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At John Donovan's place, there's always a good glass of bourbon, cigarettes and sometimes, a vinyl hums an air of Johnny Cash or Aretha Franklin.
It's a confidential office, full of machines, files and secrets. But also a shelter.
Daylight never really comes in. The light hardly pass through the thick orange curtains: the room gives the impression of being plunged into dawn the whole time. The smoke left by cigarettes doesn't seems to want to go away and became a constant mist. Tape recorders turns permanently: the sound of their mechanisms is like a lullaby which covers the silence and the bad thoughts. And of course, John. Headphones on ears, nose deep in the files of criminals and « good citizens » who walks the streets of New Bordeaux.
And when Lincoln comes, things are always here, waiting for him. It's the landmark he needs, the control center of his vengeance, quiet and warm in the middle of the storm caused by his anger.
" Learned your lesson, Mister I-sleep-during-the-job ? " says Lincoln with a smile. He enters without warning and takes a seat on his chair, planted in front of John's desk.
" I'll sleep when we'll have exterminated every rats in this fucking city. Or when I'll die. Not before. " John hasn't raised his head, his nervous eyes scrutinizing pages after pages.
" We'll have them. To the last one. It's not the first time we do this. Those bastards have no idea who's coming for their ass. "
" You said it, buddy. " he answers, still captivated by his reading.
Lincoln watches John, who don't even notice it. He wonders what contained this documents and how a line, a word, a name on a paper sheet will solve their problems. But after all, nothing's changed. The CIA agent pursues the slightest error, the hidden sentence that will change everything. He doesn't attack first or goes into a battle without a second thought. Just like in Nam. John Donovan spent days bended on maps to point out the weaknesses of the ground. He devoured reports and made them spit all the informations, even the tiniest, the one's everybody thinks useless but which in the end, saves dozens of soldier's life.
" I see that you're busy so... I come back later, Okay ? "
" Fuck me... Sorry, Lincoln, I'm just... " John gets up so suddenly that he knocks down his chair. " This is driving me nuts, this shit. I want things to go faster, to hit harder. But we're not gonna win if we make mistakes. This, " he says, a finger pointed to pinboards and portraits, " this is the key, but... "
" I know, I trust you on that and… "
" But when you come by, I get you my best whiskey and put aside this mess. "
John leaves before finishing his sentence and is soon returned, two glasses in a hand, a bottle of Bere Barley in the other. He swings a large files on the ground and sits down on a corner of his desk.
" I'm all ears. You need anything ? "
" Yeah. Something to drink and a guy who's not annoyed with my shitty stories from 'Nam. "
" Our shitty stories from 'Nam. "
During one second, John's eyes freezes. But no more than one second. His thoughts already working on another concern, even if Lincoln didn't know which. What has he seen, during this second?
" Never speak of it, huh? asks Lincoln.
" You already know everything. It's these fucking politicians, all these judges, that need to hear them. But the time will come, don't worry about that. And shit, we returned to America, we have to take care of our own country now. "
" Speak for you, crazy motherfucker. "
" Asshole. Didn't mean that I forgot, though. I'm just... "
" A crazy motherfucker. "
" Be careful, big guy. You talk to an overtrained CIA agent ! " declaimed John, with an ironic pride.
" Well, it's my biggest dream : kick a governmental agent's ass. And I'm done beating rednecks. Too easy. "
Both veterans have big smiles on their faces and laugh heartily. When they discussed, even seriously, there was always a moment when they forgot to pay attention to their language, their good manners, or what other people would think. With John, he only says what came to his mind, because there was nothing that he couldn't tell him.
John gets up and removes the jacket of his suit like a super-hero getting ready to fight his mortal enemy. He throws it dramatically on the floor and takes a defensive posture.
" So ? What are you waiting for ? Yeah, I'm not so rusty, Mister Clay ! I do aerobics four times a we... "
" Wait, what ? " Lincoln exclaims. This revelation makes him burst out laughing again.
