Phantoms, Insults, Morals, and Technology

There were two big pumper trucks trying to put out the blaze, but from outside the front fence I looked as if the house was going to be a total loss. There was a young cop directing traffic, but I did not see the guard from before. I dropped the phone into my lap as I passed, realizing if I had seen them and been seen this could have ended my 'win' in a hot second.

Karma smiled on me, or is it kismet? Whatever spirit or deity that supports vengeance—the guard was closer to the main road, still on the mansion side, watching the blaze with another taller older man. I try not to get target focus when I am stalking another human. I know some people swear they can feel when someone is staring at them, and while it makes no sense, my experience is that somehow some people do know when they are being targeted. So maybe I was not doing a good job of masking it. Or maybe that's how Leo has gotten to be a gray beard in his line of work, because he was moving almost before I flicked the light on, stepping left in front of the guard and turning so that his back faced me. But by then I had a solid low light clip of him and had seen him well enough I would recognize him the next time, just like I knew from his posture and height he had been outside our office the morning it blew up.

I let the traffic tie me up for just a couple seconds at the intersection, saw the flash of his cell phone as he took a picture of the rental car, even while striding purposefully across the busy street to a sedan much like mine was parked.

I started a countdown in my head, they were going to find the car in the next twenty-four hours. Less if he could call in official support. It was not a lot of time, but it was going to be enough, what I had learned about his... approach had given me an idea...

***

In case I was wrong about how much time I had, I went to the roof first, tinkered around the little bit that was necessary, all under the red light of a Nebo Big Larry flashlight. Then I slipped back down to 'my' loft. The noise from the bar below leaked up through the vents, and I used rolls of duct tape from a supply cart to block the vents and a few light leaks. The conditioned air in the suite came from overhead vents. When I was done, the sounds were muted. Even so, I imagined they might hear my stomach—I needed to eat, it had been a long time since I had been at the diner. I should have been considering some rest, but with vengeance so close I would not sleep.

All of the businesses had access through the parking area, so I took a moment to add a few more cameras, checked that the feeds were active, and then went through the back door of the tavern. It opened into a hall with the restrooms on one side and the kitchen and a small room I guessed was the business office on the other side.

It was a rowdy crowd when I went out, a mix of regulars and the new denizens of CHOP. Nobody gave me a second glance. I went all the way to the front and asked, before settling on a small round top near the hallway where I had entered.

It was basic bar fare, but it was good, made from scratch with spices and personal flourishes. The chicken bacon sandwich was on a pretzel roll with a local smoked Gouda cheese and the too perky too busty too young waitress did not bat an eye about bringing 2 cups of the honey mustard so I had one for the double fried fries. I had ordered a jack and coke with a water as well, and sipped at it but only for show. I checked that the cell phone had all of the camera feeds and that all had alarms to let me know if there was movement.

When I was down to a few fries, I motioned to the waitress for the bill and she nodded, holding up 2 fingers. I waited, trying to ignore the half-naked bottle blonde who was pulling two different guys down to her pierced nipples, throwing her head back theatrically and moaning each time they did. I know an obvious trap when I see it. Unfortunately, the poos schmuck to my right, a thin guy with wire rim glasses and a timid girlfriend did not. It was not really his fault, the girlfriend was openly staring at them and he turned around to see what was going on.

"What are you staring at, perv?" the broken young lady was almost gleeful, "Mind your own business!" The young man looked back in horror at his girlfriend. The author of the little drama was not satisfied, though, and pushed her competing lovers away, "Can you believe that? Someone should teach that asshole a lesson." The drones began to push their chairs back.

"You're the ones putting on a peep show, gents," I pushed back, opening the space from the table, "You don't really want to beat on a guy who isn't even facing you?"

"Creepy old bastard," she wrinkled her nose, "you staring at me, too?" I met her gaze, then looked pointedly at both of her boys.

"Oh no, I'm just here to eat. Food's good, why ruin my appetite?" She blinked, shocked. One of the guys barked to hide his involuntary laugh. "See, I don't know who hurt you that you want these boys to beat on this poor guy or me, but it won't make you feel better."

