by Jim Heskett
“Well, Roscoe, I would like you to find out more about Layne. I want eyes on him twenty-four-seven. Especially if he starts making progress on whatever it is he’s doing.”
“On it, boss.”
Beckett noted the sneer on Roscoe’s face when he’d mentioned the Black mayor of Shotgun. Fortunately, he didn’t launch into a tirade about the purity of the race and the effects on the town of having a person like her in charge. Beckett didn’t actually care.
Across the whole of the Disciples of the True America, there were various shades of gray in the belief system. Since they were in compartmentalized cells, these beliefs had less chance of spreading, so the groups were left alone to run themselves the way they saw fit.
Some were virulent racists, looking to curtail the growing power of the non-white races. Others were isolationists, who didn’t seek out violence, but wanted minorities to move to their own countries. These types of Disciples could lecture you for ten minutes about how every race should have its own country, and there’s nothing racist about that notion at all.
Beckett was a completely different kind of Disciple. He saw only the business opportunities that could spring from gaining power. It didn’t matter to him if the current or next mayor of Shotgun was white, Black, Asian, or whatever. As long as he or she didn’t stand in his way. Sure, Beckett would nod along with the others when they ranted about the diminishing sway of white people in this country. He would raise his hand and cheer when they touted guerrilla attacks against minority-owned businesses.
But he didn’t care about skin color. Only the color green, and whatever made it easier for him to reach his goals.
As Roscoe walked away, Beckett again held up a hand to steal his underling’s attention. “And call those trucking assholes back. No more delays. We’re on thin ice up here as it is, right? I don’t care what you have to threaten them with, but make it happen.”
Roscoe frowned and dipped his head in a nod, but he didn’t reply. As Roscoe again turned, another thought occurred to Beckett. He held up his hand one final time, and the underling halted.
“Last thing,” Beckett said. “Call down to Denver and get them to send up a few more guys.”
“How many more guys?”
“I don’t know… a handful. If they can spare three, fine. But five or six would be better. However many it’ll take to deal with Layne Parrish, if he becomes the problem I think he’s gonna.”
11
Layne Parrish stood before the walkway leading up to Shotgun Indoor Range. This boxy shooting range structure was one of the newest buildings in town. The paint even looked fresh, within a couple years. It definitely clashed with the rustic, mining-inspired beige and brown color that had been the town’s trademark style for a century.
Layne opened the front door and entered a wide hallway that branched off to bathrooms on his left and a lobby entrance ahead and to the right. Framed pictures of various Denver Broncos players marked the free spaces on the walls.
As Layne approached the lobby, his heart started to pump. He actually felt nervous about seeing Molly Waffles. Keegan had told him a few details about his old flame, but not much.
Molly Waffles’ last name was actually not waffles. It was Wafles, with only one f, properly pronounced like way-fulls, but no one had ever said it that way. When you have a last name that's one letter away from waffles, people are going to call you waffles. And naturally, you had to say the whole name too, every time. Molly Waffles.
They had started dating during their sophomore year in high school. They had dated for most of the rest of Layne’s time in Shotgun and had made an odd couple. Layne didn’t reach his full height until senior year, but he was always tall and solid. Molly had been a tiny thing, with wavy brown hair that was almost blonde, like sand on a cloudy day. She would wear girly sundresses with combat boots or pair anarchy earrings with a Christmas sweater. Teenaged Layne had been enamored with her unpredictable style. He liked how she was shy and small, but also didn’t care what anyone else thought. Plus, they had discovered sex together, so they’d had a lot of intense fun in those few years. And, for the rest of his life, Molly Waffles would always be his first.
So yeah, Layne felt a little nervous about seeing her again. He wished he could jump ten minutes into the future and then back again, to prepare himself. But, life didn’t work that way.
Layne entered the lobby proper, where there were desk chairs and end tables with magazines about hunting and sport shooting. Behind a cut out on one wall, a man sat, shielded by bulletproof glass.
