The Franklin Incident (Philly-Punk)

by Raymond M. Rose

  “Something like that.”

  Rachel leaned over and, as she looked in the drawer, chided him, “Oh, Jack, I hope it's not a ring because it's just so....” Her words faded away as she found not a ring but a single brass key. She picked it up, turning it around in her fingers. It had a few slivers of metal shavings still attached to it. “Is this for me?”

  “I want you to be able to come and go as you please. I got a dresser drawer all emptied for you.”

  She suddenly burst into the biggest smile, thin tears in her eyes. She leapt out of bed and pounced on him, laughing with joy as they fell to the floor.

  Jack was going to be late for work.

  * * *

  An hour later, Jack rode the escalator up the two stories from the stale-air subway to an overcast morning above. He had both hands on each railing, never a fan of escalators. Though his thick sweatshirt kept out the morning’s dampness, it seemed to hang in the air like a mist.

  Out of the station, he made a slight left and crossed the intersection. The city was oddly quiet this Friday morning. Though it was right in the middle of the run-as-fast-as-you-can-from-the-subway-to-your-job morning rush, not many people were on the streets. The streets, the signs, the buildings – tall steel monoliths in this newer area of the city – seemed just as still and cast in same gray hues of the clouds above. Downtown Claremont seemed devoid of all color and still asleep.

  Then he saw the park.

  And what he saw made him stop abruptly.

  Remembrance Park, the center of Remembrance Square, was in bloom, determined to be colorful when the rest of the world refused to be. Outside her crimson wrought iron gates, a line of dark blue trucks stenciled with CITY WORKS CREW sat. Men in matching uniforms carried white wooden chairs into the park, setting them up in rows in front of a long granite wall. The Memory Wall, as it was called, was covered in names etched into the shiny, stone face. These same workers had planted lively pink, yellow, and purple flowers all along the Wall’s base.

  Today was The Naming Ceremony.

  And he'd forgotten.

  Seeing those empty chairs sitting in front of the Wall, though, Jack couldn’t help but let that old friend, sadness, in. The chairs, sturdy and strong, were poised to take on the weight of those who had lost loved ones ten years ago. Ten years of pain and heartache, only to come back to this park, a place that had been the epicenter of so much death, and revisit those emotions all over again. How could such torture be honoring the dead, really? It was like public flagellation.

  Jack left the edge of the park and made his way deep into the north side of Remembrance Square with its variety of restaurants, droves of trendy clothing shops, a trio of cell phone boutiques, two coffee houses, and a bookstore. Someone, years ago, had thought another way to best honor the dead was to enshrine them in consumerism.

  Jack walked into the bookstore where he worked. It was clean-looking from the outside with big windows full of interesting displays and lots of signage. Inside was the same: no precariously stacked book towers, tall shelves that blot out the sun, or cats. Downtown Books was a casual reader’s bookstore – not a haven for true bookstore hobbits.

  “Jack...!”

  Though, it did have its share of woodland creatures.

  Cecil, behind the information desk, looked like one of the 'talking trees' from The Wizard of Oz – a long trunk of a frame, stick-like fingers, and an angular face with a gnarled nose and shrewd eyes enlarged by Coke bottle glasses. Jack had once found him lovingly holding an apple and had almost pissed his pants from laughing so hard. Cecil was one Jack's two ‘Banes of His Existence.’

  The second – and the source of Cecil's current whining – looked spot-on for the Mayor of Munchkinland: squat, rosy-cheeked, and always decked out in his finest clothes. For Norm, though, that was Sci-Fi-themed t-shirts. Today’s read HAN SHOT FIRST and, coincidentally, he was reading a new Star Wars paperback. He glanced up at Jack and instantly began to perspire. “Uh... Hey... Jack.”

  “Jack...," Cecil whined again, clawing at Jack's arm with his impossibly-long fingers. “He’s doing it again.”

  Jack used to work mornings with another bookseller, Silvio. But Silvio had decided to pull a 'Felicity' and follow some girl he barely knew to college. He'd been a liar, pathological thief, and stuttered heavily. God, he missed Silvio.

