SLACK: A Day in the Life of Ford Aston (Rook and Ronin Spin-off)

by JA Huss

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see. Head east on 16th when we get into Cheyenne. The pick-up is in one of those antique malls.”

  I shoot him a look.

  “What? It’s perfect.”

  “Did the senator sanction the weapons too?” He doesn’t answer right away and this is my first real clue that he’s not as comfortable with this job as he’s making it out. “What?” I ask. “What’s the deal, Merc?”

  He shakes his head a little, like he’s thinking about lying or holding it in. But we’ve been friends too long, so the words come out anyway. “It’s just strange. All of a sudden I start getting a string of high priority jobs from people with position, ya know? This senator. The last job was collecting a debt owed to a millionaire from Miami. Had to go to Columbia for that one. And the one before that was stealing some data from a small European government.”

  “Virtually, I hope?” I have insane hacking skills, like Merc here, but unlike him, I’m no soldier. I can shoot and I can fight. And if I do either of those two things you can be sure someone will end up dead by the time it’s over. But I am not a soldier.

  “Nah, real time dude. Boots on the ground.”

  “Hmmm…. maybe it was that mercenary ad you ran in Soldier of Fortune?”

  He puffs out some smoke with his chuckle. “Hey, I was twelve.”

  “As if that makes it any less ridiculous.” We both laugh. Fucking Merc. “Well, your name’s on a list somewhere. And you seem pretty popular and the shit’s sanctioned, so enjoy it I guess.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  Cheyenne comes into view after that and Merc takes out his notes and studies them again. I don’t blame him for being paranoid. I do this shit as a side thing. This is his life. This is his day job. He has nothing else but this. So knowing that people with power have a list with your name on it is not comforting in the least. Because one of these days, the target and the gun might switch places.

  I get off the freeway and had east on 16th like he said. This town looks like it got stuck in 1940 and nothing has changed. There’s a rail yard on one side of the street and a shitload of old fashioned shops on the other. I park in front of one of the brick buildings and look up at the sign. Roundhouse Antique Mall.

  “Why is this place even open, it’s fucking Christmas Eve. Isn’t everyone home with their families doing family shit and eating crap by the handfuls, wishing that everyone’s kids would just shut the fuck up and fall into a post-sugar coma?”

  “Jesus Christ, you really are a Scrooge. Last minute shopping, Ford. You’d know that if you ever bought a Christmas present in your life. Let’s go.”

  I sigh as his door slams. But I give in and get out. I’ve got nine hours until my pet date, so what the fuck. I’ll stick around for an illegal arms deal. Why not?

  Chapter Four

  I’ve never been in an antique mall. I know they exist, there’s one on the west side of Denver on the side of the freeway, and the sign is huge and gaudy. But I can say with one hundred percent certainty, that entering that building has never crossed my mind. I’m not a snob about old things. I don’t mind old things when they’re mine. But as I walk down the many, many, many aisles in this huge-ass fucking building filled with crap—the first thing I think of is how many hands have touched these items.

  The second thing I think is, why? Why would you come here to shop for Christmas presents?

  I can only shake my head.

  I follow Merc though an endless maze of booths filled with the oddest things—books, fabric, postcards, furniture, art, photographs, frames. The list goes on and on. But Merc stops in the way-way-back of the place and we end up at what appears to be a mini Cabala’s store. If said store was contained within a fifteen by fifteen foot booth, and it only had scratch-n-dent items.

  I sigh and try my best to appear professional.

  “Wait here,” Merc says as he enters the booth. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “Right.” With Merc, be back in a minute can mean anything from five minutes to half an hour. I pick up a knife in a basket on the counter and check it out. It’s just a folding knife, but I have nothing better to do, so I flip it open and inspect the blade.

  “That knife sucks,” a girl’s voice says from behind me.

  I turn towards the voice. The child is sitting in a chair in the corner of the booth across the aisle, reading Little House in the Big Woods. She’s about twelve, she’s smiling so I can see a full mouth of braces, and her hair is up in long, blonde pigtails. She’s wearing a camo hoodie and some black tactical pants. “I wouldn’t buy that one,” she says.

