Scuse Me

CHAPTER FOUR

92.

The hook, baited and bleeding, is tossed to the sea. As all fishermen know, patience is the key. As a five-year old kid I always thought rolling a cigarette and sipping from a thermos was part of the ritual that would influence the huge bonita to strike my Grandfather’s line and send his reel spinning. The odiferous memories of smoke and salt-water, later replaced by diesel exhaust and fried chicken aboard the small boat, take be back to more innocent and peaceful mornings. And so we wait. 

The bag-man in the middle is the former partner and intended target, Cyrus Williamson. We have precious little on him, something that tells me he is, most likely, a well funded and sponsored mercenary. We know he attended junior college with Vi, worked for a time at Best Buy and failed to pay for a parking ticket in Santa Monica in 2015. That is it. Information from Vi is equally bereft of detail. I initially found this to be troublesome, but later softened as I recalled the days under the blissful spell of love when I was a rebellious seventeen year old troublemaker. Yet I remained cautious, not wanting to get blindsided by any rekindling of emotions as Vi>Maria>The Queen of Hearts and I silently sit waiting for a strike. 

TOM’s council warned of the need for stealth and speed, we needed to get in fast and out faster. There was something in the air as the spooks say, shit about to fly. We had no idea of where, when or how. All the intel and accumulated international chatter amounted to a hill of beans should we fail to plant our mole and get some immediate answers. 

Outside in the real world, a viral pandemic was circling the globe with alarming speed, causing, among the more pragmatic concerns of clean water, food and shelter, a stock market crash, a near economic depression and quarantines of major cities. Worse, from our perspective, several military bases were in the process of moving into code red emergency status. 

Already operating under a ‘less is more’ directive, the thought of waltzing into this dance without backup makes me shudder. I am considering the possible connection of all these ambiguously chaotic dots as the laptop signals the arrival of an encrypted message. 

The Queen of Hearts shoots me a glance. I fire one back.

She reaches out with forefinger extended and gently taps the spacebar as if it is a black key on a grand piano.

Her message from yesterday, highlighted - Bastards couldn’t keep this bird caged. Ready for work. Use encryption key ALICE8 when affirmative - Is answered by a question that evidently doubles as an authentication key.

“Who did Dad drum for in Seattle?”

The Queen of Hearts shoots another 'excuse me' glance my way as she types: J-I-M-I 

And kisses the sky.