  Jack swallowed his slowly-rising anger. “What’s the problem? What's he doing?”

  “He hasn’t bought that book.”

  “Cecil, we’ve been over this: the boss is okay with customers reading the books in the store even if they haven’t bought them.”

  “He’s dog-earing the pages.”

  Jack bit down on his tongue. This shtick was such a regular bit that Jack often thought about taking it on the road. “Let’s just let it go today, okay? “

  Ever persistent, Cecil exclaimed, “But, Jack, he’s cracking the spines!”

  Jack thought for a moment about cracking Cecil’s spine but instead said in his best Mr. Rogers’ voice, “Fine. I’ll talk to him.”

  Jack walked over to Norm and was about to speak his name when the man cut him off with a verbal explosion. “Jack, I’m having a crisis of faith!”

  “To be honest, Norm—“

  “I don’t think I love Star Wars as much as I used too! I think the prequels really did me in. Even the books aren’t—“

  Jack cut him off with a wave a la Jedi. “Stop!” Norm did. “I’m sorry that you are having a crisis of faith but you can’t deface the books if you haven’t—“

  “Cecil, you’re such a Judas!” Norm suddenly screamed past Jack.

  “Jack, he’s yelling at me!”

  But Norm wasn’t done: “That’s because you’re a tool—“

  “I’m just doing my job!”

  “You can take your job and stick—“

  “WILL THE BOTH OF YOU SHUT THE HELL UP?”

  Norm felt a slight wave of heat rush over him and he shut up instantly.

  Cecil, utterly terrified, cowered behind his book.

  Jack hissed through gritted teeth, “The both of you are driving me crazy.”

  “He started—“

  “If he wasn’t—“

  “SHUT. UP.”

  They did.

  “I’m going to go get a cup of coffee before I murder one of you.” He pointed to Cecil: “Leave him alone!” Then to Norm, “If you’re going to damage the book, buy it. I have no qualms about calling the cops on you for loitering.”

  “Hey—“

  But Jack wasn’t listening.

  He just left the store.

  Chapter Two

  Bruce Webster stood under a chalkboard sign that said 'Order here, dumbass.' He was in a coffee shop around the corner from Jack’s bookstore, trying to get the attention of a tall red head cleaning a metal pitcher. She was strikingly beautiful – like turning a corner and bumping into a six and a half foot Viking goddess. Casually, her shockingly violet eyes glanced over at him, then, realizing that there was someone there, she turned, her ponytail whipping behind her. “Hi! I'm sorry I didn’t see you there!”

  Bruce moved the black messenger bag strung across his muscular frame just slightly and flashed a smile that could have said anything from 'No big deal' to 'You better impress me!' The meaning was really in eyes, though, which looked like pools of melted chocolate in the café’s soft lights.

  Katrina must have read something nonthreatening in them because she smiled and said, “What can I get you?”

  “Cappuccino, please.”

  “Decaf?”

  “Dear God, no!”

  She laughed. It wasn’t a girlish giggle but a laugh of a woman comfortable with herself. “One leaded cap coming right up.”

  She started making his drink.

  Bruce took a moment to casually glance around the café, trying to look like a tourist. He saw the usual café fare: black and white photography splattered across latte foam-colored walls, small tables that h
ad four seats but really only sat two, and two female waitresses looking at him hungrily. Normal. The only original thing was the sign he was standing under.

  And the barista behind the bar.

  Feeling that enough time had passed for his conversation to still be perceived casual, he began, “Was it around here that those beatings happened a few months ago?"

  She didn't look up. "There was some trouble. Just some local toughs trying to prove something."

  "Yeah...?" Bruce shrugged. “I heard that someone stopped them.”

  Now she looked up. And Bruce could have sworn she looked slightly taken aback.

  She might have looked even more surprised if she'd seen the pistol that he'd pulled out of his holster.

  Suddenly, the door behind him opened and someone stormed in, yelling, “Tell me you got something stronger than espresso?”

  Hearing Jack’s voice, Bruce turned away quickly, hiding his face. And the gun. Oblivious, Jack stormed past him in his assault on the counter.

