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Nano Day 4 - Working Title: Cantata
He closed up shop at 7pm that night. Before leaving his office, he checked with Sarah to see if she had come up with anything new.
"Nothing substantial as of yet, Herbert." Sarah's calm voice reported. "There are some interesting corollaries to the Yugoslavian slave trade, but nothing substantiated. Were you aware that Director Hamilton served the last leg of his European tour in Croatia?"
"No, Sarah, I wasn't." Wells admitted. "Is there a connection?"
"It is unsure at the moment. Nothing directly links him to anything other than routine tours of the border between Croatia and Bosnia. There are a few distinct holes that bear a bit more investigation, Herbert."
"Thank you, Sarah." Wells took that bit of information and added it to the rest. "I'll speak to you tomorrow. Good night."
"Good night, Herbert." Sarah powered the monitor off, and reduced power to her visible operating components. Wells knew, however, that Sarah was still at work, trying to fill in the holes. One of the advantages to fuzzy logic is that it caused a computer to become... curious.
Locking the door and taking the elevator up to ground allowed Wells enough time to flex his shoulders and relieve some of the stress of the job. Everyday he held incredible life and death decisions in his hands, and every day he would enable or deny terrible things to be done. To him, it was business as usual. But it did take its toll. He was tired.
He bid goodnight to Jones, who was a different Jones than the one this morning. This Jones had blonde hair, the morning Jones had black. He was also a bit shorter, and a tad wider in the shoulders. He still wore the same blue suit, had the same dark glasses.
Before Wells entered the inner doors, a thought struck him. He walked back to Jones and asked, "Jones, has Director Hamilton left yet?"
Jones touched the screen on his desk. "Yes sir, Mister Wells. He left promptly at 5pm. You realize I will have to tell him that you checked, right?"
"Of course, Jones. I wouldn't have expected anything else." He turned and went through the set of double doors. Once in the parking lot, he walked to his car and spent a few quiet moments walking around and examining it. It appeared the same, no oddities in shape, nothing obvious attached to wheel wells or undercarriage. He didn't expect to find anything, and he was aware that it was the things that you didn't expect that caused the most problems.
He pulled onto the bypass and headed down the beltway for home. He was five miles from work when his phone beeped. He didn't even have to look at the caller id. He touched the Accept button on his hands free set.
"Director Hamilton, how are you?" he said into his microphone.
"You knew it was me, didn't you, Wells." This was not a question. Hamilton's slightly nasally voice came from having his nose broken, several times. He was a tall man, just over six feet, with thick brown hair and bulky arms. His nails were impeccable and he would habitually clean them whenever he spoke to you, face to face. Wells could imagine him doing it now, even though the conversation took place on the telephone.
"It would have surprised me if it had been anyone else." Wells concentrated as he passed a large truck bearing pumpkins. 'Probably going to some pumpkin patch for the kiddies', he thought. "The reason", he continued, "I was hoping to catch you before you left the office, Director, is that I wanted to check with you on that training op in Italy you had planned."
"Yes, well." Hamilton said. "If you left when the rest of us do, you would have known that I don't dally at the office long. I have a family to go home to." Wells could almost hear the man clearing his throat. "What was it about the training op you needed, Wells?"
Wells could hear children playing in the background over the sound of a ballgame on the television. "I wanted to see if you were aware that a charity performance of the Italian Chamber Orchestra was going to be happening at the same time as your bit."
A noticeable silence of two seconds fell. "No. I wasn't aware of it, Wells. I don't think it will get in the way, though."
"Director," Wells asked, "isn't this a takedown operation?" A blue minivan filled with children passed him by. It swerved nervously as the driver turned to tell the children to please sit down and buckle up. Wells slowed down a bit to give them room.
"No. It's a training operation, Wells." The exasperation in Hamilton's voice was palpable. "In a training operation, there aren't any actual takedowns. It's all simulated."
"I agree, Director. And I understand." Wells paused to let that sink in. Then, "I'm also aware that, in the past, simulations have become very real. Purely by accident of course."
