The redhead didn’t even bother to ask O’Connor what he would be drinking, but immediately set out constructing an elaborately cartoonish multicolored beverage which, now that he had company, entirely embarrassed him. Martinez, becoming unusually pleasant in the presence of a pretty face, ordered a Pacifico and a shot of chilled Don Julio. Remembering himself a much younger man, he casually smoothed what remained of his hair back over his bald spot. He offered his own card to pay for the entire tab, even though TIG was paying for everything anyway.
Mr. Paulson wiped the bar top with a cocktail napkin before setting his cheap vinyl briefcase up in front of him. Keeping the briefcase tilted away slightly, to prevent O’Connor or Martinez from seeing the contents, he withdrew a chunky computer terminal and set it on the freshly cleaned bar top. The redhead looked on, at least as amused as she was ambivalent. “And for you?” she asked Mr. Paulson.
“A bloody beer with a whiskey shot on the side,” he said, “and do you happen to have any condiments?”
The redhead looked puzzled, but she nodded and, digging around in a cabinet, found a small tray of condiments from the days of happy hour appetizer service. When she set the half pint of tomato juice, a bottle of beer, and a shot of whiskey in front of Mr. Paulson, he assembled them all in the pint glass, swizzling the murky liquid around with his straw as he flipped open his computer.
Mr. Paulson’s unusually robust laptop seemed to be cobbled out of three others, held together by a collection of random-colored plastic zip ties, gaff tape, assorted metal brackets, silicone adhesive, and quite probably, a few pieces of bubblegum. The mouse, plugged into the side, was tethered with an old spiral phone cord, and the small corkscrew antennae looked like it came off an eighties-era cellular device. Regardless of its artful assemblage, it seemed to work fine, although it made an unsettling hum and occasional rattling noise.
Mr. Paulson sorted through the little basket of condiments, finally plucking a dusty bottle of steak sauce from the rack. He sniffed the slightly crusty top of the steak sauce bottle, shrugged, and poured a generous drizzle into his bloody beer. He swirled it around, making the drink only slightly less appetizing.
Martinez tossed back his shot and slapped the empty back on the bar with a proud flair. “If the commissioner happened to put anyone else on the case, I’m sure she would have said something.” He nodded at the redhead, indicating that he would take another.
“Those fucking guys,” O’Connor took a long pull from his layered drink, shaking his head slightly and slurping away like an overgrown hummingbird, “no professional courtesy.”
Mr. Paulson, punching away at his keyboard, might have been checking his email account for all they could tell. Leaning back, O’Connor caught a glimpse of a black screen with several smaller boxes open, all scrolling green scripts like a hacker movie prop. Sipping from what appeared to be a pint glass of clumpy blood, his eyes flit across the screen convincingly, as if he were reading any of the scrolling dialogue boxes. “They are the IETOSI,” Mr. Paulson said finally, “the Interdimensional Extraterrestrial Temporal Office of Special Investigation.”
O’Connor was surprised that he hadn’t choked on the acronym. “Well, that’s a heaping spoonful of alphabet soup.”
“Who the hell is that?” Martinez asked. Most of their investigative cases generally ended with the government giving a knowing nod and wink to alien intrigue if only to distract from the very real underground experiments that the Pentagon wanted to remain hidden. Having never seen much convincing evidence of extraterrestrial contact, he couldn’t begin to imagine the need for yet another alien investigation unit.
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
Mr. Paulson leaned back on his barstool. “Well, you know all those deeply redacted field reports you guys get?”
O’Connor nodded.
“These guys write them.”
Martinez chewed at his lime wedge. “So, why haven’t we seen them before?”
Paulson continued reading his little greenscreen news feed. “Because normally you get the weather balloons and swamp gas.” He chuckled softly. “They only call these guys when there’s some serious cleaning to be done.”
O’Connor’s pleasant afternoon buzz took an unexpected turn. “But that’s us, right? I mean, we are the Terrestrial Investigation Group.”
Paulson snorted. “You have your logo embroidered on your polo shirts. You’re not exactly the men in black, you know?” He scrolled through pages on the patchwork laptop. “You’re a civilian contractor who makes a good show of it for just the right demographic. These guys may not be much for show, but they do get it done when it needs to get done.”
A few drinks ahead of the group, O’Connor struggled to keep up. “Well, then how do you know who they are?”
Mr. Paulson chuckled and motioned towards his screen as if that suffered to explain everything. “With so many civilian contractors up in everybody’s business these days, it pays to have a little oversight.” He swizzled his straw around, watching pepper flakes and fly specks swirl around the bottom of the glass. “There are far more things going bump in the night than most people would care to know about.” He chuckled watching Martinez and O’Connor both deflate slightly.
“Look, not every interdimensional or transgalactic interloper drifts down in a vimāna. You look around and see remarkably human-like visitors flying the desert skies like teenagers cruising the miracle mile, and that’s just fine for primetime History Channel consumers. Let the trailer park demographic soak up Von Daniken and Tsoukalos over their Salisbury steak TV dinners and sleep with one eye open, feeling justified in their paranoia.” Mr. Paulson licked the salted rim of his pint glass and took a long gulp of the muddy mixture. “In the meantime, you got three-meter-long flagellating interdimensional rods blipping in and out of existence above nuclear missile silos, freaky carnivorous cryptids snagging stray children out of northeastern forests, and some insidious little race of time travelers that just pop through from whenever, ramming probes up people’s poop chutes and tagging rednecks like livestock.” He busied himself on the computer deck even as he finished his lecture.
“So, while you guys might have collected boxloads of trading cards for a handful of the little green men, these guys have gathered a family pack of the fun-sized fiends in a rainbow of fruity flavors, and they know exactly where they put the bodies.”
The newest computer screen showed a collection of red dots moving about the screen like Koi in a pond. Paulson counted the little blinking red blips on the screen, most already assembled in a large throbbing cluster on an unmarked topographical map of Arroyo Grande.
“Maintaining the utmost secrecy with regards to widespread unsolicited anal probing is the sort of government opacity that the average citizen relies upon to sleep soundly through the night. If they knew what we know, they would never open their door to a strange knock.” He collected his spare parts computer, cramming the deck and cables into his briefcase. “Do you happen to have any snacks? Skittles maybe, or some M&Ms?” he asked the bartender.
The redhead, who had unfortunately been standing nearby for his sudden soliloquy, shook her head slowly, wondering if the steak sauce had gone bad.
“No bother,” Mr. Paulson said. He downed the rest of his beverage, wincing slightly, and set the pint glass back on the bar. “Now, if you will excuse me,” he locked the clasps on his briefcase and swung it to his side as he stood, adjusting his tie. “I might take a short walk before we hit the rack. I assume that we’ll get started early tomorrow.”
O’Connor, Martinez, and the bartender watched him walk out the front door of the Starlight Lounge, casually swinging his briefcase. Realizing that the bartender had just heard more than she should have, Martinez sat up, preparing to improvise some little white lie to explain the scene she had just witnessed.
“Man,” she said, shaking her head, “some people will believe anything they read on the internet, huh?” She grabbed Mr. Paulson’s empty pint glass from the bar.
“So,” Martinez quipped, content that she had understood even less than they had, “Mary’s still pissed?”
O’Connor rolled his eyes, glad to avoid a men-in-black type moment entirely. “I wouldn’t know, we’re not on speaking terms.”
The bartender, hoping that no one was looking, sniffed at the empty pint glass, wondering if she’d even be able to smell the residue of whatever drugs he was on.