  I check the knife for a brand. None. Then check the blade. Dull. “Yeah, this is crap.” I put it back in the basket.

  “Wanna see the good ones?”

  I turn again, but she’s right up next to me now. “Good ones?”

  “Yeah, the Emersons. We have a few left. They’re a very popular Christmas present.” She slides past me and opens a case, then removes a box and sets it on the counter.

  “Are you allowed to open that?” I ask.

  She never looks up at me, just picks up the thin black box. “This is my dad’s booth.” She nods over to the booth she came from. “That one over there is mine.” And then she looks up at me with her pre-teen eyes and pouts. “I always get left out of the back-room deals too. So I know how you feel.”

  I laugh. “What makes you think there’s some kind of back room deal going on?”

  “You came in with a hunter,” she says, nodding to the back room where Merc disappeared. “Hunters make deals. And since you’re out here and not back there, you’re not making the deal, that other guy is.”

  “What makes you think we’re hunters?” I have no camo on and neither does Merc. “Do you see an orange vest on me?” I flap my jacket open and turn for her.

  She smirks at my joking and points her finger to my face. “Not that kind of hunter,” she giggles. “You know,” she whispers, “the hunters.”

  I raise my eyebrows at her.

  She raises hers back. “Your friend is buying guns from my dad, doofus. Do I look stupid? I know what you guys do.” And then she takes her attention back to the box and removes an absolutely gorgeous Snubby CQC and presents it to me on her flattened palm.

  I take it from her outstretched hand and admire it, try the weight, then flip it open and inspect the blade. “Yeah, this is nice. How much?”

  “Wellllll,” she says drawing out the word with a smile. “Since it’s Christmas Eve, I can give you that for two-seventy-five.”

  I raise an eyebrow at her. “Two-twenty-five is more like it.”

  She smiles. “Two-fifty.”

  “Two-forty.”

  “Deal.” She sticks her hand out and for a moment I just stare at it. “Shake, doofus. That’s how you seal the deal.”

  I look at her again, then her hand. “This knife is only worth two-twenty-five, the rest is a tip for entertaining me.”

  Her hand remains outstretched. “Shake.”

  I shake and she flashes her braces at me. I open my wallet and grab the cash and hand it to her.

  She shoves the bills in her pocket and takes the knife and places it back in the box. “Gift wrap?”

  “Nah, I might use it today.”

  She nods conspiratorially. “Oh, big job on Christmas Eve. Must be someone important.”

  What the fuck? Who lets their twelve-year-old daughter in on their secret arms dealing business?

  “What did you get your girlfriend for Christmas? Maybe you need something else while you’re here?”

  “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Yeah,” she says with a sigh. “You guys never have girlfriends. I used to think your work looked exciting, but then I figured out you had no lives. No offense,” she says with a shrug.

  “I have a life. I’m not a hunter, I’m just a helper. I have a girl who’s a friend. She counts.”

  She squints her eyes in disbelief. “What’d you
get her for Christmas?”

  “Nothing. I don’t do Christmas.”

  “Oh, boy.” Her breath comes out in a half laugh. “You really need help. Did you at least get your mom and dad something?”

  “My dad’s dead and no, I just told you I don’t do Christmas.”

  “Oh, sorry about your dad. I have a dad but no mom. Wouldn’t it be nice to have both?”

  She says this like one parent families are normal. That makes me a little sad. “I did have both, but my dad died two years ago.”

  Her head bobs in understanding. “My mom died when I was born. So…” she waves her arm around at the hunting supplies. Outdoor gear fills every bit of space in her dad’s booth. As if to say, This is what my childhood was like. All hunting, all the time. “We’re the same almost, you and I. Only opposites.” She pauses to look up at me. “And I do Christmas, so that’s different too. I got my dad a new longbow. We’re gonna bow hunt next year if I do well at State.”

  “Do well at what?”

  “Archery. I’m the Wyoming State champion in both trap and .22 rifle but I’m not a good enough archer yet.” She looks wistfully at a bow on the wall. “There’s always next year.”

