Reader's Block Ch. 02 - Next Gen

This is a continuation of Reader's Block, a few years down the road. That one scored okay and had plenty of views, but I felt maybe it wasn't understood, because of the bland suspense and tongue-in-cheek. Still, many comments about Mike Hammer and Billy Joel songs told me the effort was appreciated by quite a few. The original was told from the MC, Devon's point of view while this one is told by his protégé. I still tried to keep the tongue-in-cheek, and 'Mickey Spillane' feel. I strongly urge you to read the first installment because this won't make much sense otherwise.

So, a few advisories: No sex in this one. It could also go in at least two other categories. It's in LW for continuity and has a cheating wife.

Relax; it's just a story, people.

"Hold me closer, tiny dancer," [Wha~at~ever, blah blah - - blahbah]

I didn't actually sing that last part. Especially since I was getting paid to perform. But I said it in my head because I was... well - melancholy.

I'm John Baker, by the way. Maybe you've heard about me. I work at a local watering hole, O'Shay's, and I play piano five nights per week. This is a fairly new career for me but I thoroughly enjoy it.

I suppose, to understand my hum-drum mood, I'll need to explain a few things first.

Three years ago, I was John Baker - an insurance salesman, father, husband - and about as normal a person as possible. That isn't right. I'm still trying to learn how to embrace that part of my life enough, to be honest about it. The truth is I was plain. Vanilla. Boring. At least my wife at the time thought so. That's why she ran around on me.

I started to self-deprecate in booze and I became shackled in lust by porn. I had plenty of good reasons to love my two new-found friends and I told myself often, I deserved something - anything good in my life. By accident, chance, or consequence, I lost my job due to the latter. My self-respect went out the door due to the former.

Fate found me one night at a local watering hole. I usually spent my time across town in a darkened dingy little joint but finding the advertisement under my windshield wiper that evening, I decided to change it up. And that's where I found Devon - or rather, he found me.

Devon, or Triple F, to his readers, changed my life that night. When I called the number on the card he left me, two days later to thank him for giving me my man-card back, he told me I was wrong. He said he'd only given me encouragement and choices and that I'd made all the right ones.

He was like a guardian angel but only because, it turned out, his ex-wife was cheating with the same man mine was. Still, his elaborate plan taught me that I'd only repressed some of my better qualities. They weren't absent, just dormant.

I divorced the cheating bitch I'd been married to for fourteen years. She'd already turned my daughter against me, but three years later, things were starting to improve. At least we texted more often and that was a start.

I found a new job in sales at a food distributor, and over that first year, I decided to go back to my love of music. The guitar was an instrument I'd always wanted to learn to play. The thing was, I figured out pretty quickly, I wouldn't be any good at it. What I was good at, however, since childhood was the piano. Something about those chords spoke to me. I found a part-time gig at O'Shays Irish pub, four nights a week. My confidence was soaring.

That's when I decided to pay it forward - take up the torch for jilted husbands like my mentor had. Devon had told me I was his final project. He'd officially retired from helping husbands get their payback after that night. I wasn't sure I believed him.

For the past two years, I'd been helping betrayed spouses, all men, and hoping I could get them feeling better about themselves. Restoration of self-confidence was my ultimate goal. I know - John at the bar is a friend of mine - I'd heard the joke and played the song a million times.

I'd been fairly successful, too. Not always but mostly. A few weren't prepared to receive the help, and a few, I discovered, had treated their wives like shit leading to her actions. Only my investigation of them uncovered that. With my food job, I had extra time to research and often, follow a wayward wife. Preparation was important if I wanted the element of surprise in helping my targets.

Mitch Baxter was on my mind that night. He'd suspected and I'd confirmed his wife, Gwen, was cheating. It wasn't a co-worker as Mitch had come to believe, though. The paramour's name was Mario Garcia. A co-worker had introduced the pair, but Mario operated an onsite paper shredding company that had been contracted by Gwen's employer. I suspected he had some ties to organized crime in our city, based on my surveillance of him.

Due to that fact, I was at a loss as to the next step, in publicly outing and humiliating Mario and Gwen. The idea was to help Mitch, not get him hospitalized or killed. He'd be showing up a bit later and, when he did, I'd ask some more questions to help decide the next course of action.

