A guy I knew as Jim shook his head and laughed, “Man, when I saw him head for the juke box, I thought he was gonna pound you flat for talking to her. Next thing I knew, you were all shootin’ the shit over another round.”
He was probably expecting some kind of an answer, but I didn’t particularly want to chat with him. Timid people annoy me. I opened the front door and gestured for him to go ahead.
At the bar I took the coaster off my mug and sipped. Sandy came over and leaned on the bar with a big grin.
“You really liked that one, huh?”
“You mean Biker Barbie, ma’am?”
Sandy snickered, “Hell, yes, that’s who I mean. You couldn’t take your eyes off her.”
Pretending defensiveness, I replied, “Hah. I looked away at least twice. I think. Maybe even three times.”
Sandy laughed, eyed me briefly and laughed again, then asked if I wanted another beer. I shook my head.
“Nah. I’ve short-napped my way around the clock so I can get some sleep tonight and get up at a reasonable hour. I plan to spend tomorrow on the bike.”
Sandy sighed delightfully and sounded wistful as she said, “Wish I could do that. This place takes all my time lately.”
I shrugged. “Excuses, ma’am. You could marry whatshisface and put him to work. Child labor might be illegal, but husband labor isn’t.”
She shook her head. “Not a chance. This place is all mine and it’s damned well going to stay that way.”
After a few minutes of chat with Sandy, I headed home. The huge semi-Siamese cat that had recently appeared in the neighborhood was sitting on my picnic table as I landed on my front porch. He backed away and bellowed a battle cry as he fuzzed up. I sent theta waves at him that quickly calmed him, then put him to sleep. He had a collar and looked well-fed, so I went into the house for some of Tiger’s dried cat food. After placing a small handful near the cat as a friendship offering, I put the trash out and went to bed.
Chapter Two
January in west central Florida. Sixty degrees and sunny at nine in the morning. Too good a Saturday to waste indoors. By the time I’d checked my bike’s fluids and tires, the temperature was up to sixty-five. After rolling the bike out of the garage, I went back into the house to make a fresh coffee and put my laptop in my backpack.
The laptop is an old but functional IBM T43 I picked up for fifty bucks. It easily fits in my backpack or the bike cooler, but it’s mostly just a convenient cover. I can display things on it rather than use a question-attracting field screen in public.
Ten minutes later I was rolling north through relatively open countryside north of Brooksville. No condos, no strip malls; just a few houses set well back from the road and an occasional gas station or small business of some sort. Some of the cows looked up as I passed.
As I neared the Larten farm, a roan colt named Memphis ran to the fence and whinnied a greeting. I slowed so he could keep up as he ran alongside me and sounded off again.
The Lartens’ gate was closed, so I parked to one side of the drive and spent a few minutes patting Memphis and supplying him with wads of grass from my side of the fence. He accepted the attention with enthusiasm and seemed to be trying to talk as he munched the grass. His mother, Angelique, came to join us for a share of the grass and attention.
A sheriff’s car slowed and pulled into the driveway, then stopped. The guy who got out of the car looked unhappy. Angelique backed away from the fence, but Memphis stood happily munching his grass and watching the deputy approach.
The deputy stopped by my bike and said, “You need to get away from those horses and show me some ID.”
Memphis stuck his nose through the fence slats and nudged me. I pulled up another clump of grass for him, then said, “I’m a friend of the owners.”
The deputy’s gaze narrowed. “The owners aren’t here to tell me that, so we’ll do this my way. Get over here.”
Linking to my orbital core, I used it to trace the location of Bill Larten’s cell phone and dial the number as I reached for the wallet on my belt. The deputy tensed as I pulled my shirt up, but relaxed a bit when he didn’t see a gun.
Bill answered as I fished my driver’s license out for the deputy. “Hi, Ed. What’s up?”
“Hi, Bill. I’m at your gate, schmoozing with Memphis and his mom. There’s a deputy here who needs reassurance.”