  Katrina still eyed Bruce cautiously as she spoke to Jack, “Which one is it now?”

  “Would you believe both?” Jack replied, putting his head down on the counter with a soft thud. “Can you make me a mocha with lots of chocolate and whip cream?”

  “Do you want sprinkles?”

  “Will you marry me?”

  “Yes. But only for the sex.”

  Jack looked up, a blush on his cheeks.

  Katrina laughed embarrassingly and went to make his drink.

  Bruce couldn’t help but glance at the both of them. Jack likes this woman. Interesting.

  Jack saw him. “Bruce? What... what the hell are you doing here?”

  Before Bruce could even reply, Jack was hugging him. “I had to come into town early.”

  “Agency business?”

  Glancing at Katrina, he said, “Something like that.”

  “God, it’s good to see you! You look great!”

  “So do you.”

  Jack, actually, did look good. The weight he'd put on since he'd retired was gone. His hair, though, was still a wild, red mop and his skin looked as if it never saw the sun. But the air about him definitely seemed... happier. Almost, at peace.

  For Jack, that was saying something.

  “It’s all my clean living,” Jack replied.

  “Jack, here’s your large quadruple shot mocha with extra chocolate and whip cream.”

  Jack took his drink. “Thanks...”

  He took a sip, then noticing Katrina there, nodded to Bruce. “Katrina, this is my best friend Agent Bruce Webster. Bruce, Katrina.”

  Bruce shook her hand. “It was good to meet you.”

  Katrina eyed him carefully. “Yeah...”

  Jack motioned to the door. “I have to get back to work...”

  Katrina motioned to Jack, “Before you go, Oliver said take whatever pictures you need for tonight.”

  “Pictures?” Bruce asked, glancing from Jack to Katrina. “Tonight?”

  “Jack has an art show,” Katrina replied, motioning to the photos on the wall.

  Bruce, intrigued, left them and walked over to the black and white images that he'd only given the most casual of glances before. On closer examination, though, he could see that the photos were much more than ordinary. All set in Claremont, they were of people sitting in outdoor cafes, a child playing in a puddle that reflected the Spears Building, a couple kissing passionately under The Arch, a lone man standing in front of The Memory Wall, his fingers lingering over names. “These... these are all yours?”

  Jack glanced at the photos he’d taken, developed, matted, and framed. He smiled.

  Bruce turned back to the photos. They were so still, so crisp, so alive. He could hear the faint organ music and laughter of the children as the carousel horses paraded around; smell the spent gasoline fumes of the fire swallower; and feel the raindrops fall on his head as two lovers kissed in the rain. “My God, Jack, they’re wonderful.”

  * * *

  Outside the café, Bruce glanced at Jack, “So how long have you and Katrina been together?”

  "Together?" Jack asked, glancing back towards the coffee shop. "Nothing's going on."

  "Why? She so wants to birth your babies!”

  Jack laughed. “Unfortunately I’m spoken for these days.”

  “Really? Who’s the lucky girl?”

  “Her name is Rachel. She’s an attorney.”

  “A hot lawyer?”

  “Very.”

  “Excellent,” Bruce grinned. “But if things don’t work out, you shouldn’t miss out on Katrina. She’s quite the catch!”

  “We went out a few times before but there just wasn’t any—“

  “Sex?”

  “—spark!”

  “Jack, you create sparks.”

  “It wasn’t right for us.”

  “Well,” Bruce said, clapping his hand on Jack's back. “You’ve been a busy boy!”

  “I’ve been living my life, Bruce."

  Bruce smiled at that thought. Jack had never really known how to live... at all, before. This, of course, made him having something of a life now... difficult.

  And depressing.

  Jack stopped and turned towards his friend. "Okay, cut the bullshit and tell me really why you're here a day early?”

  Chapter Three

  On a street full of row homes, porches littered with battered tricycles, paint-peeling barbeques, and rusty lawn furniture, Agent Karen Webster knocked on the front door of a bright blue house. She had the rusty screen door open, her body a dark shape through the dirty screen. Karen had picked clothes for her first day in the field that she thought were smart, professional (a white silk shirt, a black vest that had these great silver buttons, and a pair of matching slacks), and yet, still, sexy. She thought she looked like a banker. Karen was well over six feet tall, long and slender. Her hair was as black as the devil’s heart. No one was going to mistake her for a banker.