Layne approached the glass and showed his ID. The guy eyed him like a potential convenience store shoplifter the whole time. Layne had to fill out a couple of forms, and then the gatekeeper man buzzed the door open to let him in.
Layne Parrish entered the main room of the indoor shooting range and he saw her right away.
Molly Waffles was indeed very different than Layne remembered. Twenty-five years ago, she had been petite and cute. Now, she was something else entirely. She still stood at about 5’3”, but she had put on a lot of weight, mostly muscle. She had the cylindrical arms of a bodybuilder in the off-season, plus a barrel chest and a solid neck. Her hair had been dyed black and cut short, shaved on the back and sides, with only a couple inches sticking out on top. Not too far different from the tightest haircut Layne had sported back in high school.
And when Molly pivoted her body, Layne saw one final thing Keegan hadn't prepared him for. Molly Waffles was missing most of one arm. In its place, she wore a prosthetic arm, made of metal and either fiberglass or plastic. Instead of having a lifelike rubber option, she had chosen the old school claw-pincher device. Layne couldn’t see where it attached because she was wearing sleeves down to where her elbow would have been.
The two scissoring pinchers on the end had a touch of menace to them.
Layne stood and stared while Molly helped a customer in line. Seeing her again was exactly as strange as he had envisioned. This was the girl—now a woman—he had lost his virginity to. And now, here she was, seemingly very different from what Layne remembered. Did he look different, too?
Layne stepped into line and then Molly leaned to the right, looking past the tall heads blocking Layne from view. Her eyebrows jumped up at the sight of him.
"Holy shit.” She took a step to her right and beckoned Layne forward, toward the counter. Her mouth hung open, her eyes were darting back and forth across his face. Layne took a few steps toward her, not quite sure how to react. He couldn't read her expression.
After another few seconds of breathless stalemate, Molly Waffles scooted a couple steps to her right, where the counter ended. She opened her arms wide let out a guttural cackle. "Layney Parrish, get your ass over here and hug me."
Layne did, and a good chunk of the uncertainty and weirdness vanished. It didn’t feel quite like the proper homecoming Layne had been lacking since returning to Shotgun, but if there was anyone from his old life he still wanted to see, this was the person.
"What are you doing in Shotgun?" Molly Waffles asked.
Layne checked around the room. There were at least twenty people here, checking in, checking out, browsing the racks of ear protection and concealed carry holsters for sale. “You own the place, right? You have an office or something? Someplace we can go talk?"
Molly nodded and pointed toward a door marked authorized personnel only. She came around the counter and Layne took in her girth. Now, he was starting to wonder if she actually was a former professional bodybuilder. Her frame fit the exact type. He wanted to ask, but it seemed like too personal a question, for some reason.
Molly Waffles escorted Layne through the door and into a hallway. Her office was two doors down and on the right. Everywhere Layne looked, concealed security cameras peeked out from hidey holes along the ceiling. A very impressive setup. If Layne hadn’t previously completed several of these installations himself, he never would have noticed the cameras.
Her
office was small and spartan, with an art print of a flower on one wall and a framed dollar on another. No clock. After she escorted him inside and shut the door, she took a couple steps back and surveyed him from top to bottom. “Hot damn. Layne Parrish. I never thought I would set eyes on you again. You know, I tried to look you up online a few years ago, after we had the twenty-year high school reunion and you didn’t show.”
“I don’t do much social media.”
“That’s what I found out,” Molly Waffles said as she sat in her chair. “You been here long?”
Layne slid into the seat opposite her desk. “Just drove into town last night.”
"I'm sorry I don't have a red carpet to roll out for you, your arrival was a little… shocking."
“Keegan pointed me this way. How have you been?"
"Geez, I don’t know if we have six hours to spill my life story, but I guess I can give you the highlights.”
He made a show of glancing at his watch, and she barked a laugh in response. “Knock it off.”
