When you got one of the black business cards with these words embossed upon it, it was an invitation. It meant one of Madame Genevive’s girls thought you were really something special. Lots of girls in town had pimps; those that worked for Madame Genevive were a cut above as it was. Finding one of them “walking the beat” as they called it could be a rarity; getting an invitation to the center of Genevive’s operation was another matter entirely.
James looked again at the address on the back of the card. The storefront was an antique book store, stuffed wall to wall with tomes new and old. Baskets out front were available for browsing, signs saying there were discounted and even available for lending or those without books to take if they so desired as long as a note was left. Walking in, he found a beautiful girl behind the desk, her hair restrained by a pair of chopsticks, green eyes behind dark-rimmed glasses focused on a novel in her hands. He showed her the card. A small smile touched her ruby-red lips, and she cast her eyes to an antiquated grandfather clock in a corner of the store, within sight of the desk but hidden from the front door.
He walked to it, studying it for a long moment. The hands of the clock were unprotected by glass. He reached up, gently, and turned the hands until the clock struck midnight. It chimed, rumbled, slid back from the shelves, and swung aside. Stepping past the shelves, James found a spiral staircase leading down, low lights pulsing beneath him, the smell of incense and, faintly, sweat. Swallowing, he took the steps one at a time. The clock returned to its position behind him.
The lights in the underground room were kept dimmed, and the pulsing came from the dance floor, where a few couples gyrated together to the thumping beat. Some girls occupied poles, others laps, as men on the couches and recliners watched them move. A girl by the stairs smiled, told him the rates, and took his hand to place a small stamp on his knuckle. James examined it with a small smile – getting here had taken no small amount of effort.
The elaborate security meant officers of the law almost never made it down here unless it was personal business. He could see two city council members and a judge among the denizens in the shadows, drinking in the undulating curves before them. He tried to keep himself focused on the task at hand. It took a few minutes of wandering the floor and gently refusing the attentions of some very lovely girls before he found who he was looking for.
The man was well-built, his physique the mix of plastic surgery and body building that indicated the level of both his income and his vanity, and he was pulling the hips of a girl to him, slapping her ass on every downbeat. She continued to grind him, but her eyes betrayed an annoyance that James caught easily even in the low lights. She saw him watching, and the annoyance faded, replaced by curiosity. Does he like to watch? seemed to be the thought crossing her mind. James placed a finger to his lips, and flicked his eyes to the rooms towards the back.
The girl turned to straddle her eager companion. She whispered in his ear, and then took him by the hand to lead him towards an available room. James fell into step behind them, reaching under his jacket. When she opened the door to allow her john to enter, James slipped the thimble carefully into her hand, wrapped in a few large bills. He caught a glimpse of her look, then stood back from the door and found a place to sit.
Presently, the girl screamed. The woman from upstairs came running down. James ordered a drink from a shaken waitress, not even bothering to turn as the unfortunate man was carried out of the room. The conversation was hushed, uncertain, excited: Did they know who this man was? Wasn’t he the son of the local Don? Would there be retribution?
James smiled. The toxin was subtle. A little elevated heart rate was all it took to activate it, and as the poison stimulated the adrenal glands and other parts of the body, the heart just kept speeding up until it simply burned out. Anybody using plastic surgery to achieve that look was not above using a little blue bill for potency, and everybody knew those things had side effects…
The girl returned, wearing a short, frilly robe over her naked body. James met her gaze over the rim of his glass.
“He’s been coming here for months,” she whispered. “And every time it’s been…”
“Rough?”
She shook her head. “Rough, I can handle. He was just so… He was a dick about it.”
“Not surprising.”
“Did you know him?”
“Only from his reputation.”
She licked her lips, nervously. “Will the Don’s men be coming here?”
James set aside his glass, leaned towards the girl, and took her hand. “Who do you think hired me?”
Her painted lips, finally, began to smile. “I knew someone would come for him eventually. But I’m glad it was someone so handsome.”
“I have a few hours here before my next assignment. How would you like to fill that time?”