"Okay, Boomer," the more composed guy stepped toward me, "Or do you really want his beating?" I eased onto the floor, right foot forward, shifted my hips, rotated just slightly, getting my torso positioned, hands open, raised to chest height.

"That was my dad, young man," I gave him a ghost of a smile, "But you should be asking yourself if you really want to do this with an old man." He pursed his lips. His buddy blinked stupidly. "I could have just kept on ignoring you," I went on conversationally, shrugging, "So why didn't I? I mean it's two of you. Younger, bigger, faster, stronger, right? If you beat my ass everyone in the place will shake their head, nobody will be surprised, and you'll just be two thugs. A Pair of bullies." They looked at each other and around. Quiet was spreading away from us, as people realized something was happening and moved to watch. I needed to shut it down before some idiot decided to do a Facebook live.

"But if I surprise you. Maybe I'm a washed up boxer. Maybe I just stuffed twenty years of marital and parental anger into a little dark box waiting for a moment like this... If I hand you your ass... hell, if I even hold my own you two will be the weak cucks who couldn't best an old man." They looked at each other again, and more carefully at me. I smiled. "You can think with more than your dicks. That's good. Your girlfriend is about to get you in big trouble all for her amusement.

The smarter of the pair relaxed and stepped back.

"Hell, beating an old man wouldn't be any fun anyway." I just nodded. "C'mon, let's find someplace more fun." Still glaring at me angrily, the girl had pulled her tube top back up. She did not argue, and all three paused to pay the waitress, with the eyes of most of the bar on them before they headed to the front.

The noise picked up as the spectators went back to their own fun.

"Thanks, Mister," the young man said. I waved a dismissive hand.

"You hadn't done anything. Just remember sometimes people are willing to hurt you even when that's true." The young couple nodded. I looked around the bar again, wondering why I had done that, looking for my waitress as I reached for my wallet.

"Dinner is on me," a man said from the bar side. I looked at him, impressed he had gotten so close without my noticing, especially since he was carrying a mean looking dark wood billy club.

"Uhm, I didn't start that," I said. He laughed, tucking the club into a holster or pocket behind his hip.

"Oh, I know that. But a fight would have meant damage costs and people slipping out without paying and clean up and chaos..." He glanced out the front windows at the shifting bodies silhouetted by a bonfire in the center of the open park. "There's enough chaos right now, that's all." I nodded agreement.

"Thanks." He waved me off.

"Haven't seen you before, you can't have just moved in with this going on? I mean it's usually a great area." I pursed my lips.

"No, I'm just here temporarily. I'm supposed to be low profile but that just seemed so unnecessary, you know?" He nodded. "I'm sort of your neighbor. You won't see me, but I'll be around, keeping things upstairs from looking like the police station does now." He winced and nodded.

"That's why it seemed like you just appeared out of the back hall." I nodded, giving the man points for being observant. "I wondered that someone wasn't doing something. I still can't believe they just left us to this..."

"It'll burn itself out soon enough," I glanced around, "You clearly have regulars who come out even with the troubles. And when it's over, the tourists will come to see 'where it happened.'

"If they don't decide to loot me and burn the place fore being a capitalist." We both laughed, without real humor. "Anyway, I'm Frank. I own the place.

"I though you would be Sam."

"Sam is my wife." I nodded and handed him my card, which was still appropriate for what I had claimed I was doing. The cell number I had hand-written before leaving the loft.

"I'm Abel," I shook his hand, "This is a great place you've built. Food was great."

"Abel security concerns," he read from the card, then shook his head, "Never heard of you."

"That's the way my clients likes it," I laughed, "I'm not a flashy rent a cop. I usually work behind the scenes. But..." I managed not to say 'I don't have my usual help.' "The email will get to me, but I don't always check it. That's my cell," I shrugged, "Numbers can change with the job, but that'll get me for now, and since you're here in the building, if there's a problem, don't hesitate to shout."

He nodded, tucking the card in his shirt pocket, and thanked me again before heading back toward the bar. I sat for a moment, trying to make clear a tickle of a thought... What was I missing? It would not come. I paid as if the meal had not been comped, and tipped so my waitress would be happy even if she did not get to keep the cost of the meal. My money was on he would stand by the 'free' and let her keep it all, but I barely knew the man. Dad always said not to expect anything free unless you were willing for the job to be worth what you had paid for it, I think that works for how to treat people.

