The last part was to find an innuendo in every opportunity.
Now I have to be careful who I joke with.
So that I don’t offend.
Every word measured, every thought contained.
It means I can have as much free speech as I want, so long as it follows strict and inclusive modern guidelines.
No jokes about having sex.
It’s a trigger.
No talking about burning books.
I might upset a pyromaniac.
It’s funny, this cancel culture we are diving in to.
One percent of the population or less hop on a Twitter train and suddenly, something is gone.
Which is good for getting rid of bad things.
But who is in charge of deciding what is bad?
Maybe I’m a sort of capitalist when it comes to that.
Let the market decide.
Ever wonder why some books sit in the discount bins and never sell?
Maybe it’s because they aren’t that great.
The market decides to cancel them.
Don’t like a cartoon skunk?
Change the channel.
I don’t think it’s limited to a political party either.
The left is working hard to cancel offensive things.
The right is working hard to cancel women’s freedom of choice and LGBTQ protections.
Which tells you all you need to know about the world.
Every thing you need.
As soon as you have an opinion, someone is going to disagree with it.
Doesn’t matter where you make your stand, someone is going to not like it.
And if you stand tall enough, they’re going to hate it and the mob shows up.
I think I’ve said it before, but it deserves repeating.
A person can be smart, but people are stupid.
Mobs and crowds make stupid decisions because as soon as we get in a group, we start a titter.
It’s easy to grab pitchforks and torches, and start hunting witches.
And witches are very easy to find, once you start to look.
I read a lot.
I’ve told you that before.
A lot of books. A lot of articles. But I also read a lot of history.
And not the stuff being written today, not always.
I read history from a hundred years ago, as written by the people of that time.
Journalists of that day were not the beacons of truth we portray the fourth state to be.
They had papers to sell, and money to be made.
They turned Indians into savages, Mexicans into bandits, and probably started a war or two.
Just like they do today.
Every time I see a news report on the cancel culture, I ask myself one question.
What are they trying to hide?
It’s harder to hide information these days, but if the mob is over here lynching Pepe Le Pew, what are they not paying attention to?
If the media can get everyone in a tither over cultural appropriation, they can sell more ads to companies who make commercials about how woke they are.
Or maybe bombings in middle east countries.
Or maybe back room deals between Texas oilmen and Saudi American princes who behead journalists for calling them killers.
I think we should misquote a pirate here.
The problem isn’t the problem. Our attitude about the problem is the problem.
I watched the skunk all the time growing up.
I never thought rape was okay. I am also in the generation that introduced the “May I kiss you?” culture, which is ridiculous.
Now even that question is considered sexual harassment.
Which brings me to you.
To us.
To today.
Don’t let the media distract you from the real problem.
Idiot drivers.
Their numbers are growing, and armed with cell phones and thumping radios, they get more dangerous every day.
No blinkers as they whip in and out of traffic, speeding through school zones and no idea what the hell a zipper merge is.
If we don’t quit focusing on these non-issues, like offensive sexy cartoons and a thousand other headlines, bad drivers are going to get worse.
I’m relying on you. The world is relying on you. We have to fight this.
It might be through robot cars. I’m a fan and we need them now.
It might be through better driver’s ed. I think it should be through cancel culture.
“I need your help,” the voice on the other end of the phone said and I froze.
The simple truth was, I never expected to hear from her again. At least not in this life.
Plus, I was still feeling from the sight of a black fox darting from the undergrowth in the woods and dropping a flip phone cell on the path at my feet.
It felt surreal and disconnected, like the fragment of a dream where the afterimage lingers long after the sun has come up to burn away the memories.
I remembered her.
Kiko. From Vegas.
The fox made sense. She was kitsune. Half human, half diety spirit from the island of Japan.
I tried to think of a great comeback, one that would impress her and stoke the fires.
“I bet you do.”
Nailed it.
“Because of Vegas?” she purred.
I could imagine the curl of her pouty lip, lifted in one corner in a semblance of a smile.
“Exactly,” I said into the phone and tried not to yell as I ignored the slick patina of fox slobber that coated the plastic shell.
“Nice,” her voice sounded tinny. Distant. “Uh, remember the dragon you stole the egg from?”
“We,” I corrected her.
She cleared her throat and waited to see if I had more to say. I wanted to rage, to rant and curse. Instead, I waited back.
It was easy to imagine the look on her face.
She had a beautiful face.
“We,” she finally sighed into the phone.
“I remember,” I prompted.
“She had a daughter,” Kiko said. “I think she’s trying to kill me.”
CHAPTER TWO
I had a selfish thought as I listened to her breathing on the other end of the phone. The last time we were together I was able to perform a transporter spell Magic at its most fundamental level is a function of quantum reality.
Know what an atom is?
For a long time people thought atoms were the smallest things in the universe turns out they were wrong. There are creations called quarks which make up atoms and I bet when science catches up to reality there are even smaller particles that make up a quark. What that means to normal people though is the universe is a fast place full of the unknown.
Part of that unknown, a manipulation of quantum reality, is called magic. It really is a case of now you see it now you don’t. The transporter spell moves a body from one location to the next and yes I stole the name from Star Trek. Beam me up. It’s so advanced that wizards nearing the century mark can’t perform it.
. Mucho mucho magic. I did it once, the ghost of my Watcher Elvis screaming in my ear as I fell from a couple of thousand feet up in the air I have heard of people hulking out when their body dumps adrenalin laced with fear into their system.
Mothers can lift cars off of their small children and apparently young magic users under a century-old, such as myself, can cast a spell like few others I did it to save my life. And now Kiko was asking for my help.
Made me think of this spell, and made me wonder if being around a half God wood enhance my magical ability. Selfish, I know. “I don’t know how soon I can get to Japan,” I said. After we slayed the Dragon, Kiko stole the dragon egg absconded for parts Unknown. She was returning it to her home country. “I’m in San Francisco,” she said. I shrugged, even though she couldn’t see me. “Still not as easy as driving from Memphis to New Orleans,” I said. “I can be there tomorrow.” “That may be too late,” she said. “Can’t you ask your judge for help?” The Judge was the most powerful magic-user on the planet and maybe even in a couple of realms.
He was the Judge, and Executioner of the Magical World, and I was one of his deputized magical Marshal.
I don’t know quite how old the judge was.
I met a gnome New Orleans, who was practically immortal who showed me a picture of a vision of the Judge when he was younger battle that predated recorded history by at least a millennia. He could transport me just about anywhere I needed to go, and often did times without warning or informing me, leaving it up to me to figure out petty things like details. “Do I really want to bother him with this? “You probably should,” Kiko purred into the phone. “She’s after you too.”
CHAPTER
Every magic user has an innate abilities based on genetics, their natural constitution, their attitude, training. Think of it like players or football players who make it into the professional leagues.
A kid starts out playing t-ball and learns to love the game.
He might have speed, or good eye-hand coordination, technical ability but whatever it is, it makes him just a little bit better that is peers He keeps working at it, practicing, experimenting, and moves up through the ranks, to Little League to Babe Ruth, High School, College, the minors, and then the majors. At each level he’s shedding more and more of his peers, it may look like winning the lottery but it is a combination of factors. Factors that start with natural ability. Mine was luck.
Luck enhanced by precog and lots of training. I ducked as a fist the size of a beach ball that whistled past the space where my head had just been. I sprinted half a dozen yards further up the path, turning off counter spells like micro explosions of willpower behind me Noise.
Sparks.
All designed to create confusion and chaos. And buy me time. I turned around I tried not to squeal in terror. I think I succeeded It was a troll. Nine and a half feet tall, skin that looked like the bark of a tree, solid black eyes like that of a shark centered in a flattish face. Trolls are usually pretty dumb.
Scratch that.
They are straight forward, with a laser like focus on their prey.
Which made sense. They were, after all, apex predators and hunters beyond compare in their realm. Which explained how it was able to sneak up on me through the woods that lined this part of the jogging path. Excuse me, it was called an Urban Adventure Trail. It did not explain how a troll partnered with a dragon to carry out revenge murder on me. Or how he found me. I didn’t bother with a spell.
I was better trained than ninety nine percent of wizards in this world.
The Judge made sure all of his Marshalls where among the best We had to be. You got to be stronger, faster, and better than the witches and warlocks we were normally tasked with policing. But spells won’t work on trolls. Their skin is too thick. The one facing me had a bowl cut and a scar above his left eye.
He snickered as he watched my face. He could see we both knew options were limited. My Spidy senses tingled again and I ducked forward as two massive clap together above me. I had would have turned to jelly. I scrambled forward head on a swivel as a second troll lumbered out of the trees, grinning brown and yellow teeth glistening in the lamplight. Trapped. They blocked either end of the path with nothing in front or behind me but the woods.
Their domain. “Are you there?” Kiko asked. I stared at the phone still in my hand. “Can’t talk. Trolls.” I flipped the phone shut before she could say anything else and stuffed it in the loose pocket of my running shorts. “I could really use some beaming up Judge,” I said out loud. Both trolls just snorted and began to walk toward me.
CHAPTER
“Raz-ma-taz!” I screamed and tossed up a hand. A fireball the size of a basketball blossomed in the air. I tossed it over my head between the two Trolls.
Their skin was impervious to spell.
But their eyes were just a sensitive to light as mine.
I threw an arm across my face and ducked away as the floating ball of plasma exploded in a brilliant flash worthy of an A-bomb.
In miniature.
Their screams told me it worked.
I cracked open my eyes and checked.
One of the Trolls was on his back on the bike path, twisting and mewling, long fingers wiping at his flash burned eyes.
The other held one hand over his brow and stumbled forward with the other outstretched.
I stepped to one side and let him trip over his compatriot, feeling the earth tremble as he pitched forward and cracked the asphalt.
“He didn’t see that coming,” Elvis turned his terrified gibberish into a triumphant howl.
I didn’t bother to respond.
Mostly because I was running and praying that there wasn’t a third Troll waiting in the trees.
I’d encountered them more than once, but especially back in the Sidhe War, what humans called World War II.
I had joined up like most young American men and my unit had been dropped far behind enemy lines on accident on D-Day. Or maybe design, since my luck should have made it work out better.
We ran across a Troll patrol incursion from another realm.
It wasn’t pretty, nor pleasant to recall.
Since then, I had a healthy respect for their woodsman abilities. They were apex predators and extremely tribal.
My wounding of these two, short lived though it might be, would earn some enmity.
My feet pounded harder, but I couldn’t’ keep up that pace for long. I’m designed for long slow runs and could sustain short bursts of speed for only about a mile.
I made it in six minutes, which the logical part of my mind calculated as a new personal record for me. The other parts kept quiet, but at least they stopped blubbering in fear.
Lined up a new Scottish DCI novel from a new author.
And articles out of the wazoo.
Plus at least forty old westerns as a pair of second eyes.
I read the news every day, a quick skim of headlines and first paragraphs, and deep dives on whatever grabs my interest.
It is varied and wide.
Two things I wanted to share with you today that sort of support my theory that the deck is stacked.
Peter Thiel is an early investor in Paypal.
In 1999, he had the chance to invest in the stock before it went on an IPO.
It’s common for some knowledgeable investors to get this opportunity.
The “conspiracy” part is Theil bought shares for .01 each using his Roth IRA.
Do you have a ROTH IRA? That’s the one funded with post-tax dollars so you don’t pay taxes when you withdraw after the age of 59.5.
Which means all the gains Thiel made in paypal, to the tune of millions of dollars, won’t be taxed.
Do you get the opportunity to invest in pre-IPO stocks for a penny?
Why does he?
Is it a case of who you know?
If so, how do I meet that person?!?
He’s only invested $1900 in this IRA in 1999, hasn’t added a cent since, and all of it went to Paypal stock.
99 was a different time though. I know, I lost a big chunk of investments in the first dot com bubble collapse.
