by MB Mooney
“There are many things you have to learn about the human race. Revenge can be a useful thing. It will burn hot with little effort. Hate and anger, if fed, can drive a man to do amazing things. He will begin to love the violence and find ways to feed it. Emotions such as these can be used to control people and situations. There is an errand I need done. I believe this Postman can handle it for me.”
“Isn’t that why you pay me?”
Mr. Smith smiled at him. “No need to feel any degree of insult. This ... thing I need done needs a certain flair you do not have, namely a desire for vengeance; you’ll simply try to blow things up, and besides,” Mr. Smith’s hands waved in surrender, “some opportunities are too enticing to pass up. Just bring him in, Shade. You will understand in time.”
“And how the hell am I supposed to do that? You’re not giving me a whole lot of information here to work with.” Shade frowned at the article. Sensationalism at its best. “How soon do you want him?”
“His mission is almost over. I’ve been doing some research. You can find anything on this wonderful computer here, if you know where to look and how. Andrew Franklin will be his next target.”
Shade looked up at Mr. Smith. “The son of Daddy Franklin? How can you know that?”
“I just do.”
Shade shook his head. “This isn’t going to be easy. Getting close to the Franklins has always been difficult.”
Mr. Smith leaned in towards him, moving closer to the computer. “You can surely solve these little problems. I know your past, what your abilities are. Is killing so much easier than accosting a madman? You are well paid.”
Hell if I am, Shade thought.
And Mr. Smith’s eyes darted at him suddenly, knowingly, and then they squinted, peering as if, as if ...
As if he had read Shade's thoughts.
But he couldn’t have. Not really, right? Despite his training, Shade must have given something away with his eyes.
Shade thought quickly of how to take this man, where to hit and what blows would be most efficient to put Mr. Smith to death. He would have to kill him to escape. Who knew how connected Mr. Smith was? But something told Shade that killing Mr. Smith would be more difficult than killing any other man had ever been, and it wasn’t Mr. Smith’s size or weight or the way he handled himself or a thousand other things that made a man dangerous.
Mr. Smith blinked and sat back in his chair, leaning back again in a relaxing pose. “What makes you loyal to me, Mr. Shade?” Mr. Smith asked, quietly, calmly.
Eerily.
“Excuse me?” Shade did not relax at all.
“You heard me. What exactly makes you loyal to me?”
“I don’t really understand the question.”
Mr. Smith’s hands folded in front of his face, his elbows on the arms of his leather chair, almost as if in prayer. “Money. Money makes you loyal, does it not? Do you ever think that I cannot keep your loyalty, Mr. Shade?”
“I guess not.”
“No. You are right. As I said before, there are many things about humanity you have yet to understand.” Mr. Smith waved his right hand dismissively. “It is a simple thing to give people what they want. Like animals, they do your bidding, and they do so with thankfulness in their heart and joy in their souls. Even the most evil of men do this. I will give the Postman the desire of his heart, and the very depths of who he is will accomplish my goal. You are a foolish man to question me, Mr. Shade. Many have done it and failed, men more powerful than you can even begin to imagine. See that you remember that.”
And these were not threats. Mr. Smith spoke slowly and methodically, like the way he walked, just speaking the truth.
And Shade believed it.
“All right,” Shade said.
“Good. Now bring me the Postman.”
-----
The bar was warm and dark as Valerie entered it. It was set up like any other bar, a square service counter in the middle of the establishment, with small, cheap tables and chairs cluttered with beer bottles and mixed drink glasses all around it. There were small neon signs advertising various types of beer and alcohol decorating the walls. A local band - a very bad one - played loudly on a short stage under a low ceiling, singing modern covers of various songs. Valerie cringed at the bad music.
But it was warm, contrasted with the night air. After leaving Bill in a huff, she dug a little more to find the name of one of the main informants. The drug cop didn’t appreciate the late night phone call, but he cooperated as she called in a favor from last year when he had asked for info on one of her homicide cases. It had helped them close down a drug ring in Dunwoody, after all, with commendations for their whole department.
She found her man in the corner on the other side of the bar. She walked slowly in his direction and sat across from him at the small, round table.
“Skippy?” she asked.
“You're supposed to say the password.”
Skippy was a man of medium height, but incredibly thin, his sunken eyes obvious evidence of his heroin habit. Why was it heroin again these days with these guys? His hair was unkempt and shaggy and in his face. It had to be him, although the description Detective Barnaby had given her didn’t fully express the strung out look in his gaze.
Valerie rolled her eyes at him. “ ‘The band is hot, man, would you like a drink?’”
He raised his hands to the sky. “Damn. Was that so hard?”
She moved her chair closer to the table. “You are Skippy, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m Skippy. Are you gonna buy me a drink or not?”
She looked around. “I’ll wait ‘til the waitress comes back.”
Skippy pointed his finger at her. “Well, I’m not sayin’ another word, not one hooked on phonics syllable until I get that beer.”
She rolled her eyes at him again to keep from killing him, and adjusted her coat as she got up and walked over to the bar. Back with his beer, she set it in front of him, the wet glass sliding a bit on the cheap plastic surface.