***

I chose not to go back through the back hallway, instead stepping out into the late night crazy party atmosphere that still predominated in CHOP. It was not crowded but there were hundreds of people out enjoying the dystopian Sim City that was happening around them. I saw curtains moving in windows as I made a loose circuit of the area, homeowners hunkering down and hoping it would end sooner rather than later.

Still pleased at the outcome from my stupid decision to get involved, I was four steps into the ice cream parlor before I realized I had walked into bigger trouble. The guys manning the barricades and collecting 'toll' had all been carrying shiny new AR's, which I had wondered about coming from the looted precinct. I had seen others similarly armed wandering the square, not one looking like they knew how to use their intimidating new toy, but most people today see one of the 'black rifles' and think the world is about to end.

Who am I kidding, seeing the thug waving his new AR around I had the same thought as the door finished closing behind me, jangling the bell to announce my entrance. There were two of the 'security patrol' in the line at the ice cream store, one standing in obvious amusement as his partner, AR held up like he was celebrating whatever they used to celebrate in Iraq that made them shoot into the air. He was doing it so he could lean over the counter. He had his free hand on the upper arm of the poor young girl who was trying to help customers.

He looked over about the moment I came to a stop. Did not let go of the girl. Did not seem threatened or worried about me at all.

"So you're still open, then?" I pretended to ignore what was going on like the other patrons.

"Yes," a striking older woman said, and using the pause to push between the other clerk and the thug, breaking his hold, "But you'll have to wait your turn."

"Yeah, boy, you can get in line," the tough nodded, glaring at me for interrupting what was happening. He smiled cruelly, catching the older clerk's arm and squeezing more than he had been before. The woman winced but did no protest.

"An what do you think you're doing," he growled at his new captive, "I wasn't talkin' to you."

"But she's not on break, so I need her to keep working," the woman stood her ground, even with the brute manhandling her. He gave her a shake.

"Shit, then, maybe you want to be our guest at the party tonight, that it?"

"Lee has classes tomorrow, so she will not be able to join you after we close." The woman was a tiger. Not of Asian descent as her clerk, but with the obvious backbone and spirit. There was the hint of an accent, I guessed Eastern Europe, which would go along with the high cheekbones. She was a dark beauty, angles and thick black hair unlike Lacey's curves and golden locks. I shook my head, wondering why I had found myself comparing this stranger to my now forever Angel.

The clerk timidly moved in front of me, asking quietly what I would like. I asked for a vanilla malt, which would keep me close by longer and keep the girl away from being dragged back into whatever was happening.

"Well then if she can't then I guess you'll have to do."

"Tell her, Dante," the shorter sycophant giggled.

"Shut up, Santos," 'Dante' growled, "Get your own girl, pendejo." I had already seen there was no single race or skin color marking the people who had taken power in CHOP. There never is, and anyone saying otherwise is lying to you. There are bad people of every sex and size and color. I have not seen many Brothers comfortably using Spanish slang, though, maybe it's a west coast thing. And yes, Brothers. Some of the best people I know are 'people of color.' And they would laugh their asses off if is said 'poc' or whatever the new PC term 'we're supposed to say' is.

I moved behind them, making it obvious I was leaving LOTS of space, and settled at the register.

"Do you want something now or not?" the manager was keeping it together. That sort of mix of haughty and bored some women hone to a killing edge.

"Hell yeah, gotta have something to enjoy while we wait for you." That was the first flicker of doubt I saw. She was clearly recognizing none of the sheep in the place were going to help. And if you have never heard, being taken to a secondary scene universally means bad juju. I could tell she knew that. Sgt. Rory Miller says that is one of your 'go signs.'

"Man, you should try their malts," I offered, "They're great."

"Who asked you, old man?" I shrugged, feigned shrinking away, looked to where he was still brandishing the black rifle, and shrank away still more.

"I'm sorry, I was just trying to help," I mumbled, even flinching away from him just slightly... Enough that I could wink at the manager without his noticing. She saw, but instead of offering her any support it seemed to make her more afraid.