There was silence on the other end. The sounds of children and television faded. It was apparent that Hamilton had moved to another room. "Wells, I know you don't know me very well." he said in a quietly dangerous voice. "I don't think we've spoken more than three words to each other since my appointment." Another pause that contained the tinkling of ice in a glass. "We should meet, sometime, for lunch. I'd like you to get to know me. You will find that I'm not the sort to jeopardize my career over any accidents."
Wells let the proper second pass before answering. He was evaluating the stress in the Director's voice, the amount of time it took as liquid was poured into the glass. A highball glass, therefore, probably something containing alcohol. The Director was tense, for some reason.
"I'd like that, Director." Wells said genuinely. "You are correct. I don't know you, and we should remedy that. What time is good for you?" Let Hamilton choose the time and place, let him put the meeting on his ground.
A tinkling of glass as the director took a drink, then, "Call my secretary tomorrow. Let's try to clear this up as soon as possible."
"Very good, Director. I'll call tomorrow." Wells was about to hang up when Hamilton spoke again.
"You may not know me, Wells, but I know you." A deep breath from the phone. "I've heard about the legendary Herbert G. Wells, the man whose thumb rules the company. I've heard the tales of you in 'Nam, in Bosnia, in Brazil. I'm aware of how you created your own little paper kingdom in the basement." A bit of heavy breathing reached Wells' ears. "I'd like us not to be at outs, Wells."
"I understand, Director. I'll call tomorrow. Good night." Wells pushed the disconnect button, and as he did, he said, "That went well."
A small black car, an Audi, pulled up along side of Wells' mercury. The windows were completely tinted black, so nothing inside the car was visible. It made Wells nervous when that happened. There had never been an attempt on his life since he left the field, in 1992, but that didn't mean he didn't have any enemies.
The Audi kept pace for a few miles, and then increased its speed and passed him. The license was a specialty plate, reading 8ball. Definitely not a government plate, then. Wells ran his memory backwards just a bit and searched for any odd noises, a thump or a clang that would indicate that something had been attached to his car. Nothing came to mind, but he made a mental note to check once he got home. Just because it wasn't Government Issue did not mean it was harmless.
Up ahead, the Audi's left turn signal came to life, though there was no exit for another half a mile. Its break lights came on, a warning red, and then it pulled over to the shoulder, slowed and stopped. The emergency lights started to blink just as Wells passed it. He watched in the rear view mirror to see if anyone got out, but nobody did.
"On second though," he said as he accelerated. In his rear view, he saw the Audi once again enter the flow of traffic, ten cars behind him. He saw the exit up ahead and took it abruptly. The Audi followed him, as he expected it would.
He stopped at the stop light at the end of the exit ramp. He made sure the Audi was there, in line four cars back. When the light changed to green, he moved through the intersection, turning left and keeping pace with the forty mile an hour speed limit. The Audi was still four cars behind.
He drove a straight line for two miles, until he came to the Thrifty Supermarket. There he pulled in, and carefully chose his parking spot, three rows back and to the left of the shopping cart corral. The Audi chose a spot on the same row, but at the end.
Wells, got out of his car, locked it, armed it, and walked to the storefront. He stopped before entering, turned and looked back to where the Audi sat. Two young men, dressed in jeans and black shirts had gotten out and were moving his way. They clumsily ducked behind a truck when they saw him looking at them.
"Amateurs." Wells went into the store, picked a shopping cart and headed back towards the bread isle. He selected a loaf of garlic bread and some dinner rolls. He wandered casually through the store, picked up green beans, spaghetti, some jarred sauce with mushrooms, and placed them in the cart.
He then went back to the very back of the store and parked his cart. He went through the opening marked 'Public Restrooms', went into the one with the stick figure of a man on it, selected a stall and waited.
A few moments later, the outer door opened and a pair of black boots entered. It stopped in front of the mirror and water could be heard running. While the water was running, the stall doors could be heard being opened, one at a time. When the last stall opened, a guttural grunt of surprise could be heard, followed by a thump.
Wells put the small aerosol of sleeping gas, the same that was used at the company, back in his shirt pocket. "Amateurs, like I said." He took the unconscious body and placed him in the stall, on the toilet.