“There, you happy?”
He took a sip. “That’s better.”
“You need me to do anything else for you before we get on with this?”
He wiped a small dab of foam from his lip, keeping one eye on the band. My God, he actually likes this crap, she thought. “Sure. I’m ready. What you want?”
Valerie leaned in close, keeping her voice low. “I want to know how I can get in touch with Andrew Franklin.”
Skippy just stared at her blankly for a moment, then burst into hearty laughter. He came to an abrupt stop. “You're serious, aren’t you?”
“Very.”
“You’re crazy, bitch, that’s what you are. Andrew Franklin doesn’t talk to no one. Not now, not ever.” His eyebrows rose. “Especially not now.”
“Why is that?”
Skippy shrugged quickly, his eyes looking around the room, darting from corner to corner. “I don't know, but no one, and I mean not even the CSI jokers have seen that mother for a week or two. He’s the hell outta Dodge is what he is, lady, and you’d better find some other little hobby to do, cause he ain’t talkin’ to nothin’ but his family and his plants.”
“And where would his family be?”
Skippy guzzled his beer, half gone now. He barely paused to swallow. “How the hell should I know?”
“Because you’re an informant, and informants always know these types of things. Don't you ever watch TV?”
Skippy smiled at her, shaking his head. “Miami Vice every damn week on the Internet. But that shit don’t happen, see, and I don’t got no information about Andrew Franklin. Why you wanna talk to him, anyway? He not gonna cooperate with a pig.”
“I have reason to believe that his life is in danger, and I want to offer him protective custody.”
He chuckled. “He know his life is in danger. Why the hell do you think he’s hidin’ out? You think you can protect his ass better than his daddy can?” his voice rose again.
“Yes,” she said. “I do.”
“You are one crazy bitch.”
With one motion, Valerie reached into her coat, pulled out her .38, knocked the light, cheap table out of the way, picked little Skippy up, slammed him against the wall, and put the nose of the gun under his chin.
“I don’t think you understand just how much I need to talk to Mr. Franklin.” She could smell him now, even above the dank odor of the bar, and he stank.
“God, lady, what the …”
“Shut up!” Valerie screamed at him. Heads began to turn in her direction. “Now, tell me where I can find Mr. Franklin. And I suggest you do it quickly before this crazy bitch has to tell her Captain some sob story about a junkie informant who was too high on smack and pulled a knife out on her, and she had to blow him away.”
“I don’t know nuthin’,” he slobbered at her. “And I ain’t got no …”
A switchblade dropped from her coat pocket. “Look at that,” she said, hearing it clatter as it hit the floor beside Skippy. “There’s the suspect’s weapon. Proof right there. Bought out of a pawnshop this afternoon. Still had the receipt and everything. And there’s a certain pawnshop owner, who happens to be a very good friend of the poor officer who had to blow his ass away, who will be more than happy to give the police your description in relation to that knife that just hit the floor.
“And your fingerprints will be on it. We’ll just lift them off that beer bottle there, of course, but a judge will never see the case because nobody much cares about people like you. There was this guy in high school who could never keep a secret, and nobody much cared for him. Even I wanted to kick his ass. I expect you’re pretty much the same.”
She pressed the end of the gun against his chin with a little more force, cocking the hammer on her pistol. “Now tell me what I want to know, or you’ll have a hell of a time selling information to anyone else.”
The sweat dropped from his forehead. Skippy breathed quickly, close to hyperventilating. “B-but they’ll kill me if I tell.”
“And I’ll kill you if you don’t. You decide, you son of a bitch, and decide quick. I’ll give you until the count of three. One, two ...”
“Okay, dammit, he’s in a house in Dunwoody.” He laughed at her through his words. “You’ll never get to him, though. They’ve got him holed up there with more security than I’ve ever seen.”
“Address,” she demanded.
“3350 Pauper Way.”
Valerie uncocked her gun and let Skippy go. He dropped to the floor, to his knees. “Now, was that so hard?” She withdrew the wad of bills and dumped them on the ground. Skippy snatched them up. As she turned to go, the bartender watched her. Valerie pulled her badge out of her coat and showed it to him as she walked by. “I’m a cop, asshole.”
The bartender raised his hands in surrender. “Hey,” he said. “That’s cool. Real cool.”
Chapter 11
Matt sat in a deserted corner of the lunchroom, setting his tray in front of him. He noticed Vikki sitting with her friends only a couple tables away, and he watched her, holding his utensils in his hands. She noticed him as well, smiling and raising her hand in a friendly gesture. He smiled back at her, raising a fork in a nervous, clenched hand. One of her friends whispered something in her ear, and she laughed, keeping her eyes on him. She was surrounded by some of the more popular people in the school, joking and cutting up, making good use of their time away from the classroom. Matt nodded and turned his attention towards his food.
A minute later, he heard the sound of the tray slide onto the table.
“Hey,” Vikki said as he looked up from his own meal. “Is anyone sitting here?”
Matt shook his head. “No,” he said before realizing that she had been joking.