Her smile brightened. Her eyelids fluttered. And her robe hit the floor without a sound.
Since this week’s Terribleminds flash fiction was a single sentence, and my weekend was too jam-packed to make use of Brainstormer, I dug around and found an as-yet unpublished work of fiction. This is in the tradition of most of my other free fiction, in that it reworks an old tale in a new way. Specifically, this is a Chinese folk tale done as a modern romance. I hope you enjoy it.
If you’d prefer to read the story in PDF-form, check out this page. If you’d prefer a format like MOBI, let me know and I’ll see what I can do!
To say that Caroline Weaver didn’t get out much would be an understatement.
In terms of creature comforts, she wanted for nothing. She had a spacious apartment within walking distance of her father’s office. Weaver & Weaver had been in the commodities business practically since there was a commodities business, and it was a long-standing, solid and above-board company handed down from eldest son to eldest son. When Joe’s sons and wife were killed in a car accident, he turned to Caroline and immediately began grooming her to take his place when he was gone.
The loss of her brothers and mother left Caroline numb, dedicated solely to her work. She knew how important it was. Her dad was counting on her. If someone who wasn’t Weaver took over the company when Joe passed on, it wouldn’t be Weaver & Weaver anymore, would it? It was something that consumed her. She ate organic food, slept near a laptop, never took vacations and no relationship she tried lasted longer than a couple months. Some of her co-workers joked the only guy she could stand on a regular basis outside of her father was “the lo mein guy.”
His cart was always parked across Broadway from the office building. FRESH CHINESE was the declaration on the placards bolted to the hammered metal sides. Paper lanterns hung from the opened side doors, a little MP3 player hooked up to speakers piped quiet Chinese tunes, and the smell coming from the cart was always something divine to Caroline, never greasy or fatty. It was the man behind the cart, however, that really kept her coming back.
“Morning, Miss Weaver! The usual lo mein?”
He was her age. He kept his dark hair short, and his eyes always had a glint of mischief in them, a laugh just waiting to explode from his mouth. More than once, Caroline reflected that there was a significant lack of laughter in her life.
“Yes, please. How’s the beef?”
“Absolutely delicious.” He grinned as he spooned noodles into her take-away container. “But you know that! You never get chicken or shrimp.”
“It’s just that the beef is so good,” she admitted. “Is it local?”
“Yes, unfortunately.”
“Why is that unfortunate?” Caroline was speaking before thinking. That never happened. She’d been visiting this cart for months, why was she suddenly so talkative? She watched him, carefully sprinkling spices on top of the pile of beef and noodles in the paper box. Why couldn’t she look away from his eyes today?
“It’s not as good as the beef back home. My father’s a cowherd, like his father and so on and so forth.”
She blinked. “‘Back home’? You’re a Chinese native?”
“Why is that a surprise?” He let out a short, barking laugh. “Is it because I speak English so well?”
“Well…” She shuffled her feet. The last thing she wanted to do was offend him. If nothing else, she didn’t want her food spiced with spit.
“I get it all the time.” He was still smiling, handing her the lunch. “I was educated at a school upstate. My father was here for years trying to secure an export contract for his beef. It never happened. He couldn’t afford to move us all back home, so I stayed to make enough money on my own to do it.”
She handed him a few bills from her purse. “Here, and keep the change. I hope you make it home someday soon.”
“Me too. Thank you, Miss Weaver.”
His smile was infectious. She turned, face to face with a construction worker who wasn’t as happy with their banter as she was. Blushing, she hurriedly crossed the street. She didn’t stop blushing until well after she returned to her desk. She still wasn’t sure what’d possessed her to talk to him like that. She tried not to think about it as she got her chopsticks out and ate her lunch. Hours later as she was plowing through a pile of work it occurred to her she’d never asked his name.
That’s exactly what she did the next day.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I didn’t think to ask your name yesterday.” She paused. “I’ve been coming her for months and never once have I asked your name. Wait… how do you know mine?”
“You answered your cell phone once while I was making your lunch. That’s rude, you know.”