“Please, go ahead. Hit me with the highlights.”
“After high school, Army for a stretch. Then I was back east for a while, wandering around and trying to find myself. Then, my folks died, so I moved back here and got a job at the Big Cat Sanctuary." She lifted her false arm, straightening it out toward Layne. She clicked the pinchers a couple times. “Then, a pissed-off jaguar took off my arm."
"Holy crap," Layne said.
Molly nodded. "Wasn’t my best day. But the settlement paid off my debts and helped me buy this place." She motioned to the office around her. “It’s nice to have a piece of the pie to call my own, finally.”
"I'm sorry about your parents.”
“They were both sick for a while, so… maybe that sounds harsh. I didn’t mean it to sound that way.”
Layne shook his head. “No, I totally understand.”
“They died within three days of each other. Kinda sweet, actually.”
“It is. I’m glad to see you're doing okay for yourself, at least financially."
She winced. “Well, I wouldn’t say we’re raking in the bucks here, but we’re okay. The range isn’t immune to the town’s recession. But I’m also not planning on expanding the parking lot anytime soon.”
“I hear you.”
“But it’s good to see you too, Layne. Give me the quickie version of your life story. You married? Kids?”
“No and yes. Married briefly, but it ended as intensely as it began. Got a great kid out of it, though, so can’t complain too much. She’s my world.”
“What’s the ankle-biter’s name?”
“I wanted to name her Arya or Sansa, but her mom wasn’t having it. She ended up as Cameron, and now it would feel weird for her to have any other name. What about you?”
“Married briefly, too. She wanted kids, and I didn’t. You’d think we would have had that conversation before marriage, but we never got around to it. By then, it was a little too late, right?”
Layne wasn’t quite sure how to react, so he pursed his lips and waited.
Molly grinned. “In case you’re wondering: yes, you were the first and last male I ever had sex with. That’s not going to be weird, is it?”
Layne didn’t remember her being this brash before, but the words seemed to roll out of her smirking mouth with no effort. “No, I don’t think so. I suppose it’s an honor.”
She cackled. “I’ll let you have that one.”
He found himself smiling and nodding along with her. He liked this bold new version of Molly Waffles, even though she clashed fiercely with his memories of her.
"Those tats poking out of your shirt sleeves... do they go all the way up?"
He nodded. "To my shoulders. A mistake of youth, I guess."
“Why are you here?" she asked.
"I heard my dad was dying, so I came back to… I don't know, make peace with him? I'm not fully clear why, to be honest with you. Anyway, I've had a few interactions with people in this town. It's pretty obvious to me that something's going on."
“Like what?”
“Something criminal. Something that probably involves multiple layers and lots of people, if my hunch is right.”
Molly Waffles gave him a solemn nod. "I think you're right. Are you a cop or something?”
He shook his head. “I’ve never worn a badge, but I do have experience in the field.”
He hoped she wouldn’t probe further, and she didn’t. “I've been seeing more and more strange stuff happening,” she said. “Guys coming in from out of town, trucks driving on the town streets at all hours of the night."
The Disciples had trucks? What were those for?
Layne pointed at his neck. "Guys with tattoos in this area?”
“Some of them. Some don’t. But yes, I've seen those guys you’re talking about.”
"I think my dad is doing something for them. Keeping something secret."
Molly sat back in her chair and tented her fingers for a second, staring at him. “How can I help?"
"Do you know anything about this Shotgun mine? Not the east or west, but a mine actually named ‘Shotgun?’”
Molly shook her head. "But, I do think I know about a place where those swinging dicks meet pretty regularly. There's a hill outside of town, toward the sanctuary. I’ll write it down for you."
Layne nodded his thanks as Molly scribbled directions to a hill north of town. He watched her forearm muscles working as she pushed the pen. Maybe she’d been a power-lifter? He could see her all chalked up, wearing one of those giant belts.