Mitch walked in just after nine and took a seat at the bar. Tonight's discussion was going to be our most serious one yet, so I wanted him to be more sober than usual. I'd asked my friend behind the bar to pour light.

I was announcing a fifteen-minute break to the medium-sized crowd when I saw something unnerving. Mario Garcia walked into the bar, dressed casually, and scanned the room. His gaze stopped as it landed on Mitch. He found a dark corner booth where it would be hard to notice him. As I started towards Mitch, two other guys, vaguely familiar to me came in and sat two booths down from Mario. Something was definitely wrong.

I said hello to Mitch and led him over to a booth on the opposite side of the bar, having him sit with his back to the other men, so I could keep my eye on them.

"Keep your eyes on me," I told him with concern. "We have company. Any idea why Mario would have followed you here?"

His impulse was to turn around but I kicked him in the shin, hard. "I said, eyes on me!"

His face was a mixture of emotions. Shock and anger were directed towards me but some of that was because he knew Mario was in the room with us. He had murder on his mind.

"Take a drink," I ordered him. "Then calm down."

His demeanor lessened and he did as I instructed. Mitch's ragged breathing began to return to normal.

"I don't know why he's here," he finally said.

"Anything new between you and Gwen?" I asked. "Anything else new, in general?"

"Just her attitude," he responded. "She's been more... loving, more... amorous... like she's having second thoughts. But when I ignore her, her feelings seem hurt and then she starts the verbal assault all over again. I may have mentioned that I know all about her 'new man.' She laughed bitterly and told me if I go for a divorce, I'd better be prepared to cough up everything I own."

I'd told Mitch only two nights previous who was boinking his wife. My proof was a video on my phone of her walking into the guy's big house in a gated community. I'd also given him strict instructions not to spill the beans to his wife.

"Mitch," I exhaled. "We're supposed to be a team here. I want to help you but you've got to stay on script. This guy... you're in way over your head. Now you've led him straight back to me. Rule one: never reveal the troops' positions. I get that you're barely holding it together but you've got to be smart about this."

"Sorry," he said. He looked sorry.

"Stay here," I ordered. "Don't you dare look over toward him. I'm going to the head."

As I walked by the booth with the two thugs and past Mario's booth, I looked them all up and down but not any more or less than I'd do with any patron. I couldn't tell if they were carrying or not but best to assume they were.

While pissing, I thought about who I could call for a favor. I'd need someone to get Mitch out of the bar, and home. Maybe I'd need to get someone to provide Mitch with a bed and a place to stay for a few days. Then, based on what Mario and his boys did afterward, I'd figure my way out of the mess. If Mitch was being followed by the people I'd seen, then they may have watched our previous conversations here.

I took a few minutes to thoroughly dry my hands. It made me think, "What would Devon do?"

Returning to the bar, I only had a few minutes before my break ended. Coming out of the restroom, put me at Mario's back. He hadn't moved and neither had his posse.

"Miquel Aguilar," I said gleefully, as I put my hand on his left shoulder and gripped tight. "God, it's, been what? Six or seven years?"

See, dry hands? Very important.

He jumped a little. I guessed even gangsters get a little jittery. His face showed a range of emotions as he turned only his head and looked up at me. It took a minute for his response.

"Sorry," he said evenly. "You've got me confused with someone else."

I apologized and walked back to join Mitch. At least now, I knew what I was dealing with. They were here to spy. The goons were probably to assist Mario in case Mitch knew him by face. Two birds, one stone, and all that. I also knew that Mitch's financials weren't all that stellar. What his wife would get in a divorce wasn't anything Mario would be interested in. My best guess was that Mario liked Gwen, at least a little, but would likely turn her out, once he'd tired of her. Then she'd belong to the mob.

"Mitch," I began. "I have to go back to work. Listen to me and listen closely. I'm calling a friend of mine, Robert. He's going to pick you up in thirty minutes, give or take. You'll stay at his home for a few days until we can decide on a course of action. I don't want you talking to your wife. Turn your phone off if you can't control yourself. You've got bigger problems than an unfaithful wife here. Don't go anywhere unless it's totally necessary. Understand?"