I was heavy into a grocery delivery service and Apple, both which were hit hard.
I also read about NFT’s, an opinion piece from a copyright lawyer.
I am an anomaly in that I think doctors and lawyers are idiots.
Sometimes.
The way I see it, each job has a layer of types in it that statistically follow society.
What that means is that in general there is a spectrum that runs from dumb to super smart, with all grades in between.
You know this too, because you know some smart people, and you know some not so smart people, and the vast majority of people you know are somewhere in between.
Average.
When I’m having surgery, I want the Doc at the top of the spectrum, not the bottom.
But a lot of folks hold Doc’s in high regard, so even the dumbest get away with stupid shit.
Saying it, prescribing it, acting on it.
Right now, there are a few lawsuits against big Pharma for the opioid epidemic.
None against doctors for overprescribing opioids.
Because doctors “didn’t know” narcotic pills were addictive.
Please.
So I lump almost all docs into a category. I do the same with lawyers.
I don’t know where this guy fell on the spectrum.
His statement was, “You can’t copyright NFT’s, so they have no value.”
NFT’s are non-fungible tokens, or original works on the blockchain.
It’s a year old “brand new” type of transaction that you will see more of in the future.
This copyright lawyer was trying to say you can’t do it for books, because someone could buy your book and then distribute it on the internet, which defeats the scarcity value the buyer wants.
Sigh.
I wanted to respond and ask him if he had a BIBLE.
Because the Bible is the most printed book in the world.
I can buy one for $19.99 at the bookstore. I can take one from any hotel, thanks to the Gideons.
And I can bid on a Gutenburg Bible for $9 million dollars.
They all have the same words, they all are the same thing, except one has collector’s value.
When I went to France, I visited the Louvre.
I saw the Mona Lisa, then bought a postcard of the painting in the museum. When I was on the street, I saw hundreds of reproductions of the famous painting, all for different prices.
But there is only one original first edition of the Mona Lisa.
(It’s in a collector’s private vault, according to some new studies that suggest the world famous one we see in the Louvre is a reproduction after being stolen in the 70’s.)
So who is right? The copyright lawyer who has a very narrow view of what can and can’t be sold on the internet?
Or the people who are building the future?
When I try to explain NFT’s and Blockchain, I do it badly.
But I know what it’s like. If someone told you in 2011 to write books and put them on this brand new thing called Kindle from Amazon, you would have made a million dollars in 2012 and 2013.
Bad books sold that well. Good books sold even better.
It was the heyday of the advent of self publishing. Which is crazy, because once you learn how to do it, TODAY is the heyday of self publishing.
I am still learning.
If someone told you to buy Amazon stock at $50 right when they were getting their first lawsuit, you would have thought they were crazy.
Maybe.
Or Bitcoin at $2.
That’s the thing about ideas, the future and innovation.
They all sound crazy until they are not. Until we are all standing around, shaking our heads and wondering why we didn’t do something when we had the chance.
And that, my friends, is how opportunity works.
I’ve had more than my fair share of missed opportunities.
I missed that Kindle wave in 2012. I had one book published that earned around $1000 and I thought I was rolling in it.
That the wave would never stop.
I invested in the future in 1999, and lost it when the company went belly up. But in 2020, all grocery stores deliver.
I’ve had a chance to buy an apartment building to rehab for $250,000 and thought it was a big risk.
The real estate market this year priced it at $1.5 million.
Sigh.
Sometimes I feel like I’m on the lower end of the decision spectrum.
And yet, I think there is so much opportunity out there, if you can only put the pieces together.
Because if someone told you about Paypal in 1999, you wouldn’t have believed them. I didn’t.
What is your biggest missed opportunity?
And what is your biggest opportunity in the next FIVE years?
The woods were full of unseen noise makers. Morning sounds greeted the quickly rising Sun. Dewdrops clung precariously to the edge of leaves, refracting the light and leaping to splatter on the carpet of moist grass below.
“Come on man,” a voice gravelly and deep whispered.
“If we hurry we’ll make it on time.”
Two men dressed in heavy parkas and winter boots increased their pace. The path they followed was faint and rarely used by humans. They pushed through and almost solid wall of leaves and bushes that stopped at their knees.
“What kind of animal made this?” asked one, his voice light and floating. He sounded like a cultured city dweller and he walked with an awkwardness ill-suited to the trail.
“Boars, Bob,” said the other. His voice rumbled from deep is in his chest and assaulted the air.
“Boars, rabbits, other small things.”
“Boars? Is that a wild pig?”
“A real wild one. Huge tusks, razor-sharp. Can gut a man in one swipe.”
Bob looked around fearfully, but didn’t stop walking. His guide was Cassius Huey The most experienced backwood tracker in the small town. He had come highly recommended to Bob who searched the town for a special guide. But he did not come easy.
Bob thought this assignment was the strangest he had been given since the LA riots. His magazine sent him into the deep lush dark forest of Northern Arkansas, hundreds of miles from a decent coffee house to capture the exploits of a maniac.
He loved the countryside. It was a beautiful expanse of tiny mountains that unfolded along the ground like a children’s map. Colors fought in the trees, red bleeding into yellow, dying into brown. Bald rock crowned heads watched peacefully over a long deep valleys. Clear streams scarred the sides of the mountains making tiny ribbons in the light.
Bob followed Cassius in search of one of the larger streams. It bore the unoriginal name of Taylor’s Rapids, but had one very unique feature. At one point the walls jetted thirty feet above the water, and the stream narrowed from a wide smooth fifteen feet to only three. The water channeled through the gorge at unbelievable speeds and where the wall ended was a waterfall.
The fall wasn’t a great distance no more than thirty feet, but the water rushed out of the puncture in the wall at over fifty miles an hour. The locals called it the flume and gathered at the bottom to fish the fertile pool below.
“Watch out,” Huey grabbed his arm and pulled him back from barging into a tree.
“Thank you.”
“De nada.”
“Tu hablo Espanol?”
“What?”
“Never mind,” Bob said. He probably picked the phrase up from television.
Bob had found the guide nursing a beer on the front porch of his ramshackle cabin. He we was watching a baseball game on a thirteen inch black-and-white television with rabbit ears.
Bob walked up to the porch confidently and introduced himself.
“Are you Cassius Huey?”
“Do I know you?”
“I need a guide and I was told Mr. Huey was the best. Are you he?”
“I am he.”
“I’m a writer for a lifestyle magazine and I’ve been sent on a special assignment,” said Bob.
“Well Mr. Writer can you do me a favor and shut up.”
“Pardon me?”
“I’m trying to watch this game.”
Bob walked up on the porch and leaned against the wall.
“I didn’t think the game was on regular television,” he said.
“Satellite,” the big man grunted and pointed over his shoulder. His eyes never left the television screen.
Bob followed his finger to the gleaming silver dish that squatted uncomfortably beside the clapboard cabin. It seemed too modern, too out of place, a small piece of the future that waited for the rest of the town to catch up.
“Nice,” said Bob.
The man in the vinyl recliner didn’t answer. They finished the game in silence. He leaned forward and cut off the television.
“What do you want?”
“I’m here on assignment.”
“You already told me that.”
“I want to go find…” Bob pulled out a notebook. “Taylor’s Rapids. A place called The Flume. Do you know it?”
Cassius answered slowly. He reached beside the chair and grabbed a bottle of beer. He pulled on it and rested the bottle between his legs.
“Yeah, I know it.”
The two men looked at each other.
“Why you want to go there?”
“Someone told us that a man shot the Flume regularly. I want to interview him. My magazine sent me here to find him, and everyone I talked to sent me to you.”
“Yeah. That guy’s crazy. You will be too if you talk to him. Won’t catch me doing that stupid kind of stuff.”
“Can you take me?”
“How much?”
“What’s your rate?”
“What’ll you pay?”
“How about one hundred fifty? Seventy Five now and Seventy Five when we get back.”
“Son, I just might kiss your ass for one hundred and fifty bucks. When you want to go?”
“As soon as possible,” Bob smiled.
He thought getting the man to work would be impossible. His friends had teased him that hillbillies were lazy and shiftless.
“Would tomorrow work?”
“Hell, I ain’t doing nothing tomorrow. Sure. Be here at five. Dress warm.”
The conversation ended. Huey walked into the house and shut the door.
Bob stared at the cardboard covered window for a few moments. Then he shrugged his shoulders and walked back to his car shaking his head.
The next morning came earlier than Bob knew existed. Actually he knew it was there, but he couldn’t believe people were really up and moving that early.
He quickly donned a pair of new hiking boots and a shiny parka. He hadn’t prepared for the cold mountain air and had to buy one in the store in town. He thought Arkansas was supposed to be in the south. The South was hot and muggy, right?
His breath misted in the air in plumed in misty clouds. He heard people in the rooms around him moving. He shook his head and left the room. It was too damn early.
He hurried to Huey’s house, and found him waiting on the porch. The television was tuned in to cartoons and the big man’s hand was wrapped around a cup of steaming coffee.
“You’re late.”
Bob looked at his watch. 5:03 a.m.
“Sorry,” he said.
“City boy. Come on, let’s go.”
They climbed into an old Chevy Truck and took off into the morning. They drove for an hour along almost deserted two lane, except for the occasional headlights of another truck.
At first, Bob tried to engage in conversation but his companion batted away every attempt with monosyllabic grunts. He gave up and surrendered himself to the darkness.
He was amazed when his eyes detected the growing light of morning.
“How far?” he asked.
He knew the stream was roughly a hundred miles from town, but he was terrible at judging distances.
“Here,” said Cassius and yanked the truck off to the side of the road.
He reached around and dug behind the the seat for a parka almost identical to Bob’s, only older and more worn. He strapped a huge pistol to his leg and smiled at Bob’s glance.
“Varmints,” he winked.
The pool rippled and tumbled under the waterfall. Bob thought it was a stroke of nature’s genius. It painted the pool long and flat and pushed the waterfall one quarter of the way into the middle of the water. The area of the pool under the falls was misty and shadowed. Rainbows danced and disappeared, moved and shifted as a light breeze manipulated the water.
“Takes the breath, huh?” said Cassius.
“Yes,” Bob muttered. “Yes it does.”
He unstrapped the digital Nikon and snapped off several dozen shots. They were the only visitors so far, but he knew the fishermen would arrive soon Fish leaped every few feet, snapping at flies that darted along the surface. Their silvery bodies caught the morning sun and flashed it back.
“This is beautiful,” Bob said because words didn’t seem to be enough.
“Can we go to the top after I interview him?”
Cassius kneeled in front of the pool. He raised his hands to the sky, his voice boomed over the water.
“Great Spirit, your beauty is wonder. We thank you.”
Bob stared at him with an open mouth.
“Are you an Indian?”
“Native American,” Cassius corrected. “And I’m a little bit of everything. I think the prayer is anyhow. My papaw taught it to me, guess he got it from his. To answer your question, yes, we can go topside once you’re finished up down here.”
They sat on a flat rock that bordered the edge of the pool.
“I should’ve brought my pole,” said Cassius.
“It looks like you could reach out and grab one.”
“Probably could, if you was fast enough,” Cassius teased. “Wanna try?”
“I would miss and fall in,” said Bob. “Too cold.”
“City boy. Did you bring lunch?”
“Shit,” Bob snapped.
“You may get wet trying to catch it.”
“Oh man,” stammered Bob as he started at the cool expanse of the pool.
“Let it warm up some,” Cassius said. “Who knows? Maybe Archie will grab one on his way down.”
“Archie? Is that his name?”
“Yeah, Archie Huey.”
Bob quirked up an eyebrow. He rooted in his pocket and pulled out a Moleskin.
“Any relation?”
“Sure is. My papaw. Grandfather. Mother’s side.”
“The Indian.”
“Native American. How did you get Huey for a last name.”
“No father,” shrugged Cassius.