  According to the files, she was knocking on the door of one Simon Fort, 28 years old and a Claremont native. It didn’t say much else; it didn’t even say what he could do. But she didn’t need a file to see that Simon Fort wasn’t worth her time. Not showing up at a previously-agreed time and place said enough.

  Overhead, the clouds that had been rumbling all morning decided to open up and rain down. Karen hurried back to the cab that she’d hired at the airport. Inside, enveloped in warmth and the scent of freshly-peeled oranges, she gave the cabbie her next address. As the driver headed north by northeast through the city, he put on his music again (something with harps, cymbals, and a dying cat). Eventually, he stopped at a tall brick building with windows that showed various stained glass designs. Karen asked him to wait for her again and he nodded.

  As she ducked through the door into the apartment building lobby, Karen automatically glanced behind her, surveying the scene. Bruce was teaching her to do this: to look for inconsistencies, things just a little out of place. For Bruce, they were good indicators of bad shit about to go down. They were clues to save lives – others and your own. At that moment, nothing looked funky; everything was as it should be.

  “What are you waiting for, a bus?”

  Karen turned around to find a little girl in pigtails and a pink Augusta t-shirt looking at her. She was adorable, a ball of fire in a cute exterior. Looking at her made Karen's arms ache to hold the girl, to hug her.

  The lobby's walls were lovingly-covered with chalk murals of faraway places and reproductions of famous paintings. Karen stared in amazement. “Did you draw all these?”

  “No, silly! There are lots of people who can draw real good. My mom drew a Mona Lisa.”

  “Do you know a woman named Morgan?”

  “Do you mean Fey?”

  Karen nodded.

  The girl lit up with a smile. “Of course! She’s one of my bestest friends!”

  “Do you know which apartment she lives in?”

  Suddenly, the girl was al
l serious, hands on her hips. “What’s it to you?”

  “I’m a police officer.” Karen slowly pulled out her ID. “I need to talk to her.”

  “Is she in trouble?”

  “Not—”

  “She’s a really good person!”

  “I’m sure she—”

  “She makes my chalk animals talk!”

  Words were about to leap off Karen's lips when she stopped them. She makes my chalk animals... talk? “That’s something I would like to see.”

  “Okay.” The little girl tensed her body and screamed up the stairwell, her voice echoing, “HEY FEY, YOU GOT A VISITOR!”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Fey poured tea into a Claremont Art Museum mug and handed it to Karen. The herbs and dried fruit set off a burst of smells, all pleasant. They sat at a round table in a small dining room, a glass ball on a pillow in the center of the table. Karen took a sip of her tea, finding it just as tasty as it smelled.

  Sitting across the table was Morgan ‘Fey’ Conner, a petite young woman in a chair slightly larger than she. Fey was a splash of color: light peach skin, cobalt blue eyes, pale pink lips, and caramel short hair. She wore a Persian red print skirt with a crisp white t-shirt. The room, itself, reflected that dance of colors: the crimson, gold, and tangerine tapestries of all kinds of origins, dark brown bookshelves lined with books that ranged from trashy romance novels to thick tomes on spiritualism, and the antique cherry display case showing off an odd collection of wooden tribal masks.

  Fey, the glass ball in front of her swirling in purples and blues, asked, “Are you sure you don’t want me to read your fortune?”

  “No, thank you," Karen asked, setting her mug down. "I would like to talk to you about your abilities.”

  And Karen watched in utter fascination as Fey, unconsciously, reached out with unseen hands and 'changed' the frown on a tribal mask to a smile. Fey smiled nervously. “Certainly.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Karen got back into the taxi and gave the driver the final address. This time, he chose some classical music and Karen settled back into her seat to watch the city pass. The sun had decided to come out, bringing a strong end-of-a-storm sunlight. She bathed in its warmth as she let her mind drift. Fey was more powerful than Karen had imagined. To be honest, she was probably more powerful than Bruce thought also.