  I just stare at her. She’s like a twelve-year-old La Femme Nikita.

  Fucking Wyoming. What do I expect? Shooting is practically the state sport.

  She shakes herself out of her funk and looks back to me. “Wanna buy your mom something while you’re here? Make her happy this Christmas?”

  “I’m pretty sure my mother would not appreciate the finer points of an Emerson folding knife.”

  She laughs so all her braces show. “No, doofus. I have that booth over there. I have jewelry your mom might like. Wanna see it?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, just grabs my new knife, pushes past me, and walks across the aisle where she sets the knife down and busies herself pulling out some jewelry. She lies it all down across the glass counter top and then looks up and smiles.

  It’s infectious, so I smile back as I walk over. What a cool kid. If all kids were like this girl, I might like them more.

  “I’ll help you pick. Is your mom earthy or fancy?”

  “Definitely fancy.”

  “OK, then these ones are out.” She removes a beaded necklace and some feather earrings. “How about this one?”

  It’s a string of pearls. “My mom would love it, but she’d never wear it. They’re not real.”

  “Oh, then she’s classy, not fancy.”

  “Yeah, that’s about right.”

  “Hold on,” she says as she raises her pointing finger. “I have classy stuff too.” She reaches into her pocket and produces a key for a tall metal cabinet, then unlocks it and brings out another box. “This is the good stuff. And I know just what you need.” She shuffles through it and places an antique bracelet on the glass. “Those pin pricks of silver? Those are marcasite. It’s not expensive, but it’s pretty don’t you think?”

  “It is, very pretty,” I answer back as I watch her. She’s smiling down at the jewelry. “Are those emeralds?” I point to the little green gems.

  “Yes,” she whispers. And then she looks up at me. “They’re small, but they’re real. I bought this for my mom for Mother’s Day once. It was symbolic, you know. I was missing her and wanted to give her a present. So I worked really hard to sell a lot of stuff that month and I got this bracelet from a lady who used to run a booth on the other side of the mall.”

  God, how sad.

  “But I’ve been thinking about it lately and I’d like for it to go to a mother, even if it can’t go to my mother. Do you think your mother would like this?” She lifts it up towards my face and then smiles one of those sweet, innocent little girl smiles at me.

  Holy shit that almost cracks my black Grinch heart. “Absolutely,” I say. “My mom would die to have this bracelet. How much?”

  “I have it marked at seventy-five, but since—”

  “Done.” I grab some more cash from my wallet and lay it out on the counter. “Seventy-five is a steal.”

  “Want me to gift wrap it?” She looks up at me smiling. “I’ll put it in a pretty jewelry bag. With ribbons and everything. And make a card too. I’ll be fast.” And before I can even answer yes, she’s got the ribbon and scissors out. “You should look for something for your friend who is a girl.” And then she stops mid-cut and looks up at me. “If she’s just a friend, you don’t give fancy things. Something small that seems insignificant, but really isn’t. OK?”

  Relationship advice from a twelve-year-old. My life couldn’t be any more pathetic. But I do browse for something to give Rook. I walk inside the girl’s booth a little farther and start to take things in. “What’s your name?” I ask her, as she busily ties ribbons to the jewelry bag.

  “Sasha Alena Cherlin.”

  “Not Nikita then?” She laughs, like she got the joke, and that makes me like her even more. “I don’t have a middle name, so Ford will have to do. Ford Aston. Sign my name on the card, OK? I have terrible handwriting. And sign yours too, so my mom knows it came from you as well.”

  “Awww… that’s so sweet, Ford. I’m gonna put little pink hearts on the tag too.”

  “Do it up right, Nikita.”

  “Sasha!” she squeals.

  “Right—” I stop mid-sentence because I see the perfect gift for Rook. “I want that for the girl who is a friend.”