“Oh,” Bob stuttered. “I’m sorry.”
“For what? Mom was young. Stupid. It is in fact a very common story up here. Dad joined the Army and left her with me. That’s about when Archie went nuts. Few years later he moved on up here into a cabin. No one sees him too much.”
Bob’s pen flew across the notebook pages as he scratched cryptic markings in shorthand.
“So you don’t talk to him?”
“Nah, used to be not so much anymore. He’s crazy.”
“How old is he?”
“You know I’m not so sure. Must be round seventy six, maybe seventy seven. Could be a little older.”
“My God, that’s incredible,” Bob said softly and shook his head.
“Yeah, he’s strong as a horse. Least he always has been far as I can remember.”
“But seventy six and doing this extreme stuff, that’s almost a miracle.”
“Maybe. I saw on the TV this old man swim with a boat tied to his neck. Out in the ocean with all them sharks. That there is pretty amazing.”
“That guy is strong, but this-”
The pool rippled and tumbled under the waterfall. Bob thought it was a stroke of nature’s genius. It painted the pool long and flat and pushed the waterfall one quarter of the way into the middle of the water. The area of the pool under the falls was misty and shadowed. Rainbows danced and disappeared, moved and shifted as a light breeze manipulated the water.
“Takes the breath, huh?” said Cassius.
“Yes,” Bob muttered. “Yes it does.”
He unstrapped the digital Nikon and snapped off several dozen shots. They were the only visitors so far, but he knew the fishermen would arrive soon Fish leaped every few feet, snapping at flies that darted along the surface. Their silvery bodies caught the morning sun and flashed it back.
“This is beautiful,” Bob said because words didn’t seem to be enough.
“Can we go to the top after I interview him?”
Cassius kneeled in front of the pool. He raised his hands to the sky, his voice boomed over the water.
“Great Spirit, your beauty is wonder. We thank you.”
Bob stared at him with an open mouth.
“Are you an Indian?”
“Native American,” Cassius corrected. “And I’m a little bit of everything. I think the prayer is anyhow. My papaw taught it to me, guess he got it from his. To answer your question, yes, we can go topside once you’re finished up down here.”
They sat on a flat rock that bordered the edge of the pool.
“I should’ve brought my pole,” said Cassius.
“It looks like you could reach out and grab one.”
“Probably could, if you was fast enough,” Cassius teased. “Wanna try?”
“I would miss and fall in,” said Bob. “Too cold.”
“City boy. Did you bring lunch?”
“Shit,” Bob snapped.
“You may get wet trying to catch it.”
“Oh man,” stammered Bob as he started at the cool expanse of the pool.
“Let it warm up some,” Cassius said. “Who knows? Maybe Archie will grab one on his way down.”
“Archie? Is that his name?”
“Yeah, Archie Huey.”
Bob quirked up an eyebrow. He rooted in his pocket and pulled out a Moleskin.
“Any relation?”
“Sure is. My papaw. Grandfather. Mother’s side.”
“The Indian.”
“Native American. How did you get Huey for a last name.”
“No father,” shrugged Cassius.
“Oh,” Bob stuttered. “I’m sorry.”
“For what? Mom was young. Stupid. It is in fact a very common story up here. Dad joined the Army and left her with me. That’s about when Archie went nuts. Few years later he moved on up here into a cabin. No one sees him too much.”
Bob’s pen flew across the notebook pages as he scratched cryptic markings in shorthand.
“So you don’t talk to him?”
“Nah, used to be not so much anymore. He’s crazy.”
“How old is he?”
“You know I’m not so sure. Must be round seventy six, maybe seventy seven. Could be a little older.”
“My God, that’s incredible,” Bob said softly and shook his head.
“Yeah, he’s strong as a horse. Least he always has been far as I can remember.”
“But seventy six and doing this extreme stuff, that’s almost a miracle.”
“Maybe. I saw on the TV this old man swim with a boat tied to his neck. Out in the ocean with all them sharks. That there is pretty amazing.”
“That guy is strong, but this-”
A loud yell stretched through the morning. Bob jumped and whipped around to face the falls.
“Here he comes,” shouted Cassius over the scream.
He stood beside Bob and pointed where he should look.
They watched and waited.
The morning stood still as the yell froze nature and the sounds around them.
A black shadow shot out in the falls riding the prow of water. The yell didn’t stop. The shape hung in mid-air a moment, graceful strong lines standing out sharply against the morning lit sky. It arched toward the water and sliced into the middle of the pool.
“Holy shit,” whispered Bob. “That was amazing.”
Cassius stood beside him a grin splitting his face.
“Amazing,” he agreed.
Archie stayed under water as he swam for shore and then popped up when he could stick his head and shoulders above. Water cascaded off his long white hair that hung down his back in wet strands. His skin was tan and leathery, wrinkled from the sun and deep laugh lines. He didn’t look seventy six. His body was broad and corded with muscle. He looked forty six, with strong white teeth that filled his mouth and a broad smile he couldn’t wipe off his face.
He nodded to Bob.
“Morning stranger,” he said in a deep voice and glanced at Cassius.
“I heard you yelling.”
“That was amazing Mr. Huey,” Bob gushed. “Just incredible.”
“You liked that huh? Call me Archie. You ought to try it.”
“Me? No way. I’d kill myself trying.”
The old man nodded.
“Probably. You smell like city. Nice coat,” he stepped in front of Cassius. “How you doing son?”
“Hey Pap.”
“You okay?”
“Doing real good. How about you?”
“No complaints. Every day I wake up and I ain’t six feet under is a glory to me.”
Archie moved past them and sat on the big flat rock. He pulled down the top of his dive suit around his waist and tied the sleeves. From afar, Bob thought it had been a neoprene dive suit, but up close it looked as if old rubber tire tubes had been crudely sewn together with tight leather laces. It had the effect of casting a pioneer look around Archie, like some character from LAST OF THE MOHICANS.
“You don’t look crazy,” he said softly.
“You heard that did you?”
Bob tripped over the rocks as he moved to stand by Archie.
“I’m with a magazine on a story,” he said. “I was wondering why you do it?”
“What for?”
Bob quirked up an eyebrow and tilted his head.
“Excuse me?”
“Why were you wondering? Seems pretty simple. I’m just an old man going for a swim.”
“That’s not just a normal swim.”
“I suppose not.”
“I talk to people who do different things, things most people consider out of the normal. And then I write about it. We heard about you and they sent me.”
“You want to interview me?”
“Yes, please.”
He pressed the tip of his pen to the Moleskin ready to jot down pearls of wisdom and some existential truth about the quest for feeling alive. It’s what most of the extreme sports guys talked about. His favorite was, “You never know how to live until you almost die,” or some variation thereof. Just because it was a cliché didn’t mean it wasn’t true.
“Nope,” said Archie.
“Nope?”
“Nope,” he stated again. “I don’t want to be interviewed.”
“Why?”
“Well,” the old man pulled a knee up to his chest and wrapped his arm around it. Blue gray eyes twinkled up at Bob.
“I don’t really mind you writing about me so much, that’s alright. But I can’t tell you nothing about what I do. There ain’t much to it. It’s just swimming.”
“You swim over the edge of a waterfall and shoot halfway across a pool in fifty degree water. It’s a little more than swimming. That’s like doing a polar bear plunge every day.”
“Literally plunging,” Cassius snorted.
“But you can tell me why you do it,” said Bob. “I mean what you do is self evident but our readers want to know the reason behind the what.”
Archie shrugged.
“Like I said, it’s just swimming. I get a good inside feeling when I swim. That’s a part of why I do it. And I like the way my balls go up in my throat almost every time I go over the edge.”
He studied Bob a moment, then looked at Cassius.
“There is something to it that can’t be put to words.”
The old man stood and stretched. His rubber suit was almost dried under the rising morning sun.
“What is your suit made of,” asked Bob.
“Tire,” confirmed Archie and turned to Cassius.
“Go catch us some fish.”
“I ain’t got a pole,” said the big man.
“Use a stick boy. What you think they are there for?”
Cassius walked into the woods and quickly disappeared among the trees. He came out off the treeline several hundred feet further down with a long thick branch in one hand and his Bowie knife in the other. He sharpened the end of the stick into a point. He walked to the edge of the water and poised on a rock ledge.
He looked like some savage in a primitive land, except he was clad in blue jeans and a well worn parka. He held the pose for several minutes as Bob watched in fascination. The stick lashed out, struck like a snake and speared a shiny silver fish that wiggled to escape. Cassius flung it up on the bank where it flopped and twisted. He adopted the pose again.
“Come with me,” said Archie.
He led Bob into the forest.
“Can I ask you something,” the old man said as they cast about for deadwood. He picked up a fallen log and handed it to Bob to hold.
“Sure.”
“Why do you write?”
“It’s my job,” Bob answered quickly.
“Do you like your job?”
“Yes, I like it very much.”
“Would you write even if it weren’t your job?”
Bob considered for a moment and nodded.
“I like to write. I’ve pretended at it since I was a teenager, and somewhere along the way I got good at it. I’m working on a novel.”
“So you like it.”
“Like it. I feel like I have to do it. Most of the time.”
“That’s why I jump. That’s one of the reasons anyhow.”
He gathered kindling and smaller branches, passed some to Bob and began to lead him back to the pool. The ever present roar of the falls grew louder the closer they got.
“But,” Bob started to say.
“No,” said Archie. “Can’t be no buts. You decide and you do. That’s another reason I do it.”
“No try,” said Bob. “Star Wars.”
“What’s that?”
“The movie.”
“Huh. I heard of it, but I ain’t seen it. I don’t watch the television.”
“It’s sort of become this famous mantra. “You do or do not. There is no try,” or something like that.”
“Well that don’t make no sense. I’ve always been particular to try and try again. You kinda keep on trying til you do it, then do it again.”
“So you do it again and again for the adrenaline rush, because you like it and you don’t like to think about it.”
Archie set the kindling up in a small teepee, and broke and carefully placed the larger branches around it.
“That’s pretty much right. Grab that stick,” he instructed. “I do it because I can. And I’m good at it. Not that it takes much to be good at falling mind you, but I’ve got a few years on my chassis so taking a tumble even in water ain’t as easy as I make it look.”
“Okay so what got you started?
Bob watched Archie pulled out a stone and strike a piece of metal to it. Sparks landed on the kindling and smoked up into a tiny flame. The old man fed sticks into the flame and let it grow to a small fire by the edge of the rock.
“Don’t know, he said finally. “Been doing it forever.”
“When will you stop?”
“Now see,” said Archie. “Ask me when I’ll stop being free. Cause that’s all it is to me.”
“Freedom?”
“The ultimate form of freedom. I don’t got no gravity, no seatbelts or stop signs. All I got is me and that cold cold water and I fly. Fly. Fly. Fly.”
Archie jumped up and skipped around the fire as he turned the word fly into a chant. He sang at the top of his lungs in a rhythmic fashion, shuffled his feet in time with his loud voice. Fly. Fly. Fly. Fly.
Cassius walked up with three trout and laid them on the rock by the fire.
“Food’s here,” he announced.
“Well come on then,” said Archie.
He passed a branch to each man and held the tip of his out to Cassius. The guide quickly cut the end into points on all three sticks. Following their example, Bob jammed the pointed end of the stick through a fish’s mouth and roasted it over the flames.
When it was cooked, he tore off pieces with his fingers and the it was one of the best things he had ever tasted.
Other fishermen began showing up. One slipped out of the woods on the far side of the pool and set up next to the water. He gave a silent wave and ignored them. Many moments later a second older man set up at the edge of the pool behind the waterfall.
Archie, Bob and Cassius lounged around the fire. Cassius dozed on the rock. Bob kept shifting so that he wouldn’t fall asleep, but the breeze through the trees whistled against the white noise of the falls that created a perfect zone for snoozing.