“What do you bench?” he asked her.
She wrinkled her nose. “My dear Layney, you don’t know me well enough again to ask that question yet.”
“That’s fair.”
She passed the directions over to him. "This is the best I can do. But, if you need backup, you let me know, okay? I can ride with you.”
Layne grinned. “Just like old times?"
Molly Waffles shook her head. "Not exactly. I'm much better armed than I was then."
Interlude #2
Oahu, Hawaii, United States | 9 Years ago
Layne watches his fiancee Inessa enter the restaurant, walking away from him. The hostess leads his gorgeous partner away, and he watches her shuffle with the sway of her hips.
But he also sees his boss Daphne Kurek AKA Control walking toward him, along the Mexican restaurant’s front path leading from the resort. She’s holding a shiny blue purse in her hand, wearing a bikini top with cloth functioning as a skirt wrapped around her waist, and no shoes. A hemp necklace with embedded seashells glitters around her neck. If she’s undercover, she’s nailed the Hawaiian tourist look.
He cuts Daphne off by blocking the path with his bulky body, so Inessa won’t turn around and see her. Layne’s fiancee and his boss don’t exactly like each other.
As Daphne sashays along the path to the restaurant, he launches away from the hostess stand to intercept her. She doesn’t look at the restaurant at all, as if not caring whether Inessa spots them.
If Inessa sees her, then there will be hell to pay. Daphne, Harry Boukadakis, and Layne’s other teammates are not supposed to attend the wedding.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, practically seething.
Daphne smirks, that half-smile expression that used to drive Layne wild in his mid-twenties. But now, after years of off-and-on illicit romance with Daphne, the smirk isn’t doing it for him. Now he can only think of the damage his ex-lover Daphne can cause with his current lover, Inessa.
Layne hasn’t slept with Daphne since Singapore, and he hasn’t returned her flirty gestures since the day he met Inessa. He’s never been a cheater and has no plans to start now. And even though he’s made it clear to her on more than one occasion, Daphne persists, although now her flirting has morphed into teasing, mostly. Like kids on the playground.
For months, Daphne has been jabbing Layne about his upcoming wedding. She keeps dropping s
arcastic comments about them spending one more night together before he becomes a married man. The way she’s said it means she’s kidding, but Layne can always hear the nugget of truth underneath the flippant remarks.
She takes a few steps off the path, through the sand, toward a parking lot. He breathes a quiet sigh of relief that she at least intends to keep their meeting low-key.
Layne follows her, taking one last look at the restaurant to make sure Inessa hasn’t seen. And he feels a rumble of guilt race from his toes to his head. Layne Parrish has spent years lying to other people about what he does for a living. Not only because it would be too hard to explain but also due to the small fact that many relevant details about his job are state secrets.
But, he promised himself he would never lie to Inessa, and now, taking a clandestine meeting with his boss feels like doing exactly what he promised he wouldn’t.
Daphne settles in the lot, leaning against a golf cart parked in a handicapped spot under the shade of crisscrossing palm trees. “Last time I came to Hawaii, it rained every day. Like the time I went to Rainier for a week and didn’t see the actual mountain once. Looks like you’re in for better weather, though.”
“What are you doing here, Control?”
Daphne tilts her head toward the restaurant. “She looks amazing. With that pale skin, I thought she’d be all pink within a day. But, of course, your future wifey browned-up nicely, because winning the genetic lottery also includes a healthy dose of vitamin-D luck.”
“She’s a model. Looking good is her job.”
Daphne sighs and says nothing. Layne has grown tired of her passive-aggressive comments and sniping.
An idea pops into his head so ludicrous he can’t believe he has to raise the topic. “Please don’t tell me you’re planning what I think you’re planning.”
She snickers. “You think I’m going to stand up and protest the wedding, like it’s the end of a romantic comedy? Please. You know me better than that.”
The pieces start to fall into place. “No, this is about work, isn’t it?”