Forever

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2Be It Ever so Humble

It was early October, and although autumn had officially arrived a couple of weeks before, the air was still warm. There was no joy in my corner of Mudville, however: that ball was looming on the horizon.

I thought about it as little as possible.

Added to that, Quinn had called to ask if I’d meet him for a drink. As if I’d say no to him. But normally we’d meet for dinner on Friday at Raphael’s, not a Wednesday. “Meet me at Ziggy Redman’s at about seven,” I told him. I intended to look into the sudden change of plans.

“Ziggy Redman’s? I’m not familiar with it.”

Which was why I chose it. Ziggy’s used to be a topless joint, but it had been closed down one time too many for various violations. Now, instead of the tables the girls used to dance on, it boasted a jukebox that played blues, rock, and bluegrass, a TV usually tuned to ESPN, and a pool table in the rear—why the f**k were pool tables always in the rear?—and while it catered mostly to a blue collar clientele, office workers would sometimes stop by for a drink after work. We wouldn’t look out of place. The big plus was that no one in the intelligence community went there; it would be safe enough for Quinn.

I gave him directions, and then said, “I’ll see you at seven,” and hung up.

With a few hours to kill before I left the WBIS, I hacked into the CIA’s computer system.

I wasn’t happy with what I learned.

* * * *

If I didn’t want Quinn to know what I’d done, I’d have to do something to burn off my aggravation. You’d think after all this time, the C-f*****g-I-f*****g-A would know better, but no, they were sending Quinn to the Far East on a mission more suitable for someone who’d never set foot out of Langley.

I parked about a mile from Ziggy’s and began walking.

A couple of blocks from Ziggy’s, I passed a junk shop. The sign in the window said “gently used,” but junk was junk. However, it was the cavalry saber in the window that caught my eye, and I backtracked and studied it more carefully. It was British and had to be at least a hundred and fifty years old. I checked my watch. I had some time to spare. I entered the shop.

“The sword in the window,” I said to the youngish man behind the counter. “How much?”

“I like your face, so for you…seven hundred fifty dollars.”

“That’s a little steep.”

“The soldier who owned this fought under Wellington during the Peninsula Campaign.”

“And you know this how?”

“It comes with a letter proving its provenance,” he announced with pride.

I shrugged. “Still, that’s a lot of money for a sword in this condition. Look at the nicks all over the blade. And the tip looks like it’s been snapped off.”

“I tell you this is authentic 1796.”

“Right.” I gave him a bored look and turned to leave.

“No, wait! Let me show you the letter.” He dashed into the back. I expected him to return with the letter in a baggie, but it was actually framed. “Here! See?”

The letter was badly creased, and whoever had placed it in the four by six frame had had to unfold it with extreme care. I scanned it with casual indifference, but as soon as I saw the name mentioned in the second and third paragraphs and the signature at the bottom of the page, I knew I’d be willing to give this man the price he asked for. Even if the sword was counterfeit, the odds the letter was were relatively nil.

Still…. “Four hundred.”

“Ah, man, you’re killing me. I’m already giving you a break on this. I…my associate paid a grand for it.”

I raised an eyebrow, and he started to sweat.

“All right, five hundred—”

He didn’t give me a chance to finish. “Done!”

“All right. I can’t take the saber with me right now, but I will take the letter. I’ll give you half as a deposit and pick up the saber tomorrow.”

“Yes, yes.”

I gave him the Joseph Wells credit card. With the transaction completed, I slipped the framed letter carefully into an inner pocket of my suit jacket—the WBIS had a little old lady located on the fifth floor who did alterations for us, and she added those pockets for me—and shook hands with him. I went on my way, in a much better mood.

Ziggy’s wasn’t more than five minutes away, but I had to hurry now or I’d be late.

* * * *

I pushed open the door, stepped to the side, and observed the occupants in the dim light. For a Wednesday evening, it was pretty crowded. The atmosphere was heavy with cigarette smoke. DC was supposed to be a smoke-free town, and yeah, rules were meant to be bent or broken, but didn’t these guys pay any attention to the Surgeon General?

The jukebox was silent and the pool table abandoned. Everyone was concentrating on the television, which was airing the second game of the American League playoffs, up in New York.

No one paid any attention me. It was the top of the eighth, and Garret Anderson had just hit a home run, leading to cheers from Angels’ fans and groans from those who were backing the Yankees. I didn’t care either way—as a Massachusetts boy I was a diehard member of Red Sox Nation.

I walked to the bar. The bartender was watching the game, but he was also keeping an eye on his patrons. He came over to where I was standing.

“What can I get you, Mac?” he asked.

“What do you have on tap?”

“Sam Adams, Michelob, Killian’s Irish Red, Bud Light.”

“Give me a Mick. And do you have Coke or Pepsi?”

“Coke.”

“Give me one of those too.”

“Got it. You want to run a tab?”

“No. I’ll pay as I go.” I didn’t expect to be in here that long. I reached for my wallet as he filled two frosted mugs. The foam spilled over, he topped them off, and then he put them on the bar in front of me. I gave him a five and three singles. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks.”

I started toward an empty booth in a corner as the door opened, and I looked over my shoulder. A trio of young men swaggered in. They were wearing jeans, biker boots, and T-shirts that were so snug it was easy to see the definition of their abs.