As I started talking, the deputy became wary again. When I put up a two-foot field screen, the deputy froze, then stepped back with a hand on his gun.
Bill said, “No problem. Let me talk to him.”
I said, “Done dunnit, Bill. Watch your phone screen.”
Holding my driver’s license out, I approached the deputy. He rather starkly watched the screen move forward with me and snapped, “What the hell is that thing?!”
“It’s a field screen, and this man owns the horses.”
Memphis whinnied and Bill replied, “Hi, Memphis! Hang on a minute, Daddy’s gotta do something first.”
Reading the deputy’s name tag, I said, “Bill, this is Deputy Leeman. He saw me feeding Angelique and Memphis and he probably wants to know things are okay.”
Leeman eyed the screen, then me, and then said, “Just a minute, sir. Let me see who I’m talking to.”
He took my ID and studied it, then looked at the screen and said, “This covers him, but you could be anybody.”
Larten said, “William H. Larten. Pull up my license on your car computer.”
Memphis sounded off again and I turned to see his entire head jammed between the fence slats. Anchoring the field screen in place, I said, “Aw, hell. Everybody stand by one,” and went to use a wad of grass to entice Memphis to pull his head out of the fence. After tossing a couple more handfuls of grass on the ground near him, I returned.
Bill said, “He’ll be too big to do that soon.”
I shrugged. “Not soon enough, but he’s almost too big now. Think he’ll realize that before he gets his head stuck?”
Laughing, Bill replied, “Not likely. He’s got the brains of an Irish Setter.”
Deputy Leeman regarded us for a moment, then said, “Back in a minute,” and headed for his car. He kept an eye on us while he ran our info, but soon got out of the car and returned.
As he gave me my license, he gave us both a little ‘all done here’ salute and said, “Just had to be sure. Have a nice day,” and turned to leave.
Bill said firmly, “Deputy Leeman.”
Leeman turned to face us halfway to his car and Bill said, “Thanks for stopping. I appreciate your taking the time to check things out.”
Leeman nodded and said, “Just doing my job, sir,” then continued to his car.
As Leeman backed out of the drive, Bill said, “We’re having a party tomorrow afternoon. Celia’s home from college.”
“Thanks, but she didn’t like me much back in July. You heard her rant about social reforms and capitalism?”
“She’s picked up some odd political ideas at school.”
Ripping up some more grass for Angelique and Memphis, I said, “Seeing me would just set her off again. I’ll pass.”
We chatted a bit more, then Bill had to meet someone and rang off. I patted Angelique and Memphis and made goodbyes, then got back on the road.
With no particular destination in mind, I continued northward. For whatever reason, my thoughts turned to writing and I counted the months since I’d last begun a book. Six? No, almost eight. Early June to mid-January.
Stopping on the shoulder near a big chunk of tire tread in the middle of the road, I thought, ‘After writing thirty-four books, what had happened to my urge to scribble?’
Two southbound cars passed, then I sent a field tendril to drag the tread to the shoulder of the road. A noisy northbound red car was approaching fast and I saw an arm holding a big drink cup extend above the car.
The kid behind the wheel wore a big grin as he threw the cup and gunned his Mustang, storming by at about eig
hty less than a foot from my saddlebags. Way too close to suit me. His cup missed my cooler trunk by inches and splattered in the shallow ditch six feet away.
I sent a field tendril to shatter the Mustang’s rear window. His brake lights flashed for a moment, flashed again briefly, and then he continued on. I sent a bolt of energy to lift and incinerate the cup, then got back on my bike and continued north expecting to be stopped. About two miles south of Floral City I saw a checkpoint ahead.
There was a lit-up cop car on each side of the road. A deputy pointed at me and waved for me to stop behind his car. I pulled over and stopped a few yards behind the car and he approached me with his hand on his gun. Another deputy circled to approach me from my left across the highway.
The deputy in front of me was Leeman. I said, “Hi, there. What’s up?”