His deadly serious face made her crestfallen. “Oh…”
His eyes glimmered and he grinned. “I’m just playing. I didn’t mind. Folks behind you might’ve, but I can’t tell them how to think.”
She returned his smile. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been working a lot lately.”
“Aren’t we all.” He handed her the beef lo mein. “I’m Yuan. Sorry if I didn’t say so before.”
“No, really, it’s my fault for not asking.”
He handed her the lunch he’d made her. “Think nothing of it, Miss Weaver.”
She paid him, along with the tip she usually added. “It’s Caroline.”
His smile lit up his entire face, and the rest of that afternoon flew by for her.
Over the next few months, Caroline and Yuan began to learn more and more about each other. She didn’t know much about baseball, but he hated the Yankees. He hadn’t gotten to do much reading since establishing his business, and she was a huge Harry Potter fan. They shared a taste for older rock’n’roll, with Caroline marking the death of Jimi Hendrix every year and Yuan considering himself a Beatlemaniac. Caroline didn’t go to the movies much, and Yuan promised if they ever did, it wouldn’t be to see a romantic comedy.
“I don’t know if I’d have the time to go see a movie.” The skies above were threatening rain that day. Yuan smiled as he stirred a fresh batch of lo mein noodles, intent on giving her the first portion of it.
“But you’d be open to the idea?”
She smiled. “What makes you think I wouldn’t be?”
“Don’t people in your line of work usually associate with others in the same industry or social circle?”
“I guess, but most of them are entitled self-important arrogant douchebags.”
Yuan snorted in laughter. “Well, I can’t say I’m any different. I mean, these are the best noodles in the city.”
“But I can attest to that. I’ve tasted your noodles. I only have vapid claims to go on from those clowns. I have no interest in seeing their golf swings or art collections, and they think I’ll be eager to find out how good they are in bed when their cologne could knock out a herd of angry rhinos? No, forget it.”
Yuan shook his head, grinning. “I think this is the happiest I’ve heard you. You really enjoy trashing your peers this much?”
“No. I enjoy talking to you this much.”
He looked up at her smile, and for a moment, he was at a loss for words. He handed her the lunch box. She took it, touching his fingers for a moment before handing him the cash.
“Thursday night, the cinema over on 55th. Seven o’clock?”
He nodded. “I’ll be there.”
The movie showing on Thursday night was a little independent production, and it was neither romantic nor a comedy. Still, at times the movie seemed absolutely superfluous, as Caroline was in the company of someone who made no demands of her and had no expectations. It wasn’t an industry event where she was supposed to hobnob with this client or that CEO, it was simple, straightforward, uncomplicated.
She didn’t want it to end.
He walked her to her door afterward, kissed her good night and took the train back to his self-described “rathole”. She was still walking six feet off the ground when she came into work on Friday.
“You seem to be in excellent spirits.”
She came out of the pleasant memories to look at the man standing at the door of her office. Her father. Tall and thin, with a bald head and bright blond sideburns flowing into his distinctive mustache, he entered the office and closed the door behind him.
“Yeah. I… I was on a date last night.”
“A date? With whom? That nice boy Howards from the exchange?”
“No.” She hesitated. How much did she want to tell him? How much could she? “You wouldn’t know him.”
The lift he’d had in his mustache disappeared. It was the most she’d seen him smile in a while, and now it was gone. “Well, maybe I’d like to. Give it some thought.”
He left her to her work, and the morning dragged by for her until she headed downstairs for lunch.
“You look awful,” Yuan commented as he stirred the noodles at his cart. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s my father. I told him about our date, and…”
“…he’d be less than impressed with me.” He nodded slowly. “He’s a high-powered executive. I understand.”
“Yuan, he’s not a bad man, but the company is all he has. I’m important to him because of the part I play in it.”
“Can’t you be important to him because you’re his daughter?”
“I was, once. Now he’s pinned all his hopes and future on me.”
He touched her hand, gently. “That’s a lot to ask of someone.”
She looked in his eyes. “Yuan, I’m sorry. I don’t want to stop seeing you. I… you make me so happy sometimes I can barely contain it.”
