have some in my coat right now. I just got them at the diner down the street. They all know about it.” Stay cool. He knows I have them. They can try to track me with them. But I’ve deciphered the code. I know the number of the beast. One!
“Ok Bart. Ok. Just asking. Maybe another time.”
Head down, still walking: “Ok. We’ll have a drink. Talk about the old days. They can hear some of that. The CIA knows all about it.” He was awful close. It may be hit or miss. Checking his watch: It’s 3:07! Hurry.
He comes to the end of the alley. A broad street. Check the sky. It looks clear. He removes the cell phone hidden in his duffel. The fools! To have dropped this!
Holding the phone to his ear he says the code word: “Failsafe!” Ahh, 15 minutes of un-monitored time. What one can do with a day free from the spooks.
Bart rolls his cart behind the dumpster. He places the duffel near the front. The bottles are in back. The cardboard goes on top. Still holding the phone to his ear, he walks out across the street. The car squeals to a stop inches from his legs. Bart strides on, head down, phone pressed hard to his ear. “FAILSAFE! FAILSAFE! FAILSAFE!” They cannot touch me now!
“Sonafa bitch! You asshole! What’s wrong with you!”
I can get it now. Then they can’t track me at all.
Bart enters the alley on the opposite side of the street. The man is leaning against the wall of the building in the shadows. His minion is out on the sidewalk. Spook. He can search, but he doesn’t know about the phone. Failsafe.
“What do you want, man?”
“We had a deal.” Bart holds out $50 dollars. The minion takes his hand and quickly lowers it, glancing up and down the street.
“What’s wrong with you shithead?! You wanna get busted?” He doesn’t know about the phone.
“I have the phone. They won’t know.” He again raises the money. The subordinate hauls him into the dark alley with the man. Then he says, “This asshole says he has some money. We got a deal with him?”
The man smiles.
CIA? FBI? No, he sees the phone. He knows it’s no use.
“Yeah, we have a deal.” He walks a ways down the alley and moves a bag of trash. He opens a trunk lying under it and pulls a .38 special out. “This is what he requested.” He saunters back with the gun. It’s a worthless piece of garbage.
Bart holds the $50 dollars up again. But he clutches it tightly. “I need the bullets too.”
“For fifty bucks?”—with a crafty grin. You gotta be kidding man. You’re getting a deal on this anyway.” The gun is old and dirty. It won’t fire.
“I know about the whole deal. I know you. You may be an operative, but you’re out of touch now!” He taps the phone at his ear.
The man looks at his minion. They smile at one another. The subordinate circles his finger around his temple, giggling. Probably a sign they know. Outa range now cowboy!
The man smiles again. “You gotta come up with more than that pal. I said $50, but this piece is worth at least $80. And shells will be $5 bucks more.”
“I know what you’re doing!! You can’t stall! I know they can’t find us! I have a failsafe!”
The little minion slips his hand into his jacket and sidles off to the side. Radio signal. They might have new technology.
“Listen you crazy bastard, $85 bucks or you can kiss my ass!” The man advances a little letting the gun point slightly at Bart.
“Good thing I’m protected!”
The bar slams down on Bart’s head from behind. He falls hard dropping the phone. The man and the little minion laugh and turn him on his back. They rifle through his clothes and take the money in his pockets. The man says, “One hundred and two dollars! You squirrely shit. You had enough. Well, this will do.” He picks up the phone where it has fallen and looks it over. “Nice—a completely useless broken phone. You’re an idiot.”
The little guy kicks Bart in the ribs. He rolls to his side groaning and mumbling, “Failsafe, I need that! I have no coverage.”
The little guy bends close and listens. “He’s saying something about failing!”
The man laughs and says, “I guess he did fail, huh? Why don’t ya take him and dump him at the lake? We don’t want this crazy shit hanging around.”
The little guy kicks Bart again and then drags him down the alley to the car. He dumps him in the trunk. At the lake he finds a dirty area under a series of piers. He looks around, sees nothing. He gets out, unlocks the trunk, bangs his hand in the process, and pulls Bart out. “Stupid asshole.” He lets Bart fall to the ground. Kicks him twice. Grabs the superman glasses with the tape in the middle out of the trunk and tosses them on the ground next to the body. “Here’s your specks you squirrely-brained bastard.” He pushes his boot down on them, relishing the crunch of glass from the one good lens. He gets back in the car and drives off with a grin.
Bart rolls onto his back. His nose is bleeding and blood trickles down his throat choking him. His head flops to the side to see his watch: it’s 3:07! I gotta make the meeting! I’m not safe anymore! He took the phone! Bart begins to cry softly as he lies in the dirt.
—
Mary Wallace wrings her hands for the hundredth time. She sits on the couch, leaning forward, worry creasing her pretty face. Bart was gone again. The police are looking for him. But it’s been three days, and no word. She frets over a little scar on her finger. A squirrel had bitten her years back. It had been feeding in their yard for a good two years. Then one day, it seemed odd. Out of sorts. It bit her. Her dad had said it was sick and tried to trap it. It ran off. Mary scratches the scar, not thinking about it at all. Poor, poor Bart. Why didn’t we put him in the hospital? Schizophrenia.
Dennis sits down next to his wife and puts an arm around her shoulder. “They’ll find him hon. They have before. He’s sick, but he’s not stupid. He’s lived a long time on the streets before.” They sit quietly. The only sound in the room is the clock as it ticks out the minutes since Bart disappeared. Mary leans her head on her husband’s shoulder and weeps softly for her brother.
—
Bart finally stops crying. He’s in the open. They can see me! They can see me now! He flails his body over onto his belly and crawls under the overhang of the pier. His body is wracked with heavy breaths at the exertion. Safe. They can’t see now. Where am I? What have they done? He was CIA. I hope they don’t find Mary.
Hours later, as dawn begins to break, Bart tries to stand. My knee! They implanted something in my knee! He sits back down and leans against a piling. Reaching into his shoe, he pulls the small knife from next to his ankle. I’ll have to remove it. There’s no other way to escape. He rolls his pants up to reveal the dark bruise on his knee where little guy stomped him. There it is. It’s just under the skin. Bart digs the knife into his calf just below the knee and pries a chunk of flesh away. He breathes hard, clenching his teeth. He tosses the meat from the knife and puts it back in his shoe by his ankle. Finally. Now they don’t know what I’m doing.
Bart is staggered by the amount of blood pouring from his leg. He unbuckles the belt on his waist, then re-buckles it cinching it tighter. That should stop the blood. Just relax. Hard to breath now. They can’t track you without the tracer. He stands gingerly on the painful leg and hobbles about a hundred yards down the shore until he collapses amid a jumble of rocks and dirt. He rolls onto his back and shakes the black spots from his eyes. The cold wind coming from the water chills him, but he can’t seem to move anymore. His leg hurts. And bleeds. They must have a new ray. “I’m paralyzed.” He closes his eyes.
—
“I’m sorry ma’am. We found him just a little while ago. It looks like he bled to death. We don’t know