“Sir, turn off your engine and get off your bike.”
I put the kickstand down to kill the engine and turned the ignition off, then stepped off my bike to the right. That made Leeman change course; he’d expected me to dismount to the left. The other deputy was now trotting to get behind me and he moved in a bit too quickly.
It looked as if he might intend to tackle me, so I stunned his right leg. He made a valiant effort to keep coming at me, but his momentum was gone and his leg flatly wouldn’t work. He stumbled and managed to let himself down gently.
Stepping around the back of the bike, I asked, “Are you okay?” as Leeman hurried around the bike toward me. I sent a tendril to trip him and he went down, too.
Glancing at each of them, I pretended to look closely at the ground around me and yelped, “What the hell?! Why’s everybody falling down?!”
Leeman got up fast as he sharply ordered me to “Freeze! Stand right there! Don’t move!”
I shrugged and said, “Okay, but what the hell’s going on?”
With the momentum of a takedown gone, Leeman stood eyeing me for a moment, then growlingly reiterated, “Just stand there. Don’t move.” Glancing at the other deputy, he snapped, “Keller, you all right?”
“Hell, no, I’m not all right! My right leg feels like it isn’t there anymore! I can’t get up!”
But then he did just that, tripoding his way to a wobbly standing position and hop-dragging himself toward us. An engine roared and the red Mustang left rubber in the real estate parking lot half a block further north. The car whipped into the street and blasted toward us, almost sliding to a stop in the street between the cop cars.
Keller yelled, “I told you to wait!” and Leeman yelled, “Get that damned thing out of the street!”
The kid ignored both of them and lunged out of the car. Slamming the door shut, he barreled across the road as a white car coming south braked sharply to avoid hitting him. The kid turned and yelled, “Get the fuck out of here!” at the white car, then continued striding angrily toward us.
I waited to see what the deputies would do and wasn’t disappointed. Leeman stepped between the hothead and me and raised his hands in a ‘stop’ gesture as he ordered the kid to turn his ass around and get his car out of the street.
The kid started to step around him and Leeman grabbed his arm. When the kid struggled, he very suddenly found himself face-down on the pavement.
“Wow,” I said, “Great moves, Leeman.”
Keller said, “You just shut up for now, okay?”
“Sure. How’s your leg?”
“Never mind about my leg. Just stand there quietly.”
The kid seemed to briefly go berserk about being constrained on the ground, but he soon realized he wasn’t getting up until he at least pretended to calm down.
After a few moments he lay more or less still and asked, “Can I get up now?”
“Not if you’re gonna go off again.”
Glaring at me, the kid gritted out, “I won’t.”
I looked at Keller and said, “I don’t believe him. Do you?”
Keller shot me a glare as he divided his attention between the kid and me.
Leeman took his knee off the kid’s back and said, “Get ugly and you’ll be right back down there, got it? Now get up slow and easy and go stand by Deputy Keller.”
Observations of the moment: the kid seemed to think he owned the highway and the cops knew him in some special manner or he’d be in cuffs after a takedown. He was maybe eighteen, but he had a brand-new Mustang with an engine package. His attitude was that of someone who hadn’t heard the word ‘no’ very often, if at all.
As if to validate my observations, he ranted, “When I tell my Dad about this…!” but that’s as far as he got.
Leeman yelled, “Terry, shut the fuck up! Get your car out of the street before I have it towed!”
In moderate shock, Terry glared at Leeman for a moment, then said almost calmly, “I’m gonna have you fired, Leeman.”
He turned to stalk away, but Leeman muttered, “That’s it,” yanked his cuffs out, and trotted after him. Terry started to turn around again, but Leeman shoved him up against the Mustang and had him cuffed in seconds. He then led Terry back across the street, talking on his radio as they walked.
Terry looked shocked again, then almost screamed, “You can’t do that!”
Leeman said, “I just did,” and stopped him beside Keller. “You just stay right there, Terry. You move again and I’ll put you in my back seat while we talk to this man.”