Nature was talking and Bob finally heard.
“What are you going to put in that story?” Archie called to him.
“I had an idea when I was coming up here,” said Bob. “I knew exactly how this article would go. I’d just slip your quotes in the blanks. But you didn’t follow my script so none of my questions matter. I don’t’ know. Yet.”
“Mayhap you could talk about freedom and folks doing what they want no matter what other folks say about them. Books and covers and such.”
Archie pounced up on the rock and stretched like a cat. He raised his arms toward the sky and reached as high as he could.
“I ain’t hurting nobody when I jump,” he said. “I do it because it’s there and I like it and I can do it and I will do it til I can’t no more. I don’t know if you could find a better way to say freedom.”
“Yes, but-”
“Told you boy, there ain’t no buts.”
Archie nudged Cassius’ boot with his foot.
“I’m leaving boy. I’ll be seeing you.”
Bob watched Archie pick his way to the treeline and slip back into the shadows of the forest.
Cassius sat up.
“He done talking? I’m surprised his voice didn’t give out. That’s the most I heard him at one time.”
“I thought you said you didn’t talk to him for years.”
“Years, days, months. It gets different every time I tell it,” winked Cassius.
Bob stared at the woods where Archie disappeared on that Ozark morning.
“You bout ready?”
The walk back to the truck was silent, interrupted by the occasional click of Bob’s digital camera. They had visited the top of the flume for a few moments where he snapped off almost a hundred shots and then Cassius led them back to his old Ford.
“That fish was delicious,” said Bob.
“Always good up here,” agreed Cassius.
“Is there a place around here I could rent a pole or some supplies? I think I’d like to go fishing tomorrow. I can’t remember the last time I went.”
“Yeah,” said Cassius. “That sounds like a pretty good idea.”
They drove along the back roads as the sun shifted over toward the Western horizon and cast long shadows that stretched across the two lane pavement. The leaves were the color of fire in the fading light. Bob memorized the details as he replayed the day in his mind, trying to salvage an angle for the story he wanted to tell.
It was dark when they got back to the B&B. Cassius pulled his truck to the curb and put it in park.
“You get what you needed?”
Bob considered for a moment.
“I think I got something out of it. Archie did some talking about freedom.”
“He’s crazy,” said Cassius.
“I wish I was a little more crazy.”
“Maybe you should write a little about that.”
“Good idea, said Bob as he opened the door.
He reached back in and slid the seventy five dollars he owed Cassius across the seat.
“Thanks for your help today.”
“You gonna be here another day, huh?”
“That’s my plan.”
“Going fishing.”
“Just tell me where to get the pole.”
Cassius deposited the cash in his shirt pocket.
“I’ll buy the beer,” he said.
Bob smiled.
“Sounds great. I’ll bring the candy bars.”
“You ain’t so bad for a city boy.”
“You “ain’t” either.”
The two men shared a quiet laugh. Bob turned and walked up to the porch.
“I think that will work,” he said to himself.
“Hey City Boy!” Cassius yelled.
Bob spun around.
“Five o’clock. Don’t be late.”
Bob groaned and waved as Cassius dropped the truck in gear and puttered away.
The bed felt cool and comfortable as he slipped between the sheets. Bob closed his eyes and listened for noise on the small town street that pulled the shutters down at dusk. It was quiet. Peaceful. Sleep came quickly, his muscles sore from the hike. He smiled in his sleep, dreaming of the flume and swimming and flying with Archie.
Sundays after Mass, I met with Jacob and Henri in a small cafe on Montoya just a few blocks from St. Peter’s. They were always there before me, sipping into a third or fourth cup of coffee, sleep long since caffeinated from their eyes and I would come in late from talking with the Father and camp in the corner with my books to try and catch up.
This day I was later than usual, the streets crowded with a deluge of tourists and a midday shower that sent them scurrying for the protection of the awnings, hampering me. I felt like shouting at them, herding them like cattle out of my way but was too afraid to actually do it. Jacob would have shoved through and I wished he was with me, or even Henri, who would probably scare a tiny path through with his high pitched shriek. But I was alone and polite and excused myself every step of so, pushing past the bright shirts and straw hats that belonged in some tropic port and not my beloved Quarter.
Gator’s sounded like a biker bar and the small dark door in an alleyway seemed more a speakeasy than a coffee shop. But my friends and I called it home on Sundays, preferring the solemn smoky interior to the bright Bourbon Lights. The door looked heavy but it opened easily into the sunken den, walls peppered with candles and Saint’s pennants. The low hum of voices faltered as I stepped through, but resumed as the world was shut out behind the door. I walked to the back, shaking off my light overcoat and the uneasiness I had felt in the crowd outside.
Jacob was usually sprawled across a chair or so at the low bar, draping his arms across it as if crucified and leaning into it. He was larger, bordering on heavy, and the weight of his shoulders made the mahogany rail sag in the middle.
He handed me a mug. I sipped it carefully, blowing the steam off the top first. It was a rough gritty blend of Delta topsoil and septic water. I tried to hide a grimace from Henri.
Jacob caught it though.
“You know,” he said. “I have travelled the furthest reaches of the world and I’ve never tasted worse than this.”
I started at him through the blue-gray haze that floated lazily along the low rafters.
“Piss on you,” slurred Henri.
He was our token ex-pat who spent too much time in France. Jacob and I had a good laugh at his expense often, but he persisted and insisted so the name caught on. He was Henri instead of Henry to all but his mother and Jacob.
“Piss on you Jacob Earl. You wouldn’t know a good cup of java if you bathed in it.”
“This tastes like you bathed in it Henry,” Jacob grumbled. He sat up and fixed his gaze on the dark corner where Henri stretched out on the whole bench along one side of the table.
I settled into my seat, sliding along the worn leather to rest against the wall. I wondered to myself if they waited for me to arrive before they started arguing, saving their strength for an audience or if I always walked into a lull, while they were catching a breath and devising a strategy.
“I’ll dunk your doughnut ears in my coffee if you don’t say my name right,” Henri snapped in his prissy voice on the edge of cultured.
“It’s cauliflower ears, you moron,” I said laughing. “You don’t dunk vegetables.”
They laughed with me, Jacob and Henri competing to see who could attract the most attention.
“Coffee is coffee,” I said.
“I don’t think so Gabe,” answered Jacob.
“Would you grind some kidney beans and roast them for a blend?”
“You animals know butkus of the art of grinding,” muttered Henri.
“I think I know quite a bit about grinding,” deadpanned Jacob.
Henri and I smirked at each other. Jacob’s largess with the fairer sex was the stuff of legend among us.
“This is an excellent blend of Argentinian and Arabica beans, with nutmeg ground in for that extra perception to the flavor,” explained Henri.
“Tastes like roast dirt to me,” said Jacob.
“Tastes like coffee,” I put in, an attempt to forestall further discussion. Last week, they almost came to blows over which end of an egg to break.
Henri’s face blossomed in a red bloom. He sat up too fast and had to grab the table for balance. His cheeks ballooned up and out as he huffed. He threw himself toward Jacob.
“Those acting classes are really starting to pay off,” Jacob observed.
Henri leaped on the bar and perched his skinny frame ominously over Jacob, his head hunched forward like a vulture.
“You overdeveloped, undercultered galoot of a man. In all of your famous world travels you never developed a taste for the finer things,” he accused.
Jacob grimaced as he forced another swallow of the ebon liquid in his stained mug.
“I prefer crescent rolls over muffins and biscuits, Japanese women over American and chocolate sauce on my ice cream,” he answered. “I think I know a thing or three about the finger things.”
“It’s croissant, you idiot,” I said, going for the laugh again.
They stared over at me for a moment to see if I would say something else but I buried my head in THE BOOK OF THE DEAD.
“That’s not my point,” said Henri. “You’ve had coffee in what, thirty three countries?”
“Thirty eight.”
“Thirty eight, and your zombie palette can’t tell the difference?”
Jacob shook his head.
“It’s dead then.”
“It’s all just shades of bad to me, Henry. After monkey brains and cow tongue soup, most of the time coffee is just coffee.”
“That’s what I said,” I chipped in.
“And this is swill,” Jacob finished.
“Piss on you,” Henri sighed. “Take my word for it. This is good coffee. You can’t find better coffee in this burg, unless I’m making it.”
Henri was a braggart about his taste and skills. We thought he was a great cook and never hesitated to tell him so. The more often he heard the words, the more he fed us and free food always seemed to taste better.
“I always thought the Bourbon had good Joe,” muttered Jacob over the edge of his cup.
“Please,” sniffed Henri. “That man stole a recipe from me and ruined it. You have to use the right roast. You want swill, then that’s pig spit.”
“We think it’s pretty good, Henry,” said Jacob. “Don’t we Gabe? Let’s go over now and get some au lait.”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “It’s crowded, and it’s raining.”
I didn’t want to leave.
“Nonsense, get your stuff,” he said. “Let’s go.”
He slipped into his leather bomber jacket.
“Why don’t you go without me. I’m in the middle of a chapter.”
“And break up a Sunday tradition? Not on your life. Come on, you can read this stuff later. Let’s go to Bourbon’s,” he grabbed the book out of my hand and shoved it into my backpack.
“Wait,” Henri hopped off the bar. “I don’t want to go to Bourbon’s.”
“We’re going to go have a good cup of coffee,” said Jacob. “You stay here and drink your blend.”
“No,” said the thin man. “I want to be with you guys. But not at Bourbon’s. Let’s go get some beans and I’ll make you a blend at my flat. My own special blend. Then you can see what real coffee should taste like.”
Jacob scrunched up his face in careful consideration, but he winked at me where Henri couldn’t see. There would be cheese and fruit at his flat and if we liked his coffee loud enough, he might make dinner.
The street was crowded still. We let Jacob lead the tip of our phalanx as he thrust between the shoulders and we trailed along in his wake. The sun fought through a hole in the clouds and peeked out over the tip of the Cathedral. It painted the wet streets in ribbons of shimmering light.
“Sunday is nothing like this anywhere else,” Jacob called over his shoulder. He stopped in the gathering humidity and noise, ignored the crowd as it bustled around us.
After a moment, he moved on.
“There is a small shop on Montoya that has the right roast,” shouted Henry. “We’ll stop there first.”
The Silver Urn was a cramped store filled floor to ceiling with bins of beans. Brown, red, black, gray and blue beans were stored along the walls in a series of square glass boxes with hinged doors. A tiny stepladder leaned against a doorjamb in the rear. Henri dragged it over to a corner and scaled it, reaching up to a bin over his head.
“Good evening, Henri,” said a voice from a wispy curtain in the back.
“Hello Maya,” said Henri without turning.
A young slender woman slid from behind the red velvet curtain and ascended the ladder like a ballerina leaping into the arms of a lover. She clung to the edge, just her toes on the steps.
Jacob pushed me aside and came a few inches away from her her long muscled calf.
“You are here for the special beans?” she asked.
“Yes, of course,” Henri smiled like a schoolboy.
She grabbed the lapel of his coat and slowly pulled him down the ladder one step at a time. It was a practiced move. Their faces came close together and I watched Henri’s rapid breath come hard and fast.
Jacob watched her hungrily, drinking in her tiny dark features, the uptilted almond shaped eyes that twinkled in his direction when she caught his stare.
Henri’s face twisted and he glared at Jacob but said nothing.
“Do you want to grind that at home or here?” she asked.
Henri glanced at Jacob.
“At home, please,” he growled softly.
She gathered the bag from his hands and added to it from several bins. I watched Henri glare at Jacob who tracked the small woman glide around the room with practiced ease.
Jacob glanced over his shoulder and smiled a wolfish grin.
“I’m going to have to learn about coffee.”
She giggled like a child, high and quiet and checked them out. Henri refused the bag in an act of social consciousness and slipped the package into a pocket in his coat.