He smiled, and gently handed her her lunch. “I’m glad we agree on that. Look, you’ll see me here every day. When you’re ready, we’ll talk about how to handle this ‘dad’ situation of yours. It’ll be fine. I promise.”
Nodding, she gave her usual generous tip, taking a moment to kiss the bills before putting them in his jar. The grin splitting his face was priceless. She returned to work in better spirits and made it through the rest of the day.
The next day, however, it was Yuan’s turn to be followed by a dark cloud. He showed Caroline a form that’d been delivered to him in person.
“It’s a deportation notice,” he told her. “My visa’s been revoked.”
“How is that possible?” She studied the form. It made no sense.
“After my student visa expired, I applied for residence. Despite the fact my work permit from my previous visa hadn’t expired, they’re saying this-” He gestured a his cart and its delicious-smelling food. “- is illegal, and they’re deporting me for it.”
“That is bullshit!” She slammed the form back onto the cart. “What was this officer’s name? I’ll find him and sort it out.”
He shook his head. “I’ve already found a buyer for the cart. I’m going to go home, help dad with the farm. The money I’ve made here isn’t much, but…”
She took his hand, ignoring the people behind her. “Yuan, they don’t have to run you out like this. It isn’t right. We should fight this, together.”
“Even if we do, I’ll either be doing it from China or from jail. I’d like to hold on to my freedom, even if it means leaving a country supposedly founded on it, and you.”
Caroline felt tears coming to her eyes and tried to blink them away. He touched her face and smiled faintly.
“It’s a smaller world than you might think. I don’t think it can keep us apart for too long.”
She leaned into his touch, kissed his hand. “I’m going to miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too, Miss Weaver. Here’s your lo mein.”
She didn’t remember the trip back upstairs, nor leaving her lunch on her desk. The next thing she knew she was in her father’s office.
“This was your doing.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” He didn’t look at her. Six financial reports were on his wall of televisions at once. He said it kept his mind sharp.
“Yuan’s deportation. You had something to do with it.”
“People shouldn’t be here on expired permits and visas. If they can’t be bothered to renew their paperwork properly, they’ve got no place here.”
“His work permit’s fine, you just don’t like the fact that I’m interested in someone in a lower tax bracket from you!”
“I don’t like your tone, Caroline.”
“And I don’t like the way you try to control my life like it’s a game of chess or something! I’m your daughter, not a slave or a pawn!”
“You’re also the best employee I’ve got, and this is our busiest time of year. I need you completely on your game with no distractions. You can have all the girlish flings you want third quarter, just as long as I don’t have to see it by looking out my window.”
Caroline felt her hands curling into fists. She stared at her father as her nails bit into her palms. Finally, when she couldn’t think of anything constructive to say, she turned and walked out, returning to her office. She managed to make it through the rest of the work day and get herself home before she broke down into tears.
It was a dismal month that followed. The corner across the street from the office was soon occupied by a hot dog vendor, a large gentleman with hairy shoulders who tended to undercook the dogs. She tried to focus on her work, and as her productivity didn’t dip too far, her father either didn’t notice the way she dragged herself through her days, or simply didn’t care. Caroline suspected the latter.
Finally, after returning home from work, she found an envelope with international postage on it waiting for her. She got into her apartment, tore off her coat, sat at her tiny kitchen table and clawed the envelope open.
Dear Caroline,
I’ve never been all that good at writing things out. I try to deal with what’s in front of me and not live inside my head, in words and pictures. I’m sorry if that meant I came across as cold the last time I saw you. Leaving you tore me apart. I loved that little cart and I miss it, almost as much as I miss you.
We don’t have the Internet out here on the farm, as my father thinks it’s a superfluous expense. So I’ve taken to riding the train to the nearest library. Still, I have the credit card I got while I was in the States, and I used it to buy you a copy of this software that teaches you Chinese. The code for downloading it’s enclosed with this letter. I’ve also sent you a voucher for an airline ticket, which should bring you out here around our New Year’s celebration.
You’ve got six months to learn enough Chinese to not piss off my dad.