He exited the restroom and went back to his shopping cart. As he neared the checkout, he could see the other tough, lounging near the front doors. Wells took a bit of pleasure in the shocked look on the man's face when he was recognized. The other tough headed towards the isles, looking for his partner. Wells calmly checked out and wheeled his bags to his car. He could only imagine the look on the face of the man when he found his partner, asleep and sitting on the toilet.
Before Wells unloaded his cart, he ducked down and duck walked over to the Audi. He pulled a stiletto out of the sole of his shoe and put a thin, small hole in each of the Audi's tires that faced into the lot. The ones on the outside, he left alone. No sense in attracting unwanted attention.
Standing up, he walked back to his mercury, disarmed it, unlocked it and placed the bags in the back seat. Then he got into the drivers seat, started his car, and drove out of the lot, passing the front of the store on his way. As he expected, the two men, one staggering, could be seen coming through the doors. The bit of sleeping gas he had sprayed wouldn't keep the man asleep very long, but it would give him one hell of a headache and make walking a bit difficult for a few hours.
The rest of the drive home was uneventful, with just the normal obnoxious and brainless drivers causing him frustration. There was a call he had wanted to make while on the road, but didn't dare. There was no telling if there was a snark on the car or not.
When he got home, he got the bags out of the back seat, locked and armed the antitheft, and climbed the three steps to his front door. He unlocked it and opened it slowly, checking the straw to make sure there had been no unwanted guests. It was as he had left it.
"Hi, Morlock." he said as he entered. Morlock was the name of his goldfish, the only other living thing in the apartment. He had kept the goldfish for eight years, which someone had told him was quite a record. Morlock lived in the same ten inch round bowl that Wells had bought him in. Wells knew that eight years was no record. There were goldfish in the wild that had lived one hundred years. He figured his was no different.
He unloaded his groceries, leaving them all on the counter. He pulled a large boiling pot from the cabinet and filled it halfway with water, which he put on the stovetop to boil. He salted the water and added a dab of virgin olive oil to the water, then walked to his sofa and picked up the telephone. He dialed a nine-digit number and waited while the call went through an unusual series of clicks.
"Yep?" a gruff voice answered.
"Plate. Number eight followed by the word ball. No separation." Wells replied.
"Eighteen minutes. More?"
"Connections to shadows. Gregory Hamilton. Pertinent legal implications" Wells said.
"Thirty minutes. More?"
Wells smiled. "No. Unless you want spaghetti."
"Right." A chuckle. "Out." The next sound was a squeal, a click and then silence.
"That should be just about right." Wells nodded, went to his junk drawer that sat below his coffee maker. He rummaged through the screwdrivers, bottles of bolts and screws and balls of twine and string. He found what he was looking for; a small grey box with two wires sticking out the top.
He took the box outside to his car and attached the two wires to the front bumper with alligator clips. Then he went inside and emptied the box of spaghetti to the water, which had just begun to boil. He reduced the heat to low medium and went to his desk.
It was an old-fashioned computer, running a very old operating system. He turned it on and watched as it booted up. Nothing fancy, it was connected to the internet with just a basic cable connection and one of the lesser used browsers. He took a sense of pride in knowing that he was using the best antivirus available, his brain, and that in the seven years he had used the computer, he had never been hit. It was a box he was familiar with, one he had built by hand, one that had its idiosyncrasies, and one that he would not let any other technician touch. It was nothing like Sarah, and at home, he found that oddly satisfying.
He checked his email, deleted all the spam he found, and replied to some old friends far out of town who thought he had completely retired. Then he played a simple game involving trajectories and eye-hand coordination while he waited for the pasta to finish cooking.
Twelve minutes later, he went to the kitchen, poured the pasta and water into a colander to drain and set to work making his sauce. Garlic, Worchester sauce, a bit more tomato paste and the store bought sauce went together into the same pot as the spaghetti. He turned the heat on very low, gave the pot a stir, and went back to his game.
Five minutes later, he got up, poured a cup of black jasmine tea, took the drained pasta and added it to the sauce. He turned the oven to 350 degrees and placed the garlic bread on a rack inside the oven. He gave the pot another stir, this time with a bigger spoon, and he crossed back to wait by the phone. As he passed the bookshelf, he plucked a science fiction book to pass the time.