He half dragged Jacob out of the store.
“You should have told me about her,” Jacob commented.
“Why? Another notch to ruin?”
“Henry, my friend, I’m hurt.”
“You will be if you touch her. I’m falling back on the old classic I saw her first. Besides her father and brother are both registered weapons.”
“I once fought a village of pygmies in the Amazon,” said Jacob.
“It was a small war,” I added.
He smirked.
“I can handle an old man and a kid if it comes to that. Besides Henry, she’s a woman who can make up her own mind.”
“She’s more than a woman to me asshole,” spit Henri.
“Bee Gee quote notwithstanding Henri, what kind of beans did you get?” I attempted to steer him off track and set myself between them.
He glared over my shoulders at Jacob.
“It’s a secret family recipe,” he said. “I can only tell my son or daughter.”
“We know you’re not going to have kids Henry,” Jacob chided. “You have to be with a woman for that. What woman is going to let you in? So you’ll just have to trust us. We’re your best friends.”
“You bastards,” he scoffed. “I couldn’t trust you to raise the lid of my toilet let alone kids. You don’t even know good coffee.”
“Coffee is just coffee,” I sighed.
Jacob and Henri bickered the entire way to his apartment, over coffee and women and traffic patterns and drivers. I tried changing the subject but the two kept at it with the tenacity of two rams slamming heads together.
Henri played the good host, making sure the large screen television was on before going into the kitchen to work his magic. After a few minutes, a warm nutty smell came through the dutch door and we could hear the gurgle of an industrial espresso machine.
I leaned into a worn leather chair, draped one leg over an arm and rested my hand on it, liking the feel of the supple leather on my back. I thought I might look wise, like a poet philosopher, concentrating my face into a variety of expressions, lips pursed, eyes vacant. Jacob watched me with crinkled eyes and a half smile, probably waiting for me to say something, to wax philosophic, but I just shrugged my shoulders.
“It’s almost ready,” Henri called from the kitchen.
The thick nuzzling aroma of brewing coffee floated through the door. We smiled at each other, anticipating the ambrosia Henri was concocting.
He came in carrying the tray with three large mugs on it and a steaming clay pot. He set it on the table in front of me, waiting until I took a mug before giving Jacob his. I waited for the host to introduce the blend and comment on it’s conception, the smell surrounding us with lovely caresses.
“Gentlemen,” Henri began. “May I present real coffee.
With that short introduction, Henri sipped from his beige mug and we followed his example.
“This is Coffee,” I emphasized.
“I have to agree,” added Jacob.
We looked at Henri who cradled his cup like a wine glass, inspecting the hue, swirling it about and finally swishing his sip from cheek to cheek. I grinned when he finally swallowed.
“Well, if I do say so myself,” he began. “But do you know what would be good with this? Some pie. A warm piece of pecan pie.”
We looked at him and waited.
“Yes Henry, a good slab of pie would do just nice,” prodded Jacob.
“Too bad I don’t have any here,” said Henri.
My stomach rumbled.
Henri smiled.
“I could run to the bakery and grab one.”
“We would prefer apple,” Jacob said over a second warm sip.
“But I don’t really feel up to it,” Henri turned away from us.
“We could all go,” I said holding one hand across my stomach.
The apartment was quiet as if waiting for an answer.
Henri lived in a well to do neighborhood that we envied. Noisy neighbors were figments of imagination here, post gentrification that pushed crying babies and kids in the street several blocks away. His building was the quiet of a church.
“I don’t feel up to to it at all,” Henri was saying. “I just think I’ll finish out the day here.”
Jacob and I had bets as to why Henri was so mercurial in his mood swings. Jacob claimed it was his hormones. I allowed for a slight chemical imbalance, or latent hereditary trait. But we accepted them. We were his only friends, and he fed us often.
“All right, Henry,” said Jacob. He drained his cup.
“we’re going to Bourbon’s and see who’s who.”
“If you feel better,” I added. “Meet us there.”
My stomach rumbled again but we all had the grace to ignore it.
Outside we stopped on Henri’s stairs and looked up at his window.
“That’s Henry. Always switching on us,” muttered Jacob. “He really needs to be medicated.”
“The coffee was good,” I said.
“Yeah, but I thought we would at least get some biscuits too.”
We both loved Henri’s homemade biscuits, and the cheese that usually accompanied a pot of coffee at his place.
“Well let’s go then,” I said.
We walked up the street, each of us casting a glance over shoulder back up to the window. Henri stood in the pane, half hidden by the mosquito net curtains as he stared up the street.
“What the hell is he doing?” asked Jacob. “That’s new.”
We took our time leaving Henri’s street on the off chance his mood would shift again and he would hustle up the street after us. Maybe he would apologize with dinner.
Jacob pulled me into the shadow of a building. We had a good view of the street and Henri’s shadow in the window. He looked our way but couldn’t make us out in the dimness, or if he did, he ignored us. He waited a moment and disappeared.
“What is he doing?” I whispered.
Henry walked out of the door, but left it open behind him.
“Is he waiting for someone?”
“Who is there besides us?” asked Jacob.
Henri leaped down the steps and jogged up the street as Maya rounded the corner from the direction of her shop.
“Her?” asked Jacob.
They gripped hands at the bottom of his stoop and looked at each other shyly. Henri pointed up at his window and they climbed the stairs.
“Come on,” growled Jacob.
I followed him around the side of the building and clambered up the wrought iron fire escape. Jacob motioned me to silence.
“Is this right?” I whispered but Jacob ignored me.
he crept over to a window and eased it up slightly. He
hunkered below it comfortably, like a man experienced with espionage. We could hear their conversation in the next room.
“Where are your friends?” her voice was cultured with a flavor of the Far East.
“I got rid of them when I found your note in the bean bag.”
She laughed at his small joke. Jacob and I groaned to each other.
“The tall one was very handsome.”
Jacob shot me a wink.
“He’s not so great,” said Henri. we could hear the pout in his voice. “He doesn’t know a thing about coffee.””
“Coffee is not everything,” she said.
Jacob’s shoulders shuddered as he fought in a giggle. Watching him almost sent me into a giggle fit, so I punched him. It caught him unawares. He fought against the pull of gravity to stay low and not pitch over the side of the fire escape. He won.
He grinned over his shoulder at me.
Poor Maya. She had uncorked the Coffee Speech.
“On the contrary,” we heard Henri began. “Coffee is a cultural icon. You can tell how much intellect a person possess by their knowledge of coffee and-“
We peered over the edge of the window will, two quiet Kilroy’s, to see what cut off the speech.
She was kissing him.
Jacob sputtered.
“What a waste,” he snorted. “Come on.”
He led the way back down the slick iron stairs and I thought we were off for Bourbon’s. I had to chase after him up the stoop and almost caught him before he leaned on the buzzer at Henri’s flat. He glared at me and snorted again. I backed off. Jacob was as legendary for his temper as Henri was for tirades.
A slightly disheveled Henri answered the door. Jacob threw an arm across his shoulder and turned him back into the apartment.
“Henry old pal, we couldn’t go anywhere without you,” he laid it on. “Let’s grab your coat.”
He pushed Henri into the den as I followed after. Henri planted his heels and tried to block the way, but Jacob slid around him.
“Hey, a guest, he said in a lion’s quiet voice.
Henri turned the glare on me. I shrugged an apology.
“Mademoiselle Maya,” Jacob purred. He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “A pleasure.”
The woman giggled. Jacob stared down at her, enraptured by the sound and by her moist coffee colored eyes that stared back at him.
“Henry,” said Jacob. “You’ve been hiding from us.”
“We were preparing to leave,” said Henry. The glare moved to the back of Jacob’s head.
“Henry, Henry, Henry,” Jacob spoke as if to a child. “We’re your only friends. We share your job, your pain, your sorrow and your passion.”
He pressed the back of her hand to his lips again, staring over the ridge of flesh at Henri.
“You can come to dinner with us,” Jacob continued. “Both of you. The night holds many pleasures for us.”
He slipped a hand around Maya’s waist and steered her toward the door.
Henri screamed.
It was primal and horrible and made the hair on my neck stand on edge. He pounded across the hardwood floors and launched himself into the couple. The trio bounced to the floor in an angry knot.
Jacob had regaled us with half convincing stories about Indians and alligators and his years in the Everglades. He tossed in occasional mentions of Africa or the Amazon and we were pretty sure he had spent some time in Central America at one point. He told most stories with a mischievous glint in his eye, as if they were tall tales and he was far removed from the man who did the deeds. He proved at least a part of those stories true by rolling over Henri as they fell, and turning the momentum against him. He tossed Henri into a wall. He hit with a sickening thump and crumpled into a sobbing fetal position.
I rushed over and lifted him into an overstuffed wing back chair.
“Hell, Henry,” Jacob shook his head. “I’m sorry about that. These damn instincts, you know.”
Henri choked past a bloody nose.
“You heathen. You infidel. thief. You take everything from me. You steal my food, my coffee, even the air I breath. Can’t I have anything of my own?”
Jacob reached down and helped Maya to her feet. She backed warily to the wall and watched the two men. Her eyes darted for the door as if planning her escape route.
“You take everything,” Henri sobbed. “Everything. You’re stealing my life. I hate you. I hate you all.”
I patted him on the shoulder in an effort to console him and threw a look at Jacob.
It didn’t work.
Easier to stop a hurricane than Jacob Earl irate.
“You pathetic little sodder,” he stated. “Get off your crying ass and sack up. You can’t stand on your own two feet and you blame your friends? We’re the only two people in the world who would bother to put up with you. Arrogant, prissy, know it all piece of work.”
I kept making cutting motions at my throat in an effort to stop Jacob, to shut him up or slow him down. It was pointless. Henri bowed his head under the onslaught, tears dripping from his face to the arm of a cushion.
“We’re only here for your food Henry. Your food and coffee and damn sure not the company. You’re boring. the only talent you have is in your cooking finger and that’s only good every eight hours, and that’s only when you’re feeling generous. We tolerate you. Your friends tolerate you, you pompous arrogant ass only because you feed us. We’re whores Henry. God damned friend whores. What does that say about you? About a man who has to buy friends?”
“You bastard,” Henri growled. He lunged from the chair and knocked me down when I tried to stop him. He slammed through the kitchen door.
Jacob leaned over to help me up.
“I guess that’s the end of that,” he said.
“Henri,” Maya screamed.
I heard a loud thump and stared into Jacob’s eyes as they crinkled.
“Shit,” he muttered and fell onto me. We both crumpled to the floor.
Henri stood over him, a dented pewter coffee pot in hand. He glared at Jacob, drool leaking from the corner of his mouth as he giggled.
“Henri, for God’s sake,” I yelled.
Maya crouched in a corner. I shoved Jacob off me and crawled up Henri’s legs. He shoved me back and away.
“Duck Gabe,” Jacob shouted.
A crystal vase grew out of Henri’s forehead a second before it shattered. He leaned back against the wall and slid down to the floor, a crimson river dribbled down the tear tracks from his eyes.
I glanced over at Jacob. He teetered on the edge of the table and scraped a wooden chair out. He shrugged out of his jacket. The back of his shirt was soaked in blood from an open gash at his hairline.
“Get up Gabe,” he said in a calm voice. “Call 911.”
He set on the edge of his seat and put his head between his knees, a familiar position to fight off nausea.
I fumbled out a cell phone and dialed.
“The toilet is down the hall,” I said to Maya. “Get a towel.”
She retrieved two and planted one gently on the back of Jacob’s head. He reached up and put a hand on hers to hold it there. I took the other held it to Henri’s face.
“He lost it,” I said.
“I tried to talk to him about that once,” Jacob swallowed a grimace.
“About what?” Maya cooed.
“I told him it was time to switch to decaf. He’s wound too tight for the regular stuff after noon.”
It didn’t feel right to laugh, but we did anyway.