No pressure.
I’m kidding. I’m sure you’ll get along fine. Still, a few key Mandarin phrases won’t hurt. I’m sure your dad won’t be too happy with you skipping town on him, and I know your work is important to you. I’m not going to ask you to run away or anything like that. Just come see me, or at least write back.
I miss you more than words can say.
Love,
Yuan
Sure enough, the envelope had a print-out with a download code and another with information on a cross-Pacific flight. She read and re-read the letter several times, and a plan began to take shape.
The exchange of letters between her and Yuan quickly became preoccupied with the particulars, as she practiced her writing of Chinese characters and he gently corrected her sentence structure. She saved all of her excitement and anticipation for after hours, ensuring her productivity remained at its usual high level. With her father pleased, he left her relatively alone. She worked her vacation request through the HR department like any other employee, knowing that her father tended to ignore the scheduling calendars of other people in his company as long as nothing they did interfered with his meetings. The Friday before she left, however, he knocked on her office door.
“A two-week vacation, and I’m only just now hearing about it?”
She didn’t look up from her paperwork. “I’m the top earner in the company three months running. I’ve earned some time off.”
“The HR calendar doesn’t say where you’re going.”
“I didn’t see how it was anybody’s business.”
“What if you’re going someplace dangerous?”
“You mean like five blocks from here? I’m not going to stay shut up in this office or my apartment because of a minority of ultra-violent whackjobs.”
“I see your point.” He lingered at the door, watching her work, before he disappeared. When he came back, he closed the door behind him and placed an envelope in front of her.
“What’s this?”
“I moved you up to first class.” He stood before her desk, his face inscrutable. “I won’t have you on a cross-ocean flight for hours on end cramped in a coach seat. My daughter deserves better.”
She looked at the envelope, then up at her father. “You know where I’m going, then?”
“Yes. And I know why.” He paused. “You’re right. You deserve your vacation, and the reason you’re taking it there is my fault. I was… I was scared.”
She blinked, breath caught in her throat. He tapped the envelope, not looking her in the eye.
“I know this won’t make up for what I did. But I had no right to take away something that made you happy just because I feared it getting in the way of business. I’m your boss, but I’m also your father. I can’t let one overwhelm the other.” The muscles in his jaw danced. “I know people say this company’s all I’ve got. But, really, Caroline… it’s you. You’re all I’ve got. And I’m scared of losing you.”
She took his hand. “You’ll never lose me, Dad. Not really. But I can’t always be here. Not when my heart is somewhere far away. I miss that little Chinese cart and the sweet guy behind it more than anything, and I’m sorry it took you this long to understand that.” She smiled at him. “Don’t be scared. I’m going to come back. But I need to see him. You understand that, don’t you?”
He nodded. “Take the time you need, be safe and come home. We’ll be waiting for you.”
She got up from her desk and hugged him. It was the first time they’d hugged in years. Phones rang elsewhere in the building. Emails poured into inboxes. The Weavers ignored them. For that moment, they weren’t co-workers anymore. They weren’t commodities traders. They were a family.
Two weeks later she was in China. Fireworks exploded in the streets. Paper dragons chased parades and lanters swung as people went hither and yon during the festivities. Yuan and Caroline walked hand in hand.
“I’m sorry my dad’s not in better health.” Yuan smiled a bit in spite of his mood. “It turns out I came home at just the right time. Getting into the groove of running the farm took longer than I thought it would, but we’re seeing better business than ever.”
“I’m glad something good came out of that. I was worried for you.”
“I know.” He squeezed her hand. “And your Mandarin sounds good. I know you’ll keep practicing when you go home.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Let’s not talk about that yet. I know I have to, that it’ll be a long time before we make this work. If we ever do. For now… for now, I just want this.”
He nodded, and smiled. “Let me take you home, then, and make you some lo mein.”
Firecrackers popped nearby. Miss Weaver smiled at her cowherd. “I can’t wait.”
At Chuck’s behest, I entered the Secret Door, and it took me here, where I witnessed the following:
Gordon, ironically enough, wasn’t terribly fond of Gordon’s.