Twenty-three pages later, the phone buzzed once. He preferred to keep the ringer as low as it would go. It was loud enough for him to hear, and would not interrupt his concentration. In the case of this type of call, the phone would buzz once and that was all.
Wells read one more page to the end, made note of the page he was on, and picked up the phone. "Results?"
"Eight Ball is registered to a punk named Sylvester Goins, which may explain why he's a punk", the gruff voice answered. "He has no major crimes, but tends to think he's a hot shot gang leader. Petty stuff, no felonies. Has a brother named Fred, which might explain why he's a punk too. They run together, and his brother has the obvious nickname."
The voice on the phone cleared its throat. "Connections to shadows, none obvious, though if there were it might explain why there are no felonies on either record. Easy chattel, these two. Connection to Gregory Hamilton, yes. Nephews of second cousin, once removed. Said second cousin is deceased, was the son of Hamilton's father's second wife's brother, and ain't that a mouthful. Three years ago, Sylvester and Tweety had a run in with the law... assault with weapon, intent to do bodily harm. No charges. Bail was put up by an unknown source named Gregory Hamilton. That took a pretty bit to get, by the way. The case never went to court. That's all for now."
"Hmm." Wells was silent for a bit. "Thanks. Spaghetti will be ready in..." he looked at his watch. "Three minutes."
"In an hour." The line went dead.
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I have no problem with this paragraph; i just hope the man has ready access to a hot tub. *grin*
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"He bid goodnight to Jones, who was a different Jones than the one this morning. This Jones had blonde hair, the morning Jones had black. He was also a bit shorter, and a tad wider in the shoulders. He still wore the same blue suit, had the same dark glasses."
HA! MIB -> Men in Blue! *L*
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""You may not know me, Wells, but I know you." A deep breath from the phone. "I've heard about the legendary Herbert G. Wells,.."
AH! Hahahahaha!! *applause*
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"A small black car, an Audi, pulled up along side of Wells' mercury. The windows were completely tinted black, so nothing inside the car." So nothing inside the car?? Huh?
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"He stopped at the stop light at the end of the exit ramp. He made sure the Audi was there, in line about four cars back."
Trouble with this is, just a second ago, he knew the car was Precisely TEN cars back; if it's now closer, he'd know Precisely how close. No need for the word "about". See?
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"He stopped at the stop light at the end of the exit ramp. He made sure the Audi was there, in line about four cars back. When the light changed to green, he moved through it,..." Grammar issue here; he moved thru the light? No, he moved thru the intersection.... Picky, yes, but.....
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"Wells, got out of his car, locked it, armed it, and walked to the storefront. He stopped before entering, turned and looked back to where the Audi sat. Two young men, dressed in jeans and black shirt had gotten out and were moving his way. They clumsily ducked behind a truck when they say him looking at them." Black shirt? One shirt for two guys? Interesting! *chuckle* And they ducked when they SAW him, no?
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"A few moments later, the outer door opened and a pair of black boots entered. It stopped in front of the mirror and water could be heard running. While the water was running, he ((the)) stall doors..."
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What's a snark? Content suggests it might be a listening device?
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Ah...... this is looking to easy, too clean. Throw me some twists, Chet-meister!
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And then i thought, "He wondered idly if which one he'd gassed, Sylvester or Tweety..." *LOL*
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His home life is a bit different than his work life. At least I'm hoping to show that.
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You WRITE, girlfriend!! We await!
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Try to keep in mind that you are very hard on your own work. Let some of us have a look and see what *we* think about it.
FWIW, since becoming disabled, i read a LOT, and i'm a tough customer. I'm reading something written by a 15 year-old right now that my mom *loves*, but i find that the plot is interesting, but the vocab feels like a kid showing off his words, and a lot of little things show his inexperience. I do not praise that which does not deserve praise.
*grin* Try me!
And i know there are others of your friends who love to see your work. Try them, too!
(((((( hugs ))))))))
You love to write. You *need* to write. Now you gotta get over this hump of fear!
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As Tim and I told Sherry, yes, when you write, you're gonna think it's crap. And that's perfectly all right. Embrace the crap. Crap writing is still writing, and besides, it's not your decision if it's crap or not. So.. write, even if it's crap.
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