She sat down across from him. “So, are we still on for Friday?” she asked.
“Yeah, sure,” he stammered, pulling his tray closer to his body, as if she needed more room to exist. He looked at her, this beautiful girl, and then his eyes moved over to the table where she had been sitting with her friends. “You know,” he said. “You don’t have to sit here with me. I’ve been eating lunch by myself for a long time. I think I can handle it.”
“You also didn’t go out with girls for a long time,” she answered him. “And that’s changed. Things are changing. Don’t be so uptight.”
He could feel himself blushing again, wondering if she noticed. “I just thought you might want to sit with your friends.”
Vikki frowned at him. “Aren’t we friends?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“So don’t be silly.” She reached out her hand and touched his arm. “I wanted to sit here with you today. We haven’t gotten to talk a lot since the other day. Just a little conversation in homeroom or in Biology.”
“Your friends don’t mind that you’re sitting here?”
“Why should they care?”
Matt’s shoulders lifted as he sat back. “I don’t know, I just thought …”
Vikki smiled at him now, a knowing glare that infected him. “I know what you thought. I’ve been telling them about you for weeks now.”
Matt took a moment to breathe, and then swallow. “You have?”
“Sure. You don’t believe me? You could’ve come to sit with me over there anytime you wanted, but I knew you were too shy to do that, so today I came to sit with you.” She sniffed. “You want me to have them come over and tell you …”
“No! Okay, okay,” Matt said. “I … believe you.”
“Good,” she said, crunching on a small, red apple. “That’s good.”
Matt’s attention turned to a class walking into the lunchroom, a little late, and he knew the class. Richard walked in last, his tall frame moving through the double doors. Matt watched him, and Vikki turned her head to see.
“Oh,” she said. “Yeah, I forgot.”
Matt shrugged in hope. “Maybe he’ll still sit over here with us.”
Vikki shook her head, peering down at the table. “He won’t.”
“Damn,” Matt said and kept his eyes on Richard for a long moment. Richard had noticed them sitting together, of course; Matt had met his gaze the moment Richard came into view. Vikki was correct. He would not sit with them.
Matt stood up.
“Where are you going?” she asked him.
“To talk to him for a minute,” he said, and he walked around the end of the table towards Richard, who was just at the end of a forming line.
The first time Richard and Matt spoke some four months ago, Matt had been reading in class. Not the material relevant to the subject, but a book that he particularly appreciated. Richard sat behind him in the desk right against the wall.
“Hemmingway,” Matt heard the voice from behind him, not too deep, not too mature, but well spoken. “That’s a good book”
Matt had turned around and held the front cover of the hardback for Richard’s perusal. For Whom the Bell Tolls. “I’ve read it a few times,” Matt mentioned, seeing the approval in Richard’s eyes. “I think it’s pretty good.”
“Have you read any of his others?” Richard asked, leaning back against the wall, his long arms stretched out in front of him on the desk.
“Just A Farewell to Arms.” Matt sat sideways in his seat to see this person more clearly, the long hair, the thin limbs, the intelligent gray eyes.
Richard nodded. “Good book.”
“This one’s still my favorite,” Matt said.
“That’s your favorite book?”
Matt shook his head. “No, just my favorite of Hemmingway’s.”
“What’s your favorite book?” Richard asked.
Matt paused to think. “I … don’t know that I have one.”
“But you read a lot?”
He nodded back at Richard. “Almost all the time. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You read a lot?”
“Yeah, here and there.”
�
�You have a favorite book?” Matt asked.
“I guess if I would have to choose one, it would be As I Lay Dying.”
Matt had been impressed. “Faulkner was a strange person,” Matt said.
Richard smiled at him. “So am I.”
And that’s how it began, with the usual questions about names and families and things that people asked as they got to know each other. Matt wondered at the ease with which he had spoken with Richard. Richard seemed intent on hearing about all the cities where Matt had been, as if picking up and moving at a moment’s notice was something of an adventure. Richard admitted to dreaming of a time when he could go to different places and travel the world, painting and writing about what he saw like some Renaissance man from a forgotten time and place. Matt told Richard how he wished that he could just live in one place for a while, just be a regular person living in the same town his parents had lived in.
They became fast friends.
And the more that they talked, the more the differences arose, the more they found in common, mostly just a deep respect for one another.
But over the past week or so, especially the last two days, Richard had been even more distant than before, quiet and subdued, aloof, and Matt understood this more after his date with Vikki. He approached Richard at the back of the line. Richard turned his head to see him.
“You still hungry?” Richard asked.
“I haven’t finished eating yet.”
“Well, don’t let me keep you.”
“Hey, I just ...” Matt began.
“Just what?”
“Just wanted to see if you would come sit with us.”
Richard hesitated, passing his squinting eyes over Matt, before picking up a tray and placing it on the aluminum runway in front of the food. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No, I’m pretty serious. Come on, what would it hurt?”
“I don’t know, but I’m not willing to take the chance to find out.”
“Look, I ...” Matt shifted his weight around from one foot to the other, his hands finding their way into his jeans pockets “... know about you and Vikki.”