The wine bar had good vintages at good prices, it was true. It was at least a few steps from London’s main thoroughfares and foot traffic, making it good for meetings. The fact was, Gordon was taller than most, and he really had to stoop to function comfortably beneath the low ceilings in Gordon’s cellar. However, that was where Sir Bertram insisted on unofficial meetings. Gordon was inclined to oblige the man.
So, he shook off the rain from his Macintosh, divested himself of it along with his hat and walking stick, dug into his pocket for his pipe, and lit his cavendish mix as he walked down the stairs. Sure enough, Sir Bertram was in his favorite corner table, checking his pocket watch with one hand and lifting a glass of a dark red with the other. Gordon managed to make his way there and take a seat without causing too much discomfort, and also without his tobacco going out again. He leaned back and took a long draw from the pipe.
“Thank you for coming, Gordon.”
“You summoned me, Sir Bertram, I assume it was due to something important that could not wait until our next meeting at Scotland Yard.”
“Indeed.” The knight took a sip of his wine. “Do you remember George Stenz?”
“The German? He studied under your father at the seminary, did he not?”
“The very same. Our friends from the Kaiser told me he’s missing.”
“Missing! Where was he last seen?”
“He is, or was, serving as a missionary in China’s Juye County, along with two other men. He has never been one to refrain from speaking his mind, and he and his fellows were exempt from many of China’s laws. So, about a week ago, twenty to thirty armed men stormed their home, and hacked his fellow missionaries to death in their beds.”
Gordon removed the pipe from his mouth and passed his other hand across his forehead. “Bless my soul. And Stenz is missing, you say?”
“Indeed. The Kaiser is furious. His German East Asia Squadron is sailing for China as we speak.”
“Will there be war?”
“Not if the Chinese do what we have done for them many times in the past. A little kow-tow would go a long way to soothing William’s hackles. But there is the matter of Stenz.”
Gordon took a draw of his tobacco, his free hand’s fingers smoothing his mustache. “You need me to find him.”
Sir Bertram’s sideburns crinkled as he nodded with a stern expression. “As expediently as possible, there’s a good chap.”
“Are we that eager to do our own appeasing of the Kaiser?”
“It has nothing to do with appeasement.” Sir Bertram gestured for a waiter. “On the contrary. We can’t allow the Germans to have the only solid foothold in the region following this blatant attack on Christendom. In order to ensure we have something with which to bargain, and not wishing to have our own people hacked to bits, we want to return Stenz to his countrymen.” The waiter poured Sir Bertram a fresh glass. “And you, my boy, are one of the very finest in Her Majesty’s service at finding individuals lost in foreign lands.”
Gordon frowned. “My Mandarin is not as strong as my Farsi or Hindi. I’m out of practice.”
“You’ll be perfectly fine. I have every confidence in you, and so does Her Majesty.”
Nodding, the foreign agent got to his feet, stooping under the low ceiling arch of the cellar. “I’ll go make preparations.” He paused. “How bad do you think this could get?”
“Bad. The Russians and French are mobilizing delegations of their own. I have no idea what the Japanese are up to, but considering their proximity it’s a fair bet they’ll want to carve out something for themselves. Next thing we know, the damn Yanks could be involved.”
“And what about the Boxers?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The Boxers. The Society of Righteous and Harmonious Fists. Is it possible they’re behind this?”
Sir Bertram stroked one of his sideburns. “I suppose so. They do have a penchant for hunting down foreigners of different religions. But I doubt the threat will be that great.”
Gordon shook his head, bending closer to Sir Bertram, his hand on the brickwork arch above his head. “Sir Bertram, part of the reason I am as good as you and Her Majesty believe is because of my time spent abroad. I have spent enough of that time in China to know that the Boxers are not some minor insurgency movement. They are more numerous than you think and more disciplined than most civilian movements tend to be. They do not want us in their country, and if the Germans are the first European power to go for a slice of the Chinese pie with everyone following suit, their distaste for us could turn violent.”
“How violent?”