  She puts her stuff down and walks over to me. “Eric Cartman? For a girl? I’m not sure…”

  “No, I’m sure. It’s perfect.” The little Eric Cartman figure has mirrored shades, a cop uniform, and he’s holding a nightstick. I laugh out loud as I picture Rook saying, ‘Respect ma authora-tay’ when she sees it. Can’t cost more than five bucks, but this is the perfect gift for Rook. Something small that seems insignificant, but really isn’t.

  “Gift wrap?” Sasha asks.

  “Yeah, but better leave your name off this one, OK?”

  “For sure, Ford,” she winks at me. “I’m a woman, I totally get it.”

  Just as Sasha is finishing up the gift wrap, Merc peeks his head out from behind the curtain that leads to the back. “Ford!” he yells over to me. “You can take off man, this job just got complicated.”

  I give him a little salute, but he’s already disappeared.

  “You really aren't a hunter, then?”

  I look down at Sasha and smile at her. “I told you I wasn’t.”

  “So now you have time for me to gift-wrap your knife.” She grabs the box and takes it over to the little table that’s doubling as a makeshift wrapping station.

  “It’s for me, Sasha. It doesn’t need to be gift-wrapped.”

  “It’s like a present to yourself, Ford. Just go with it.”

  Just go with it. I laugh. “You’re kinda funny. Why are you working on Christmas Eve? Because my friend had a deal with your dad?”

  “No,” she says softly as she continues to wrap my knife case very carefully. “We always work until noon on Christmas Eve, just in case people wander in and need help. Like you.” She looks over her shoulder and smiles before going back to her cutting and twisting. “Then we drive to my grandparents ranch near Sheridan.”

  “That’s a long drive.”

  “Yeah, I love the drive. I just look out the window and think about my grandparents and how fantastic it will be to see them. We’ll have early calves this year for my 4H project and I get to stay up there and help.” She stays silent for a few seconds. “I love the babies. Why are you working on Christmas Eve?” she asks, as she turns with my packages.

  “I don’t do Christmas Eve. I usually just try to avoid the whole holiday.”

  “Well,” she huffs, “you failed. You have a present to unwrap and two people you love will get a gift from you this year.” She flashes me her braces and I smile back as she pushes my packages across the glass.

  I stuff them in my coat pockets and shoot my finger at her, Spencer style. “Merry Christmas, Sasha Ale
na Cherlin. Hope you do well at State next year so you can tag that deer. And may your calf be the biggest one at weaning.”

  She covers her mouth to laugh and I turn around and walk away grinning.

  “See ya around Ford Aston,” Sasha calls out after me. “Tell your mom I said Merry Christmas too!”

  Yeah, yeah… I walk out and stuff my packages into the glove box, then laugh at what just happened. I feel like I should be saying, bah humbug. But I don’t. Because I still got a pet date in about eight hours.

  Chapter Five

  I think about Sasha and what her life might be like all the way back down into Colorado. Daughter of a gun dealer. Sharpshooter at age twelve. 4H calf-raiser. Reader of Little House books.

  That’s quite a combination.

  I’m the son of a psychiatrist, socially unacceptable genius, con-man hacker, film producer.

  That’s quite a combination too.

  Why can’t I find a twenty-five-year-old Sasha? Now she… is a freak. But in the best kind of way. Why can’t I find a well-adjusted freak?

  Signs for Fort Collins appear on the side of the road and I get off on Mulberry and head towards downtown. I might as well go empty out the few things I have up at Spencer’s house in Bellvue before I go home. Nothing better to do. I still have seven hours until my pet date tonight. I turn right at College and head north, glancing over at Anna Ameci’s when the smell of Italian food makes my stomach go ape-shit. And who do I see? Veronica Vaughn walking out of the restaurant, hanging on the arm of a well-dressed man.

  Hmmm.

  I know Spencer and Ronnie have had their difficulties, but I haven’t seen either of them since the Shrike Bikes show ended a few weeks ago, so I had no idea they broke up. I pull into one of the many empty parking spaces and get out to go butt into her business. Veronica is dressed like a runner, but I know better. Ronnie does not run. The man leans down and kisses her on the cheek and then walks off, leaving her standing in front of the restaurant. He gets into a new Buick Lacrosse, and drives away.