“Where’re the dancers?” the first one yelled. “We wanna see tits.”

“You ain’t gonna see ‘em here, Mac.” The bartender stood there, relaxed. This must have happened more than once.

“They told us Ziggy’s is a titty bar!”

“Not anymore. It’s a sports bar now.”

“Well, shit.” Bigmouth looked at his friends, and they shrugged.

“We’re here anyway. Let’s have a beer, Al.”

“Okay, and then we’ll go looking for a titty bar.”

“Let me see your ID.”

“We’re over twenty-one!”

“Sure you are. I’m still gonna card you.”

They dug in their pockets for their driver’s licenses, and I lost interest in them.

I went to the booth and took the seat that let me keep an eye on everyone in the place, and most especially the door.

It opened, and I raised the Coke to hide my smile. The man who entered moved to the side and studied the occupants of Ziggy’s.

He was five foot ten. His brown hair was a little unruly just then—had he been running his fingers through it?—and his eyes, although I couldn’t see them from this distance, would be a hazel that could change to green when he wore the right shirt or tie. Or when I turned him on.

Quinton Mann, my lover.

I’d had plenty of s*x partners, mostly male but some female, and I’d never considered them lovers, but there was Mann, that CIA spook, worming his way into my life, becoming my lover, and it f*****g surprised me.

His gaze was cool and professional as he took in the patrons. I could see his eyebrow rise at the jerk at the bar who was still bitching about wanting to see t**s.

Quinn spotted me, and the corner of his mouth curled into a grin. He crossed the floor and slid into the bench seat opposite me.

I pushed his beer toward him.

“Thanks.” He tapped his mug against mine.

I smiled and brought my mug to my mouth to take a swallow.

“So, how come you wanted to see me today?” No way was I letting him know I was aware he was going to the Far East.

“Can’t I just want to see you?”

“Listen, if you want to fool around, just tell me. I know some good games.”

“Oh, yeah?” Quinn slid down onto his spine. His foot nudged mine under the table, then ran up the side of my leg.

Shit. He was usually more reserved than that. There seemed to be a hint of desperation about his action.

“Why don’t you finish your beer, and I’ll take you home and show you?”

“I can’t stay late. I need to get home and pack. I’m flying out of National in the morning.”

“So we won’t be having dinner Friday.”

“No. I…I wanted to see you.”

My c**k twitched, and I dropped my voice. “Is that a euphemism for getting laid?”

“Well, of course.” His mood had lightened, and he was laughing at me now. Not that I cared. When he looked like that, I wanted to bend him over the nearest flat surface and f**k his brains out. “Mark, don’t make me question your—”

I interrupted before he could impugn my intelligence. “How long can you stay?” Sure I knew, but I wouldn’t let him know that.

“I’ll have to leave by midnight.”

I looked at my watch. “Then let’s get going. Do you want to grab a bite?”

“You?” It had to be one of the best days of my life when we crossed paths in the Wyman Brothers Warehouse.

Quinn drained the last of his beer, leaving a foam mustache. He saw me watching his mouth, and his eyes grew hot. He ran his tongue over his upper lip and grinned when my breathing ratcheted up. Damn spook.

“Come on, hot shot.”

We brought our empty mugs to the bar and started to walk out.

“Fags.”

The bar went silent except for a commercial on the television.

I came to a dead stop and turned around. It was the bigmouth. I took a step toward him.

Quinn put his hand on my arm. “You don’t want to start something.”

“I don’t?”

“Yeah, you don’t, c**k jockey. Listen to your girlfriend.”

Quinn’s hand tightened on my arm.

“Al, leave them alone. They weren’t doing anything.” One of the young men he’d come in with tried to smooth things over. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, giving Al a poke. “He’s had too much to drink.”

“Don’t you f*****g apologize for anything I do. These two are queer as green beer, and they don’t belong in a bar like this. Even the little guy knows it. He’s trying to get out without getting hurt.”

Quinn, little? I choked back a laugh.

“Let me handle this,” he whispered; then he raised his voice. “You misunderstood.” He smiled, and I watched in admiration. He might be CIA, but damn, he was good. “I’m trying to protect you. This man is a cleaner.”

“Yeah, so he’s a janitor. So what?”

I thought of my persona as Dwayne J. Lester, and this time the laugh escaped.

“Jesus, Al, that’s a professional killer. Don’t you watch those movies?”

Quinn opened his jacket, revealing the gun under his arm, took out the leather case that held his ID, flipped it open and then closed it so fast Al Homophobe wasn’t able to make out anything more than that it was official, and put it back into the inner pocket. He closed his suit jacket and arched an eyebrow. “Do you really want him to start something?”

“No. Uh…no.”

“Ah, come on, boss. I haven’t killed anyone in two days.”

“So it’s going to be three days. You know the big man doesn’t want to explain another body.”

“Well, I’m getting tired of his rules.” I looked the jerk up and down and then opened my jacket as if to scratch my ribs, revealing the gun I carried. I grinned as the color drained from his face, and he backed up a step.

“Let’s go, killer.” Quinn walked out without looking back. He didn’t have to. I was there.

“Nice work, Quinn.”

“Yes?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, I didn’t want to have to explain all the blood that you’d have spilled.”