Gordon took a deep breath and made a mental calculation he did not want to make. “If they do not persuade their rulers to resist us, they may rebel. There will indeed be war, and not amongst ourselves, but rather against an untested and unknown foreign power.”
Sir Bertram gave this a few minutes’ thought. Then, draining his wine glass, he looked up at Gordon. “In that case, your orders are thus: Find Stenz. Learn what you can about the Boxers. Then return here. You will give a full report at Buckingham Palace then.”
Gordon nodded, turning towards the stairs. “England must be ready, Sir Bertram.”
“Godspeed, young man. The Crown won’t forget your service.”
Gordon took up his coat and stick, replacing his hat as he stepped out into the foggy London afternoon. People bustled past, talking about the latest pie shop down the street or the price of this or that commodity.
Gordon paid them no heed as he marched towards Paddington. He had a life, and perhaps an entire empire, to save.
In the pitch darkness of the stormy waters, he swam. Only the occasional burst of lightning far away illuminated the blackness. He was so deep, he could barely hear the thunder.
Somewhere his mind was insisting that this was wrong. Waters this dark and deep should have felt unnatural in their pressure and the demands on his lungs, but he felt comfortable here. Warm and lovely, the waters gave him an ethereal feeling, like he could float in their invisible currents with no effort and be perfectly safe. He had no idea how long he’d been down here; time lost all meaning in the depths.
Phantasms weaved in and out of his vision, gliding silently through the waters. He thought he could make out the shapes of dolphins, or perhaps sharks, but nothing was attacking him. He heard soft clicks, so his mind told him it was dolphins. He moved slowly, not wanting to spook them, and as his arms turned his body, he found his eye drawn to his wrist. A small circle of plastic wrapped around it, and even in the dark, he could make out his name printed upon it.
The feeling of wrongness in his mind grew as he stared at the bracelet. Beyond the thunder he began to hear another recurring sound. High-pitched, electronic, plaintive – his mind told him what it was, and he struggled to believe it. Everything felt slow and dark, smothered by the water. His arms barely moved when he commanded them to push, simply floating beside him like two lumps of lead. The overwhelming feeling of containment enveloped him, and he struggled past it towards the flashes of light and the soft, repeating beeps.
He closed his eyes, telling himself that his mind was right, that something was keeping him here, that this was nothing but a dream. He pushed that envelope that threatened to consume him, fighting ever upward, and even as the pain increased throughout his body, he pushed water away and kicked and strained as if his life depended on it.
His eyes slowly opened. The lights beating down on him blinded him for a moment. As the world came into focus, he looked around him. He was in the hospital, a doctor with the look of an undertaker near his life monitors – the high-pitched, plaintive beeps that had summoned him from the waters. His wife, holding his hand, sat nearby, her chin dipped downwards as she snoozed. Another doctor entered, much brighter than the first, and was saying something about the accident and the surgeries and the drugs. He didn’t care. He looked down at his wrist, remembered the sounds of the dolphins, and gave his wife’s hand a squeeze. She opened her eyes, focused on him, and rose slowly, lips trembling as she squeezed his hand back and whispered his name.
You take all sorts of jobs when you want to break into film. As odd jobs went, this wasn’t a bad one.
Lawrence Whitefield leaned back a bit and smiled as he strummed his guitar to the beat of the many drums behind him. The rhythms and passionate hand-strikes behind him permeated the room, matching the undulations of Minerva’s hips as her arms spread and her fingers touched cymbal to cymbal. He was smiling partially because they were firing on all cylinders tonight, but also due to his knowledge of the girl entrancing the audience. She was a great deal more than her gauzy skirts and the glistening scales of her outfit.
When her dance came to an end, the audience exploded into applause. Minerva blew a kiss to them, and turned to head backstage. He played just as well for the last dancer as he had for Minerva, noting that the tall, dark gentleman towards the back was there in the shadows near the door, as he had been for previous weeks. He tried to put it out of his mind and focus on the music during the final set. As the band finally broke up, he brushed off invitations for an after party and made his way through the venue to the back lot. Sure enough, under one of the lot’s lights, the dancer called Minerva was now in jeans and a t-shirt, bent over the engine of her GTO, a variety of tools at her feet, an old Sarah Brightman tune coming from the radio.