The EMT’s arrived in short order. Jacob hauled himself onto a stretcher, and passed out in the effort. Maya volunteered to ride with him. I climbed in the rig with Henri. A police unit showed up while we were loading and said they would meet us at the emergency room.
I found Maya answering questions as fast as she could while we waited on an update from the doctor. Jacob was in surgery. The pewter pot had cracked the bone.
“How’s Henri,” she asked first, which made me like her more. It’s like someone who is kind to animals and small children, you can’t help but think they’re a good person inside.
“They think he’s going to be okay. They’ll keep him overnight, observe for concussion,” I lowered my voice as we stepped away from the two uniforms who were distracted by the nurses station.
“In the morning, they’ll transfer him into a ward for a seventy two hour watch. This isn’t his first time here.”
“That doesn’t sound like he’s okay,” she said.
“I think it’s a brain chemistry thing,” I shrugged.
One of the officers drifted over to finish up a report. He was interrupted by Jacob’s Doctor, a harried looking squarecrow with a badge that identified him as Patel.
“I didn’t really know what to make of it,” he said. “There was a lot of blood. I thought he was shot. There are so many scars, I didn’t know where to go in first. I just followed the blood. He’s going to be okay. He told me he’s had bug bites worse than this. He’s in recovery now, and you should be able to see him in about an hour or so.”
I shook Patel’s soft hands, and Maya wrapped me in a hug, which I returned but with less enthusiasm than she.
“I’m glad he’ll be okay,” she said.
“Henri or Jacob?” I tested.
“Both,” she said quickly. “Jacob.”
“The Doctor was right. Jacob is one tough son of a gun. Henri though, all the way over here they kept trying to sedate him. He was babbling about different types of beans. You ought to check in on him before you leave. It might do some good.”
“I can’t,” she shivered. “Not after what he did.”
“I never would have suspected Henri capable of something like this,” I said. “If Jacob wasn’t lying in a hospital bed, I would have chalked it up to one of the stories he liked to tell at Bourbon’s.”
“This should be a good one,” she said.
“He’s got a thousand of them. Entertainment for hours. He was either a spy or a photographer or maybe even worked for the Peace Corps, depending on the day you ask.”
“I can’t wait to hear them,” she said and settled on the seat beside me.
“Can I get you a coffee?” I blurted out without thinking.
She quirked up one eyebrow.
“Can you make mine a tea?” she smirked.
I came back with two paper cups of hot tea and we sat together waiting for the time to pass until we could go check on our friend.
THE END
Thank you for taking the time to read The Holy War. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend and much appreciated. Thank you. Chris
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BONUS CHAPTER
THE HOLY WAR
“A knight is virtuous. He never denies battle, even when he is outnumbered. A knight is poor, chaste, kind to women.”
The Templar Creed
Rows of dark tents sat in blotches of darkness in the murky night. Shadows moved among the tents, clanking in mismatched armor that reflected the small flames of crackling fires in front of some tents. They spread out like spokes on a wheel from a larger tent set in the center. The entrance was flanked by two guards who stared at the men shuffling in the darkness. Each guard held one hand on a long narrow triangular shield set point down in the trampled earth, their other hand on the pommel of swords at their waist. The shields were scarred and beaten, the red Templar cross standing out on the white nicked background.
A man marched through the tents, intent on the his destination. His brow was furrowed in concentration but he greeted the men as he passed, a slight relaxation of the glare he wore permanently.
The tent flaps were flung open and a Saracen rushed out. Richard dropped a hand to his sword. The Arab was followed by four bodyguards swathed in robes. It was Sayed, the diplomat and his entourage. By the look on his face Richard could see that the peace talks were not exactly as he expected. Richard watched as Sayed climbed on his magnificent stallion and guided it out of the camp toward a small rising canyon in the distance.
After he could no longer make out the clopping of the horse nor see the dim shadows moving backlit by the starry sky, he moved past the guards and into the tent.
The General was packing. The tent was crowded with two giant plank tables, one with a small selection of camp food scattered across the top, the second a neat and meticulous map of the surrounding area weighed down with heavy candle sticks. The General, Louis stood at the war table and shut a small wooden chest. He reached for one of the candlesticks and set it in another chest. A page scurried behind him wrapping up blankets with cord.
“It went well,” Richard jested.
“You could tell,” answered the General. “The Army is on the move tonight. We can’t wait until dawn.”
“There were no terms?”
“Sayed is a stubborn fool and he represents an even greater fool. Of course, we agreed to disagree and promised to meet again soon. In the interim, they still advance.”
“And we fall back before them.”
The General glanced over his shoulder. He was not as tall as Richard, but broader in the chest and shoulder. His grizzled visage was scarred from many battles, and his eyes held the wisdom gained from years of experience. He smiled and one side of his face didn’t lift as high as the other giving him the appearance of a snarl.
“I have to protect my treasure.”
“Jerusalem’s treasure.”
Louis glanced at him sharply.
“Of course, Jerusalem’s treasure. You must remain behind to guard our retreat.”
Richard stared at the General for several seconds as he considered the consequences of refusal. He wouldn’t refuse and the General knew it, because in the Order of the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon there was a strict chain of command and swift repercussions for failure to follow command.
He voiced his concern to the General.
“To stay is suicide.”
“Ah,” Louis agreed. “But imagine the glory.”
“The glory won’t matter to me. I’ll be dead.”
Louis finished packing the second chest and motioned his Page to remove both from the tent.
“Call in the Captains,” he instructed.
“Yes milord,” said the young boy as he hastened out.
The General moved in close to Richard and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s been decided. You and six others will hold the pass while we fall back to a more defensible position.”
Richard glanced at the hand. It was the first time the man had touched him in all of the years they had campaigned together. He scowled at his Commander.
“What could be more defensible than this pass?” he asked. “They can only approach uphill, no more than ten abreast. We have held it thus far with no losses.”
“The Sultan approaches and with him the Horde,” said the General.
He rolled up the map and packed it away in a leather cylinder.
“There are ten thousand in the Horde, perhaps more. We would all be slaughtered if we stayed.”
“They can’t bring the full force to bear in the pass,” Richard explained again. He almost said it slowly as if speaking to a child, but he knew the General was aware of the tactical advantage they had with the current location. There was something else, another reason he was moving the main Army.
“We will not lose all we have gained,” said Louis.
The General moved away from the table and sat in a camp chair. It was placed upon a small dais and though it was a simple wooden chair, the General had it draped in velvet and shrouds. Richard couldn’t help but note it purposely looked like a small throne.
“This is about the treasure.”
“If we cannot save the treasure,” argued the General. “Everything we have done here is for naught. Yours is an impossible task, to keep the remainder of your brothers safe to fight another day while you give the greatest sacrifice. I do not ask this lightly.”
“You do not ask at all,” answered Richard.
The two men stared at each other in the flickering light from a small fire in a brazier. The General’s face was impassive, the decision made. Richard knew arguing was pointless and a diversion of energy. He bowed his head slightly.
“Who will remain with me?” he asked.
The General nodded and snarled the half smile again.
“You will tell them. I have preparations to attend.”
“More gold to pack,” said Richard.
“Chaucer. William. Canault. Ralf. Geoffrey and De Troyes,” the General ignored his comment.
Richard sighed.
“You do not make it easy.”
The General spun around to give rebuke, but the tent flaps fell back in place and he was alone in his tent. He snorted and the snarl turned into a full blown scarred smile.
The Milky Way is an exceptional phenomenon. Millions of people have stared up at the night sky throughout history and felt small, insignificant. Stories were created to explain the stars, traditions created to remind people of their place in the cosmos.
People slowly moved from the wild places and gathered in cities. At first they used torches to hold back the dark and stars began to slowly fade. Time passed and the city light grew brighter, glittered in an incandescent hum that pushed back the night and blacked out the sky.
Now only the occasional wild soul looked up at the heavens and wondered.
“Are we alone?”
Rob Crow knew the answer.
He sat in a rolling chair in front of a computer monitor connected to a high powered telescope and took meticulous handwritten notes in a notebook.
Despite the light pollution that assaulted the observatory perched on a mountain at the edge of Los Angeles, the high powered optical scope and computer program gave observers a pristine view of the galaxy.
Tonight it was aimed at the Crab Nebula, measuring the light waves reaching the earth from a group of stars that Rob suspected no longer existed.
At some point in the future, a young astronomer would be sitting where Rob sat and the light would cease to exist. Star death.
For now though, he documented his observations and set up an automated program to monitor the coordinates even as the earth rotated past.
He whistled to himself as he tidied up the already neat office and exited to unlock his mountain bike from a fence.
The parking lot was empty this late at night, the popular park closed at sunset and the museum section of the observatory closed at six pm unless there was a special event. Rob didn’t pay attention to the two dark gray sedans that parked across from the entrance as he pedaled past.
“Is that him?”
Anson Branch was a former college football player, but too many nights in the sedan left his middle spreading and his cheeky jowls pursed in a permanent scowl.
His partner, Jodi Adams sat behind the wheel and watched as the bike turned a corner.
“I feel like we should duck or something.”
“We’ve been here before and he didn’t notice then. You know those egghead types. All up in their head and pay no attention to the world.”
“Looks like he’s heading home.”
Anson held his cuff to his lips and spoke into a microphone clipped there.
“He’s heading home boys. Let’s roll.”
Rob rolled up the quiet street in the small neighborhood of Los Feliz and chained his bike to the side of the stairwell. He had a top floor apartment in an old Victorian converted into four units with a rent he could barely afford. He liked the street though, because it felt safe, and his bike hadn’t been stolen yet. His apartment wasn’t much, just a second floor unit, but there was a spiral staircase he had installed that led to a skylight and a rooftop deck he built piece by piece. It was unpermitted and the landlord hadn’t found it yet but Rob liked to spend some of his nights up there watching the sky.
He planned to go up there tonight, after he grabbed a beer and checked his email.
He didn’t turn on the lights after he unlocked the front door and moved across the apartment. He slammed into the coffee table with a small crash.
“Damn it Jim,” he muttered.
The computer monitor lit up at the sound of his voice. His UFO screensaver moved back and forth across the screen.
He flipped on a lamp and massaged his bruised shin.
The walls were covered with alien posters and pictures of UFO’s. The rest of the decor was simple, spartan even. There was a couch, a small television, and the assaulting coffee table. The primary focus of the room was the computer set up resting on a giant desk that dominated an entire wall.
Rob walked over and nudged the mouse.
While the computer opened up to his Gmail program and loaded his correspondence, Rob walked to the fridge set against one wall. He opened it and pulled out a Corona Light from a six pack that was the only occupant in the refrigerator.
He settled into the stuffed executive chair in front of the computer and opened up one of two new pieces of email.
“Star changes course. Western quadrant, Cassiopeia’s armpit. Notice? Tell me true. Capt. Sam Michaels.”
“No way,” he breathed and sucked down two quick swallows.
He moved the mouse to the second email and clicked it open.
“The heaven’s move! Can you see it? Selkirk, ICP.”
Rob nodded and hopped out of the chair. He stumbled over to a nook under the spiral staircase and fumbled a telescope case up the stairs.
Rob gazed through the eyepiece at the prescribed coordinates. A star was indeed moving slowly across the indigo sky. A comet would have a different glow, the light signature a shade hotter than this cool blue white blob of energy. A meteor or shooting star would be a white hot streak of energy skipping along the atmosphere. This light was different. Steadfast and relentless.
Without meaning to, Rob shivered.
“Son of a fudge…” he whispered with an edge of awe in his voice.
He backed away from the telescope, his body shaking, trembling. One leg kicked out, his foot spastically twisting and twitching. He leaned all of his weight forward onto it, and his booty started shaking. He was dancing, and awkward gyrating mess of rhythmic imbalance. Perhaps it couldn’t even be called dancing, more movement with intent. No matter though, because Rob was celebrating. Years of ridicule, countless hours being taunted and accused of being a crackpot, or worse, insane were released in five minutes of vindicating dance.
