his voice and expression flat. “Their forces were wiped out in the Borough Conflicts and what was left of them was buried in the Eight Six quake.”
“It’s true, that was an unprofitable year,” Blue Tie says with a note of somber reflection. “We suffered severe losses and did come close to closure.”
“Fortunately,” Yellow Tie chirps, “Axiom’s foundations are deep and unshakable. After a brief hiatus and minor restructure, we are back in business and better than ever. May we come inside and discuss our services?”
“What sort of services are we discussing?” Rosso says.
“As you know, Goldman Dome was in the process of a merger with Citi Stadium when Axiom assumed management. We would like to continue that process.”
Rosso and Kenerly exchange a glance. I don’t know what they were expecting from this encounter, but I doubt it was anything this . . . cheery.
“May we come inside to discuss our services?” Yellow Tie repeats.
Rosso looks at me, but all I can offer is an uneasy stare. “We’re always open to discussion,” he says.
“Wonderful,” Yellow Tie says.
The rear doors of the SUV open, and two more men emerge.
“And who are they?” Rosso says, stiffening.
“Our assistants,” Blue Tie says, as if surprised by the question. “They will assist with the merger process.”
They are pale, doughy little men in white short-sleeve shirts and black slacks. They could be employees of an office supply store. One carries a thick notebook, the other a small metal briefcase, which he hands to Black Tie.
Kenerly takes a step forward. “What’s in the case?”
Black Tie gazes impassively at Kenerly. He is the tallest of the group and stands behind the others like a looming bodyguard, his eyes oddly still, vacant. He pops the latches and holds the case out to Yellow Tie, who lifts the lid and displays its contents like a gameshow prize: a stack of documents tucked into a manila folder.
“Our presentation,” she says, blessing Kenerly with a patient smile. “Informational pamphlets, merger guidelines and agreements, et cetera.”
“We know how hard it is to trust any outside group in today’s world,” Blue Tie says.
“We believe in complete transparency,” Yellow Tie says.
Black Tie says nothing.
I can see Rosso’s jaw working as reason and instinct fight for dominance. There are disquieting shapes swimming in the depths, but the surface is peaceful: five unarmed ambassadors extending an offer of alliance. If there is a threat, it’s hidden somewhere behind those bright and earnest eyes.
“It’s very hot,” Yellow Tie says, miming the act of wiping her perfectly dry forehead. “May we come inside and discuss our services?”
Rosso’s eyes move from face to smiling face, searching for options, finding none. “By all means,” he says, and nods to Kenerly. “Let’s discuss.”
The soldiers form a circle around our visitors, hands tight on their rifles, and we step through the steel doors.
BALT IS WAITING for us inside. Ostensibly just chatting with Ted, he is sitting close enough to the gate to have overheard everything. He stands up, planting himself in a chest-out stance as he sizes up Axiom’s representatives.
“Hello!” Blue Tie calls to him with a wave. In the lobby’s harsh fluorescent lights, I notice that Blue Tie and Black Tie are also wearing makeup, though it’s subtler than Yellow’s. Just a light coat of foundation and a dusting of anti-shine, protection from the unforgiving lens of some imaginary TV camera. “We represent the Goldman Dome branch of the Axiom Group,” Blue Tie says. “We’re here to complete the merger.”
“Captain Balt,” he says warily, and offers a palm. “Representing Twenty-One Cock Street and the surrounding block.”