Puzzled, I waited until the young clerk came and paid. The malt was still on the machine, which was whining away.

"I will bring it out," she said, and I hesitated, not wanting to put her where they could get hold of her again.

"It's okay, I can,"

"Sit down, old man, she said she'll bring it." I looked up at him, then at his partner peeking around, leering.

"Well you certainly act like an asshole cop," I mumbled, walking away from the entrance to a booth near the back hallway. He was still glaring at me when I was seated. Several customers had taken advantage of the little exchange to escape, which was good for them, but not for me or the employees.

I feigned greater nervousness than I felt, but the booth did put my gun hand closer to him, which was not ideal. And he did have that pesky long gun. I fished my wallet out of my jacket pocket and moved it to my hip pocket. Then I looked up at the television mounted over the door. CNN had a drone or helicopter up, recording CHOP. The fire kept causing lens flare that left little recognizable.

There was a commotion at the counter, and then a shadow as the guy who had been manhandling the women stopped at the end of my booth. At the end of my seat, trapping me in place. I looked up at him, turning and draping my left arm along the seat.

"Did you call me an asshole?"

"No," I shook my head, "I said you had the part of an asshole cop down. I thought you were just playing at being a cop." He clenched his teeth. He was holding my malt in his left hand, the rifle in the other. With his finger inside of the trigger guard. "That rifle is scary." He laughed. "Is that my malt?" I asked, knowing the answer.

He brought it to his lips, taking a healthy swallow. At least I did not wind up wearing it.

"Damn, that is, pretty good," he began bringing the rifle down, the muzzle coming to the level of my chest, but pointed at the wall above the table. "Guess I should thank you for buying it for me." As he taunted me he leaned closer, the barrel moving ominously closer.

I had started to raise my hands as if in surrender. Instead, I latched onto the barrel at the triangular front sight, rolling my wrist sharply, at the same time. There was an audible snap as his index finger was fractured. He had started to yank the rifle back away from me, and I went with it, my left hand coming up, heel of my palm on the base of the pistol grip, adding to the force as I redirected the collapsed stock up and in so that his and my efforts firmly seated the rifle just below his rib cage. Air exploded form his lungs even before he could make a sound about the second insult to his ruined finger.

I had already reversed direction, yanking the rifle away from him. The sling went taut, pulling him against the corner of the table even as I popped the Microtech Exocet knife that I had palmed when repositioning my wallet. The serrated blade cut through the sling between the tightening buckles, severing both flat pieces of nylon as if they were not there.

With his weight still on the corner of the table, leaning more aggressively toward me to try to recapture his rifle. My boot hit just below his knee, pushing it back and out. There was an audible pop as it hinged inward and back, beyond design specs, and spilled him onto the white tile floor.

I was left holding the rifle, which I spun, ignoring the sling for a moment, and making a point of slapping the safety—which I had seen before was on—into the 'fire' position. I yanked the charging handle for good measure, nodding as an unfired round spun over my right shoulder.

Dante was out of the fight. So my barrel settled steadily on Santos at about the level of his diaphragm.

"What the fuck are you doing, meng?"

"He stole my malt, Santos." The man blinked, surprised at hearing his name. "He battered two women as I was watching, made threats, brandished his weapon, left every person here confident he meant to rape these women..." I slid out of the booth, keeping the rifle pointed at him.

"You're a dead man."

"Am I?" I shrugged, "Well, I guess we all are, birth being a terminal disease and all." I smiled at him. "Tell you what, I'll wait here with your friend," I kicked Dente casually, eliciting a groan, "Get your boss." When Santos hesitated, I shouldered the weapon, bringing the site up to his head. Blinking he back-peddled, nearly falling over, and ran out of the store.

"Bastard!" I winced at the anger in the manager's tone. "You've ruined everything." I considered that. If she was right, I had done exactly what poor Bruce had hoped to avoid. Sam's Tavern, along with the art store—Blick's—Oddfellow's Café, the market, and the bookstore would all burn if my transgression caused a reprisal. I stepped clear of the booth, catching Dante's collar and dragging him, moaning closer to the door, and past the end of the freezer units, setting up in the booth away from the windows but covering the door from an angle.