“Is he okay?”
Anson and Jodi peered through the windshield at the loft skyline. They watched a silhouette of Rob as it jerked and shimmied along the edge of the roof.
“I think he’s being electrocuted,” said Anson.
Jodi shook her head.
“I think he’s dancing.”
“That? I took dance. That’s not dancing.”
“You took dance?” she shot an incredulous look at her partner.
“What? My mother insisted. I did the whole Arthur Murray catalog.”
“You don’t look like a dancer.”
“I can out foxtrot you any day of the week.”
“You’re on and we’re putting a ten spot on the bet,” Jodi held out her hand for Anson to shake.
“You’ll probably look like him,” Anson smirked at her.
She held the radio to her lips.
“Sit tight,” she keyed the microphone. “We’ll handle this.”
“Come on,” she said to Anson. “Let’s go cut in.”
He shifted his bulk out of the passenger door and followed her across the street.
“I’ve got point,” he said.
He unlocked the strap on the Glock that rested to his belt.
“Next time,” she said and led him through the door to the loft lobby.
“One of these day’s someone’s not gonna let you lead.”
“You’re the dancer, partner. You can lead then. Until that, I go first, I get shot first.”
“That’s what you tell yourself.”
A car whipped around the corner of the street and bore down on the doorway. Jodi spun around, her Glock in hand and tracking the driver. Anson leaned against the wall to clear her line of sight and aimed with the weapon he drew a second slower than her.
They both watched as a flustered soccer mom raced past the loft, screaming at two towheaded boys in the back seat. They couldn’t hear her, just see her mouth moving through the closed window.
Jodi slipped her pistol back into the holster on her waist.
“Scared you?”
“You blinked first,” Anson grinned.
“Let’s go see what this dancer is doing,” she said and led him through the door.
Neither of them noticed a black panel van pull up beside the other Sedan across the street.
The agents in the sedan looked left as the cargo door rolled back. They didn’t have time to react as a silenced handgun slithered from the dark interior and spat twice. Both agents slumped in the car seats.
Four black clad commandos hopped out of the van. The passenger side window rolled down and the driver leaned over to the lead commando.
“It’d be nice if you made it look real.” His voice was oily and sinister delivered over dead eyes that made the hard core commando wince.
“No problem, Sir,” he said and licked his lips. “Move out.”
The four men hustled across the street, dipped in and out of shadows and disappeared through the doorway entry.
The thing about dancing, especially when you are dancing as if noone was watching because you are pretty sure no one is watching, is it’s pretty darn liberating. Millions of humans were graced with the ability to dance, to turn movement into art and poetry, to jump and jive in beat with the music so that the only option anyone watching has is to stare in wonder.
Unfortunately that left billions of humans with no innate ability to dance. Not even a close approximation. Rob fell squarely in that category. His dancing look like a controlled fall, a twitching twirling dervish of out of sync bounces and fist jams.
There may have even been howling.
“Mr. Crow?”
Rob stopped dancing.
He stopped howling. He nearly fell off the roof, but caught himself at the last moment. He settled in from the edge, just to be safe and cleared his throat.
“Yes?”
Anson approached him with one hand extended to shake. But Rob didn’t notice him. He stared transfixed by Jodi.
It was Anson’s turn to clear his throat to get the young man’s attention.
“I’m Agent Anson. This is Agent Johnson. We’re with the government.”
Anson reached into his jacket pocket and flipped out his badge for Rob to see. A hole popped open in the laminate.
Anson’s eyes grew wide. He let the badge slip from his fingers and revealed a mirror hole in his chest. As Rob watched, crimson stained the hole in his white shirt and widened.
Anson collapsed.
Jodi whirled around before he hit the rooftop and squeezed off two shots from her Glock 17. Rob saw a ninja collapse in the skylight. At least it looked like a ninja, covered head to toe in black as it was.
Jodi ducked low and scurried over to Anson. She placed two fingers on his neck and bowed her head.
“Damn,” she growled.
“Is he dead?”
Jodi tracked the skylight and rooftop with her pistol.
“You’re the genius, figure it out.”
“The ninja’s gone,” he told her.
“Get down!”
A bullet whizzed by his head. She dragged him down next to her.
They watched as a cannister arced out of the skylight and landed on the roof with a clatter. It rolled in a straight line toward them.
Jodi calmly reached out and covered Rob’s eyes with one hand, her eyes with the other holding her gun.
The can popped with a loud flash and a bang! Smoke poured from the end of the cylinder.
Two figures ran across the roof through the smoke.
Jodi lifted her pistol and dropped them with two shots.
Rob screamed. She lowered her hand from his eyes to his mouth.
“Quiet.”
“What in Hell’s name is going on?”
Sirens wailed in the distance. A neighbor heard her gunshots and called the police.
“Come with me.”
Jodi hauled Rob up and surged toward the corner of the roof.
“Ninja!” he screamed.
Jodi whirled and fired off a shot. The last commando collapsed across the edge of the skylight.
“Jump,” she shouted.
Rob glanced down at the shrubbery two stories below. The bushes looked painfully small.
“I can’t. I’m afraid of heights.”
Jodi scanned the roof. She didn’t have time to appeal to logic or reason.
“Are you more scared of bullets? Then jump!”
Rob teetered on the precipice. Jodi reached out and lightly pushed. She leaped right after him.
To his credit, Rob didn’t scream the whole way down. It was more like a whining grunt that ended when his feet hit the bush that broke his fall. He rolled across the ground and came up sputtering.
Jodi grabbed him by the collar and shoved him forward.
“See that sedan? Run for it.”
She noticed two slumped figures in the sedan as they approached.
“Damn it.”
“You say that a lot,” said Rob.
Headlights sparked on behind them. The panel van squealed down the street in a pall of smoke and burning rubber. Jodi used her hold on Rob’s collar and shoved him across the hood of the sedan.
The van sideswiped the parked car in a whirlwind of sparks and shrieking metal. It slid around in a u-turn, and aimed for them on the sidewalk.
Jodi planted her legs and raised her pistol.
The van gunned it’s engine and roared straight for her. She fired a shot into the windshield. It starred and cracked. She fired two more and the van suddenly lost momentum as the driver slid sideways in the seat, his foot off the gas. The van sputtered to the curb, bounced twice and stopped.
Jodi reached down and hauled Rob up.
“Are you hurt?”
“I think so,” he said as he felt his arms, torso and legs.
She half carried him to the van and pushed him against the side.
“Stay,” she commanded.
She popped open the driver’s door and leaned in with her gun. The van was empty.
She hauled the driver’s leaking body out and dumped it in the street.
“Get in.”
Jodi shoved Rob over into the passenger seat and climbed in after him. She dropped the van in drive and gunned it.
They made the corner as swirling police lights raced into the street behind them.
Inside the van Rob watched as cop cars raced around the corner behind them. Flashing lights strobed through the windows, but Jodi quickly outpaced them.
“Are you hurt?”
“No thanks to you,” he muttered.
“I saved your life.”
“What’s the saying? With friends like you?”
Her knuckles popped out as she clenched the wheel.
“Those were real bullets, Mr. Crow.”
“Blanks.”
“Excuse me?”
“You work for the government. This could be a set up. It probably is a set up.”
“My partner’s dead,” she said in a flat voice.
“Blood packs. I’ve seen it all before. You guys set me up.”
Jodi wiped her hand across the headrest behind her and held it up for him to see. It was covered with thick syrupy goo.
“Does that look like a blood pack to you?”
“I’ve seen better effects in my college play.”
Jodi shook her head and concentrated on the road. Her mind was spinning as she played back what happened on the rooftop. How did a simple pick up go so wrong? And better yet who was after this man?
Southeast Mexico is a weird place. The beaches are gorgeous and undiscovered, archeological marvels dot the landscape and even more are hidden under the green canopy of verdant jungle that stretches down to the border with Central America.
The desert marches from Texas and New Mexico across the flat expanse to but up agains the edge of the jungle to bleed brown scrub and yellow sand into the green thick plant life.
Xalatan was a small city on what was generously called a highway that catered to the beach bound tourists. It was a jumping off point for tours into the jungle to see monuments of the past, a haven for surfers and wayfarers making an adventurous trip across the continent.
Juan’s was a bar off of a back alley that was simple four walls and a tin roof. The bar was made from an expensive looking jungle hardwood, probably harvested almost a hundred years ago with the smooth sweat stained top that comes from a lot of elbows and arms propped against the edge. The walls were adorned with cheap beer promotions, the shelves behind the bar had an assortment of shot glasses, beer mugs and a couple of tequila tumblers. Almost all of them had small cracks or chips.
The door was propped open with a chair, the windows were folded up and chained to the roof in an effort to catch any breeze that might stir the fetid air inside. Two bamboo leaf ceiling fans were connected by a rubber belt, so that when one turned it caused the other to turn with it.
Old worn tables were scattered around the room in no apparent pattern, some with three chairs on the sides. Two men sat at one of the tables engrossed in a chessboard and an almost empty fifth of tequila that rested between them.
Brill Wingfield was five eleven and almost forgettable. His face was handsome in a plain fashion, what could be seen of it behind a thick beard. His hair was long and drawn in a ponytail that rested between muscular shoulder blades hidden under a loose white shirt.
A man almost his polar opposite sat across from him and glared under a thick brow with piggish eyes.
Where Brill was athletic and ripped, Johnson was a man who took his pleasure to excess. He topped the scales at three hundred pounds and stood almost six inches taller than Brill. He had a balding pate with a fringe of hair trimmed short and he was clean shaven. He had a baby face that made him look younger than he actually was, but the perpetual scowl was meant to keep people away.
“You’re up,” said Brill.
Johnson took a shot glass full of amber tequila and slurped it down. He set it down on the chessboard in a new position among the rest of the empty shot glasses.
“Check,” he slurred.
Brill lifted an almost empty bottle of tequila in a steady hand and tipped the last drops into a shot glass.
“That was a gutsy move.”
Johnson mopped his sweaty head with a frayed rag.
“I thought you might like it.”
Brill rolled the bottle across the floor. It clinked against the bar.
“Barkeep! Another.”
“Who calls them barkeep anymore? You think this is the wild wild west?”
“What would you call him? Bartender? Keeper of the bottle? Server of the tequila and whiskey and wine? He sets the bar high by keeping the bar to serve us until we’re low. Hence, barkeep. Pour us another one, we’re finished with the other one.”
“You’re not gonna need it.”
“That’s tough talk from a man in your position.”
“You can only make two moved. It’s a classic offense.”
Brill sat up and studied the table with bleary eyes. The grease stained Barkeep gently set a fresh bottle of tequila beside him.
“What do you think of this?”
The barkeep studied the dirty chess board and shrugged. He walked back behind the bar and turned up the boombox. He pretended to wipe down the glasses with a grime covered rag.
“What’s your name again?” Brill asked his opponent.
“Johnson. Cooper Johnson. My friends call me Digger.”
He stuck out a sweaty paw that Brill shook. It was limp in his hand.
“Not Coop?”
“Nope, Digger. That’s what they called my grandfather and after he died, they said I looked like him, so the family started calling me Digger.”
“You look like your dead grandfather, Coop? I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”
“Your mind games won’t work on me friend. I mean when he was alive.”
“I don’t know if that’s a marked improvement,” Brill smirked. “It could be the tequila though.”
“Let’s blame the tequila and save my pride.”
“I can agree to that. Do you know what I do in situations like this, Copper Digger Coop?”
“Admit defeat and surrender gracefully?”
Brill smiled. He uncorked the bottle and took two long swallows before he pushed it across to Johnson.
”I’ll be back.”
“Where you going?”
Brill grabbed his crotch.