“He shot out my back window!”
I shook my head and said, “Nope. No gun.”
Terry ranted, “So he ditched it!”
Leeman said, “There’s no bullet hole, dammit. Shut up.”
He then turned to me and said, “But there’s a big dent in the glass like a baseball hit it. What did you use to break it? Did you throw something?”
“I seriously doubt I could throw anything that fast or that far. He went by me at about eighty.” Holding a hand flat near my saddlebag, I said, “And he was about that far away and grinning like an idiot when he threw his drink cup at me.”
Keller asked, “A drink cup?”
“One of those big convenience store cups. He missed me.”
Leeman was insistent. “How’d you do it?”
“How could I have done it?”
Terry angrily screamed, “I don’t know how the hell he did it, but it happened right after I passed him!”
Looking at him, I said, “They’ll prob’ly need a little more than some rotten kid’s personal opinion as evidence.”
Lunging at me, Terry began another rant, but Keller grabbed his arm and spun him around. Terry wobbled and began to topple toward me. I grabbed his shoulders and shoved him back upright as Leeman moved around me. He almost gently sat Terry down in the grass and stepped back a pace.
He said, “That was your last damned warning, Terry. Move again and you’re done for the day, you hear me?”
“You hear this, Leeman! You’re history, you got that?! History! I’m gonna have you FIRED!”
I said, “Guys, I have something to show you.”
Keller looked at me almost warily. Leeman turned to face me. Calling up another field screen, I ignored Keller’s startled attempt to back away and had Athena play back the moments when Terry threw the cup. Both cops reached to try to touch the screen as I had Athena show our encounter from the time I stopped behind Leeman’s car.
When the show ended, I said, “A copy of this will go to Detective Greer in Hernando County’s Sheriff’s office.”
Leeman asked, “Why him?”
“Because he knows me and I’ll suggest he should help you keep your jobs or find new ones if you need them. You didn’t take any shit from this kid, even though he seems pretty sure he can get you fired.”
Keller asked, “What is that thing?”
“A field screen. A computer records everything that happens around me.”
Leeman asked, “Everything? You mean all the time?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
Looking at me rather starkly, Keller asked, “
For God’s sake, why? Are you under some kind of surveillance?”
“Well, sort of, I guess. But she’s real cute. Wanna see?”
Without waiting for a reply, I said, “Athena. Got a minute?”
She popped into being a foot from Terry, who shrieked and scurried backward. Keller froze with a hand on his gun and Leeman stepped back a pace as he reached toward his own.
Athena smiled at everybody as she surveyed the scene and said, “Hi, Ed. You appear to be in the middle of something.”
“Yes’m, that’s how it seemed to me, too.” Gesturing left, then right, I said, “Athena, these are deputies Keller and Leeman. The guy on the ground is Terry. That’s his Mustang blocking the street, but he’s indisposed at the moment.”
She chuckled, “Are you hinting you’d like me to move it?”
“Well, if you wouldn’t mind, yes, ma’am. Please.”
Smiling, Athena rather dramatically lifted an arm to gracefully point at the car, which lifted a foot or so and drifted to land gently a few yards behind the other cop car.
“Thank you,” I said, “You made that look easy, ma’am.”
“It isn’t too difficult. Will there be anything else?”
“Well, I hate to impose, but I’d like a recording of the events I showed them to be sent to Detective Greer. Would that be a problem?”
Pretending thoughtfulness, she replied, “No, not at all. I’ve sent it to his office computer.”
With a shrug, I said, “I guess that’s it, then. Thank you, milady. You’re really too good for me, you know.”
She grinned. “Yes, I know. I’ll get back to what I was doing now. Goodbye, all.”
Keller blurted, “Wait!” but Athena’s image shimmered out of existence. I could still feel her presence near us, and through my implant, she chuckled, “That was interesting and somewhat amusing.”
3rd World Products, Book 16 Page 2