" That's it, laugh ! It's a well-known method to mask your fear ! " John keeps on jumping up and strucks an invisible opponent with his fists.
" You gotta be shitting me... "
Lincoln poses his glass back on the desk. He only took a sip, enough to notice that it was a fine whiskey and had certainly been pretty expensive.
He gets up and imitates the pose of his friend. He was much taller and wider, and even if John was well-built himself, everybody is a kid next to Lincoln Clay. Nevertheless, he'd always thought that if John wanted to send somebody six feet underground, he was capable of it, no matter his size, his experience or his place in society.
John tends a clenched fist towards Lincoln, who strucks it slowly. The fight could begin. " Go easy on your old buddy, champ' " slips John and Lincoln nods. Of course he wouldn't give real blows to his pal. This moment reminds him the war once again. With his 6'4, he didn't go unnoticed. From time to time, to deceive the boredom, boxing matches were organized between soldiers and Lincoln doesn't remember having lost one. The two men were running in circle. Their fists meets and withdrew. Lincoln finally notices that the record player can be heard. A guitar imposes a heavy rhythm, the furious voice of a man roars the lyrics of a protest song. But it was the guitar which impressed him the most.
John's knocks seems more real now but never hostiles. It was a game. A dance. Lincoln, in turn, hardens his defense and shows himself more aggressive. But John dodges, still smilling, admiring his opponent's combination of blows. They have a good cadence, when one fists moves forward, the other moves back and so on. The guitar was more and more powerful, blows were faster. Lincoln simply has fun.
Until his fist strikes John's nose.
The blow hadn't been rough, John is always on his feet. The agent turns his back to Lincoln, face in hands.
" Shit ! John, are you okay ? "
" Woo ! You were right, aerobics is not going to make me a heavy-weight champion ! " he answers, with a tone full of auto-mockery. He now faces Lincoln and pinchs his nose. His fingers and mouth are stain with blood.
" Fuck, it's not funny, i'm really an asshole ! "
" Don't worry, it's not broken. "
" Show me. "
Lincoln moves away John's hands and replaces them with his own. He palpates bones, those at the top, then comes down, little by little. His fingers are gentles, eyes peering at the slightest of his friend's reaction. Not broken, but bashed up. John tries to remain unmoved, but he hisses between his teeth when Lincoln touched the tip of his nose.
" No need to play the tough guy with me, " says Lincoln, after having seen John grimacing.
" I know. I'm alright and you didn't break my nose, honor is safe. "
" Damn, I'm sorry, man. "
" It's nothing. That will just cost you a dry-cleaning, " laughs John, who looked at his blue shirt with desolation. " And shit, I had worse ! "
" Maybe, but I don't like to see my pal in this state. "
When John puts his hand on his shoulder, Lincoln guesses which mask his face carried. A bitter mixture of anger and guilt. How many times had he seen the face of a comrade stained with blood, and life leaves his eyes? And the long sessions of inspections to determine if a bullet enter his skin then discover that the blood on him isn't even his own ? His hands were covered with his enemies's blood, but also with the one of his friends. He couldn't stand the idea.
They remain silent and Lincoln imagines that the same memories fill John Donovan's head. His firm hand always supportes him, and would have been able to do it forever.
" Next time, we'll play poker. " says John, as his smile comes back.
" Don't cut yourself with the cards... "
" Go fuck yourself ! Ah ! I think I need another drink... "
The bottle of Bere Bayley empties while the night falls on New Bordeaux. Lincoln and John, now on the same side of the desk, spend more time than planned peeling invoices, death notices, police statements... Conversations on the actions to be led against Marcano were interrupted by anecdotes on their common past. And now, the past looks a lot like the present. A war replaces another. But the idea that he would cross it again with John Donovan by his side comforted him. He'll always be present, whatever happens, with his bourbon, his cigarettes and his shoulder for Lincoln to lean on.