Mitch nodded, somewhat dumbfounded. Pulling out my phone, I took a few steps away from the booth. I called Robert Evans. He didn't have anything to do with sausage or food factories. He was, however, an expert at getting into locked cars. If he'd known anything about surveillance cameras, he'd have never done time upstate for his expertise. I'd helped him last year with his own cheating wife problem.

I explained the situation and Robert agreed to be there as soon as he could. I'd kept tabs on him and knew he wasn't yet in a relationship. I told him to wait in the alley, outside the emergency exit behind the restrooms, and then text me when he got there.

"Okay, buddy," I told Mitch. "I'm going back to my piano. When I play "Brown-eyed Girl" that's your cue to go to the restroom. Don't stop there. Walk straight out the back door and get in his black Silverado."

It worked like a charm. I saw my phone's screen light up on the piano ledge. I abruptly brought the song to a finish. Mitch gave me a knowing look as I began the Van Morrison song. At about the two-minute mark, Mario and his friends glanced at each other. They were getting antsy.

"Slipping and sliding all along the waterfall with you, My brown," blah - blah - blah. Of course, I sang the right words however, my mind went to the three problems. They'd risen from their seats and Mario tossed a few bills on the booth. For the second song in a row, I cut verses.

"Hey, you three!" I said with a slight urgency into my mic. "One drink and you don't even tip the entertainment?"

They didn't even look at me. The bartender did, though.

About a minute later, they reentered through the back door. They scanned the bar and then focused their gaze on me. So much for the element of surprise.

I had a hard time finishing my set that night. My brain was swirling with thoughts and fears. I had no idea how I'd help Mitch get even, now that Mario and his wife, Gwen appeared to be a step ahead of us. I feared for Mitch and myself. Dealing with cheating wives and helping jilted husbands was amateur shit. These guys who came looking for trouble were professionals.

The Bartender, also John, walked me out that night. I checked the rearview mirror often on the way to my apartment. All the doors and windows were locked and checked, and I slept with my Sig nine loaded and on the nightstand.

Checking in with Mitch the next morning, we compared notes and I asked lots of questions. He knew less about what was happening than I did and it was hard to avoid his questions with any detail. I told him repeatedly that these were bad men and that he needed to stay low for a bit until we could figure out a plan.

"How many calls did you receive after you left?" I asked. "And from whom?" He said he had five missed calls from Gwen's phone and three text messages, asking 'where the fuck he was.'

"Do you have a tracker app on your phone?" was my next question. He said he didn't, and then I asked him to check all his apps in settings to make sure neither Gwen nor someone else put one on there in the last week. He didn't find one, and neither did Robert who was right there. I told him I'd call back once I figured out our next step.

I was going down a rabbit hole. Usually, my new-found self-confidence was roaring. I was doing something real and helpful to men who'd suffered like me. Now I was worried about protecting myself and very suddenly wishing I wasn't in the middle of this.

I did some background checking on Mario Garcia. He was a Mexican national who'd immigrated eleven years previously. That made things difficult as there was no record of him in his former country. The company website only had an ominous home page, with no partners or management listed. It looked like a front for the mob. I guessed they'd graduated from linen services and seafood companies.

Every clever angle I thought of, unfortunately, also left room for Mitch and me to get killed. It did cross my mind that Mario's intent was only to scare the living shit out of Mitch, and by association, me. No, that could be a grave miscalculation, and I needed to be prepared for worst-case scenarios.

I thought about calling my mentor, Devon. Picking up the phone a few times that afternoon, I almost did too. But my pride overtook me. I'd been at this for quite some time now. I wanted him to be proud of me, not to see me as I had been that night three years ago. He'd brought all of my confidence back in a span of twelve hours. The bonus sex with the escorts he arranged was just icing on top of my rejuvenated masculinity. The very best part was watching my soon-to-be ex-wife sitting across the bar staring at me with her mouth open while her idiot boyfriend attended to his vehicle being towed.