“How’s it look?”
She didn’t even look up to respond.
“I’m still not sure what’s causing the knocking in first gear. I may need to get her up and look at her transmission.”
“Sounds like a plan. I mean, I don’t know cars that well. Wouldn’t know a torque wrench from a socket wrench, honestly.”
“You don’t need a socket wrench for a camera?”
“Not most of them. Maybe an older one, you know, one of the ones you work with a hand crank? I don’t use those, though. I’m more of a digital artist.” He paused. “That sounds pretentious as hell.”
“What can I do for you, Larry?” She straightened and turned, wiping her hands off on a cloth. She had a small smear of oil on her face, now divested of makeup, and Lawrence thought she was just as lovely. Not that he’d ever put it in those terms.
“Well, I know you don’t like being filmed or even photographed, but I was looking to put together a film on the next show you all do, and I wanted to talk about it with you first before I got anybody else’s permission. You know, see if I can make it exciting for folks unfamiliar with belly dancing, dispel some misconceptions…”
He glanced past her, noticing some movement in the shadows. She took a deep breath and that brought his attention back to her.
“Look, I’m flattered. And I think it’s a good undertaking. Just don’t film anything I do, okay? I’m not… comfortable with that.”
The shadows moved again, and this time he couldn’t look away. Minerva followed his gaze, and her grip on the wrench in her hand tightened.
“Get down.”
Lawrence didn’t need to be told twice. Instinct catapulted him forward, putting the bulk of the large car between him and whatever was out there. As he moved, the unmistakable sound of gunfire tore through the quiet night. Another sound joined the semi-automatic fire, one familiar to anyone who had ever been inside of an APC heading into a warzone. Moments later, Minerva was beside him, rubbing her wrist.
“Damn. I liked that wrench.”
“Are you okay? What happened?”
“One of Uriel’s laughing boys, I’d wager. He’s been stalking me for a while.”
“You have a stalker? Why didn’t you call the cops?”
“Unhinged angelic spec ops are a bit outside of their jurisdiction.” Minerva dug into one of her pockets, and began drawing on the pavement with chalk. “I just need a minute.”
More bullets slammed into the GTO. “I’m not sure we have that long!”
“When I say so, I want you to run out of here. That way.” She nodded towards the tail end of the GTO, away from the lot. “This isn’t something you can handle.”
Before Lawrence could protest, Minerva finished drawing the pentagram in the circle. She laid her left hand on top of it, placing her right against the car. There was a soft crackling noise, like popping popcorn, and her eyes closed as soft light came from under her hands.
“Go!”
He began to move as Minerva turned and stood. She thrust her arms forward, lightning streaking through the night to strike her assailant in the chest. He was knocked off his feet, the gun flying from his grip. Instead of running away, Lawrence turned and scooped up the gun. To his surprise, the assailant was back up, drawing a long sword from under his coat. Lawrence didn’t hesitate.
As he fired, he saw odd script etched into the slide of the automatic glowing with pale gold. Every bullet caused the inscription to flare. Each shot opened a ragged, luminescent hole in the man’s chest. After the fourth shot, the form of the man seemed to explode, and a murder of crows suddenly swarmed around him as they flew away.
Minerva emerged from behind her car. “You didn’t run.”
Lawrence looked down at the gun. “You were in trouble. I couldn’t leave you behind.”
“You seem pretty good with a gun, too.”
“Did a tour to pay for film school. I guess you never really lose the instincts. Squadmates called me ‘Hawkeye’, you know, like in the comic book?”
Minerva smiled a little. “Well, I’ll tell you what, Hawkeye. I think you’re about to get the biggest story of your life. The best part is, if you live long enough to get it on screen, nobody will believe it’s real.”
He’s a fast talking guitar-strumming filmmaker looking for ‘the Big One.’ She’s a disco-crazy belly-dancing mechanic descended from a line of powerful witches. They fight crime!