“Digger, we just met and I’m not that easy on a first date.”
Johnson waved him off.
“Clock’s ticking.
“I know.”
Johnson watched him stumble to the dark hallway that led to the back of the bar.
Brill nudged the bathroom door open with the toe of his hiking boots. The wood, caked from years of greasy beer soaked fingers, was three shades of black where patrons had touched it. It looked toxic.
Inside was worse. The small space had a toilet and two urinals in a length of five feet. It looked like any two people doing their business would be forced to stand toe to toe to get it done. The floor was an amalgamation of misses, near misses and deliberate soakings, combined to create a stinking cesspool of waste.
A small window above the back of the toilet offered the only potential relief.
It was edged open. He shoved against it gently and pushed the crack open two inches. Brill reached into one of the baggy pockets on the side of his cargo pants and pulled out a sleek pistol. From the other pocket he produced a three inch silencer he screwed on the end of the pistol.
He rested the pistol against the edge of the window and peered out at the road. He checked his watch and waited.
The bartender banged on the door.
“Why you got it locked? There’s room in there.”
“Be out in a minute,” Brill called.
He turned his focus back to the window.
A long black Cadillac rolled into view. Diplomatic flags fluttered on the hood of the car. The windows were tinted, but one rear window was half way down. A cloud of cigar smoke filtered out in a blue smog.
Brill sighted down the end of the pistol and pulled the trigger twice. A misshapen head bounced against the car window and rested there. The car screeched to a stop.
Brill shoved the gun in his waistband and shouldered through the door.
“Ain’t you gonna wash your hands,” the bartender asked in a thick accent.
“Sorry,” Brill moved past him down the hall.
Brill strolled to the table and grabbed a shot glass. He swallowed the tequila and set the glass down to a new spot on the board.
Johnson smiled as he swilled down a shot of tequila and set his piece in place.
“Checkmate,” he grunted.
Brill dropped a crumpled twenty dollar bill onto the table.
“Good game,” he said.
“Let’s make it two?”
The front door crashed open and four giant thugs ran through. They were dressed in matching khaki uniforms, huge swaths of fabric stretched tight over giant muscles. They raced toward the back of the bar.
“Too crowded,” said Brill. “Maybe next time.”
He lowered his head and walked slowly out of the door. One of the thugs with a unibrow noticed him and moved to intercept.
Brill slipped past him and out of the door. He mingled with a passing crowd of tourists that skirted around the Caddy parked half on the curb. The thug tried to find him in the mass of people, but Brill kept his head low and blended in. He made the next corner and turned away from the people.
MARKETPLACE
The phone booth seemed like a quiet oasis in the crowded chaos of the tourist clogged city street. The side facing the sidewalk had two windows missing so the noise washed over and echoed inside the glass chamber.
Brill stood in the booth, dressed like a tourist. His beard had been shaved into a modified goatee and damp hair curled against his neck.
“I’m on a landline. Confirm. This is Shadowboxer. Target rendered ineffective.”
The glass above his head shattered. He ran from the booth, shoved open a shop door. A bullet thudded into his left shoulder. He spun into the room and kicked the door shut behind him.
The room was a crowded knick knack shop full of cheap local goods mass produced in China. Mountains of tee shirts spilled off wobbly tables, stone and clay renderings of ziggurats, Mayen gods and sea creatures fought for shelf space.
Brill shuffled to one of the tables. He grabbed a hooded poncho, an oversized straw hat, a blanket and tee shirt and carried them to the counter. With one hand held close to his side, he fished a ten dollar and twenty dollar bill out of his pocket and set it on the counter.
“No bag,” he grunted in Spanish.
He used one hand to arrange the poncho over his head, and perched the straw hat on his brow.
“Is there a back way?”
The clerk ignored the register and pocketed the bills.
“Through the doors.”
He waved another twenty dollar bill under her nose.
“I’m in the bathroom.”
She swiped the note, and secreted it with the others. Brill moved through the doors. He packed his shoulder with the tee shirt to staunch the bleeding.
“Hey!” said the Clerk.
Brill turned, a small 9mm in his hand. She glanced down at the gun and tossed him two more shirts, her finger crooked toward a handwritten sign above the table that read, 3 FOR $10.
“Special.”
She winked. He smiled, slipped through the door, hidden under the poncho and a hat.
Brill walked down the alley close to the wall. He stopped at the street, and did a scan. Everything appeared normal. A large group of tourists waddled past on their way to a bus. Brill fell in step with them and eased into the center of the crowd.
The group bottlenecked at the bus, but Brill moved past them to the next corner and disappeared.
Someone watched the hat and poncho disappear around a corner. Two men stood on a rooftop several blocks away. One lay prone on the roof, a rifle butt pressed to his shoulder, his eye against the scope. He was in his thirties, thick muscles with a layer of a few years of comfortable living around them. He had sandy brown hair and hazel eyes. The second man stood next to him.
It wasn’t the most inconspicuous spot to be in, he presented a good target silhouetted against the sky. He held himself with confidence, legs wide as if braced on the deck of a ship. His hair was gray with flecks of black, his eyes were blue, and once upon a time, he may have been handsome, though gravity and gravitas conspired to darken his glower. He was trim to the point of being built like a long distance runner. Corded muscles stood out on his arms and flexed as he tracked with binoculars.
“There he goes,” said the standing man.
“I swear I hit him Foster.”
Foster dropped the binoculars to the roof deck.
“I’ve no doubt, my friend.”
“I must have winged him. Or, he’s got a vest. Did he wear a vest with you?”
“I believe you, Wallace. If you say you hit him, then he is indeed hit.”
“But not down.”
“No. A wounded animal becomes much more dangerous, yes. But wounded we may stand a chance. He will go to ground in a safe house.”
His voice was cultured and elegant, tinged with a slight British accent. Foster pointed to the crowd below.
“After you make a shot, watch the crowd. When you shoot someone in public, the crowds going to do two things. Either they will duck and run for cover, or they’re going to run for a look. You do what the rest of them are doing. If you walk away calmly, someone’s going to notice. And if they notice, they might tell.”
The rooftop stairwell door burst open and four soldiers rushed through. They had assault rifles held high and screamed in Spanish.
Foster whipped a pistol from behind his back and dropped them with one shot each.
Wallace glanced up at his mentor.
Foster shrugged and held a satellite radio to his ear.
“Secured transmission. This is Killjoy. Hut location?”
“Confirmed,” said a tinny voice over the speaker. “Will deliver.”
“Pack up, we’re moving north.”
Wallace broke down the rifle and stored the components in slim black backpack filled with cut foam.
“How confident are you he will go there?”
“What else can he do?”
There are a few vehicles that are iconic in Third World countries. Toyota Land Cruisers criss cross the African Savannah with reliable regularity, Nissan Pickup Trucks dot the Middle Eastern landscape like automotive camels. In Mexico it’s the VW. The VW Bug and it’s counterpart, the VW Bus putter along Mexican highways and clog up side streets due to huge mass production two decades ago and an interchangeability of parts in the easy to repair engines.
One of those iconic bus’ puttered along the edge of a jungle on a dusty highway. Veronica James had one hand on the steering wheel, one leg crossed under the other in the seat and a perpetual smile. She was dressed in khaki shorts, a button up shirt, and looked like what she was, a free spirited archeology student, still dirty from a dig.
The van was packed with with the detritus of long travel, clothes, a sleeping mat and bag, food wrappers and a couple of beer bottles that rolled around on the back floor.
Ron sang off key to a song on the radio. She rounded a corner and swerved left to avoid a man on the side of the road. He weaved along the edge, but stuck his thumb out in the classic hitchhiker’s pose.
Ron slowed down and watched him in the rear view mirror for a moment. She pulled over to the side of the road and waited. While she waited, she opened the glove box and pulled out a small dull silver .22 and stuck it under her leg so it was hidden from the door.
The passenger door swung open and the man used one arm to haul himself in to collapse on the seat.
“Thanks for stopping,” he grunted. “I thought I might have to walk awhile.”
Brill glanced over at her. She studied his clean shaven face and short preppy haircut that contrasted with cut off cargo pants and tourist trap tee shirt under the poncho. He holds a blanket tightly in one arm, the shoulder bunched and stiff.
Ron dropped the van in gear and turned the radio volume down by two.
“Where you going?”
“North.”
She nodded.
“That’s the direction I’m going. Feel like talking or wanna ride?”
He leaned against the door and grimaced.
“You mind?”
“So long as you don’t care about my singing.”
She reached out, cranked the radio and belted out off key rock and roll.
An original Matisse adorned one wall of the office on the fiftieth floor. There were windows on two walls that looked out over the city and the Sea beyond. The water below was an emerald shade of green close to the shore that shifted to a blue hue as it went into deeper water.
The desk faces one row of floor to ceiling windows. It was monochromatic and industrial. The woman behind it was five seven, trim and muscled. Her hair was meticulously coifed to highlight strong cheekbones and a delicate neckline. Her lips were full and right now, pursed in anger. She clenched a phone in a white knuckle grip.
“You didn’t complete your mission?”
“We winged him,” said Foster through the phone.
Her eyes flashed in rage and she wanted to slam it against the desk.
“I didn’t pay you to warn him. He’s on alert now. He’ll be impossible to reach.”
“Negative,” said Foster. “He’ll move for Baja. We’ll wait for him.”
Her voice was cultured.
“I’m not a gambler. I don’t play games of chance.”
“We’ll finish it.”
She rose from behind the desk and moved with a leonine grace across the floor to a set of shelves. She zeroed in on small four by six photo frame with two smiling hikers next to a gorgeous mountain vista. It’s Maddie and Brill, arms around each other.
“I’m freezing the account until it’s complete,” said Maddie.
“That’s acceptable,” said Foster after a moment.She disconnected the call and set the phone down on the shelf. She picked up the picture and started at it, her eyes lost and misty.
It was a mish-mash of everything I liked to read and watch, hints of unstoppable action stars with a little social commentary and smart ass-ery thrown in for good measure.
It was set in a post apocalyptic future, in a society rebuilt from the ashes of War.
The uber-rich can afford personal bodyguards to keep them safe in their high rise sealed skyscrapers, while a mindless mob swarms the streets below.
I was reminded of how it could happen in 2020, this story I wrote in 95.
People took to the streets to protest a black man’s death at the hands of a police officer.
They swarmed. They seethed. They raged and destroyed and fought each other and any one who came into their reach.
It was chaotic and disturbing, and one step above what I had in mind when I described the mob in Epoch.
But it was close.
Add in hunger, and fear and homelessness for a few years and it may get there.
As this mob screamed and yelled and pulsed in anger, the wealth gap widened.
The wealthy 1% got even richer as the stock market soared, and they did things with their wealth to ensure it remained with them.
They bought politicians to rewrite the tax codes, so that people getting unemployment had to pay tax on it, but people who bought yachts could write off up to $750,000 in interest and expenses.
That’s not fiction.
That is an example of how to use your paid for politician the right way.
Of course, the mob got mad about the impoverished paying that tax, and once the rich were able to write off that almost 1M in expenses against their stock capital gains, they removed the requirement for the tax on the first 10k of unemployment.
If ever there was a situation ripe to create a class war, we’re in it.
And I thought about it over twenty years ago, enough so that I wanted to create a champion who would fight for the normal people, the middle class, the ones who suffer the most under this very unequal system we live in.
Instead of writing a novel, I should have bought stock.
I should have gotten rich instead. Rich with money, instead of experiences, because money is the only way to fight the inequity.
They say the pen is mightier in the sword, which may explain why there is an attack on public schools to lower funding so more people can’t learn to read.
Or learn to hate reading.
You don’t need swords when you have dollar bills to right with.
I talked about that in Epoch too, the corruption in politics.
And as I learn more about what’s right out in the open, about how blatant the grift is, I can’t write or talk about it.
Chris Lowry Books 