Later that week, I arrived at my temporary apartment to find a large envelope under the door. In it were photos - good quality photos - of her new boyfriend entering our home just after nine at night. More pics showed Jack leaving by the light of a new day. That both shocked and alarmed me. The only small victory my cheap attorney had won for me was to ensure that Tracy's boyfriend Jack, didn't spend the night at our home. At the meeting, Tracy had instantly agreed, citing our fourteen-year-old daughter, and saying that any 'adult time' could occur at his condo, until the divorce was final.

Along with the photos, there was an unsigned, hand-written note that said:

John,

I hope you'll remember our talk, and fondly. I can tell you love your daughter immensely and I hope all the best for you and her. A life well lived, and all that. Call the number on the enclosed card and make an appointment. He's one hell of an attorney, and he owes me. Take these photos with you. They will go a long way in helping you secure full custody of your little girl. Don't be spiteful about visitation. Remember, Tracy decided to do this to you. Your daughter still needs both parents.

The girls gave me an update on your night together. They said you needed a little tender loving care, but once they got you back on your horse, you gave them exactly what they expected from a cowboy. I think they nicknamed you, "John Wayne." Glad to see you back in the human race, stud.

Devon, AKA Triple F

P.S. - Remember what I told you, John. The next time around, make sure you both feel the same way about each other and then treat every day with her like it was your last. Second chances don't often come around. Make the most of it. Lastly, be prepared to pay it forward. When the day comes that I call on you - and I will - be ready to help.

The new attorney did help me get custody. He was also right about my daughter. She was elated that she got to live with me but also looked forward to seeing her mom a few days per week and every other weekend. The divorce went through without any additional drama.

I found a new job, too. Ironically, it was in food service. Since I was working for one of Jack's competitors, I went after all of his accounts. Seven months in, I'd taken fifty percent of his business. He'd left Tracy two weeks after the night he disrespected me in my former home, and Tracy didn't say much about it, but I got the sense she didn't care all that much. One of our mutual customers told me Jack moved to Northern Michigan.

I won "Rookie of the Year," that first one, having built up a good book of business. The award wasn't particularly special to me, but how I earned it was.

Being on a high that wasn't waning, I decided to take things a step further than Devon had suggested. I gave up trying to learn guitar and worked out a deal at O'Shay's to work three nights per week. The pure-blood Irish owner was closed all of the major holidays except New Year's Eve and New Year's Day but always paid a full band for that event.

I started watching patrons and was surprised at how easy it was to spot a guy who was down on his luck. Not all but many of them had marital problems. I never bothered with guys who'd cheated on their wives - either first or as revenge. I wanted to be like Devon, sure, but I had a soft spot for guys who found themselves in my predicament.

I'd had a fair amount of success, which only bolstered my confidence. This Mario fucker was something else altogether. I decided I didn't have the connections Devon had, which made any attempts at revenge difficult at best.

I was about to call Mitch with some bad news when my phone rang.

"John, he's gone, man," It was Robert's voice.

"What do you mean he's gone?" I asked as if expecting Robert to be his jailor.

"We had a few drinks," he said. "He started getting all worked up and I couldn't calm him down. He was pissed, John. I came out of the bathroom and he was gone. I'm worried he's going to do something stupid."

"Shit," I exclaimed. "Gotta go. Thanks for the call."

I think he told me to be careful as I was disconnecting the call. That was sound advice.

I drove frantically to Mitch and Gwen's home. Mitch's car wasn't there and the house was dark. That could either be a good or bad thing. Without much thought, I headed to Mario's house. I knew where he lived and I was hoping against hope that Mitch didn't.

My worst fears were realized when I pulled into the cul de sac with the million-dollar homes. There were police and other emergency vehicles, with a flurry of activity. A cop directing traffic in and out of the neighborhood stood in front of my car and motioned for me to roll down my window.

"You can't be here," he said sternly. "Turn around in this driveway and go back the way you came."

"I know someone in that house," I told him, half-lying. "What's happened?"

"There was a shooting," he answered. "It's an active investigation and crime scene."

Pulling into the driveway he'd directed me to, I scanned the street looking for Mitch's car. With all the flashing lights illuminating the scene in front of Mario's home, it was easy to see the car wasn't there. That was somewhat of a relief.