Sonic X Fan Fiction ❯ Vector's Memoirs; The Chaotix That Was ❯ Part 2 ( Chapter 2 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: Foxy Boy 
Anime/Manga: Sonic X Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Suspense / Mystery / Drama | Type: Fanfiction Sequel | Uploaded On: 11.14.2007 | Pages: 2 | Words: 5.7K | Visits: 288 | Status: Completed
Anime/Manga: Sonic X Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Suspense / Mystery / Drama | Type: Fanfiction Sequel | Uploaded On: 11.14.2007 | Pages: 2 | Words: 5.7K | Visits: 288 | Status: Completed
VECTOR'S MEMOIRS: THE CHAOTIX THAT WAS (PART TWO)
by Foxy Boy
*************************************
First impression, was that I'd walked into the kind of place living in brawler flicks; a perfect set for any Roadhouse fight scene. Ugly green light fixtures, dusty arcade machines and chairs pocked with cigarette-shaped burns, overlooked by a grab-bag of framed movie posters. The only thing close to 'atmosphere' was the huge cloud of cheap cigar smoke and broken dreams, every bit as depressing and past-its-prime as the middle-aged losers running three- and four-figure bar tabs. There could be no doubt that every '80s high-roller in a ponytail and leisure suit had parked his ass on the ragged stools in the joint's glory days, bullshitting about Christy Brinkley, Led Zeppelin or cherry-red Ferraris. And two decades since, they were still here, the debt-crippled waste from a life of excess. In the far corner, a bald beer belly on legs in a dingy sport jacket tried his damndest to hit on his waitress through a mouthful of yellow teeth. Straight across, four grey-bearded bikers were deep in a poker game, and even deeper in a pile of broken peanut shells. After each turn, one or two of them would cut a glance at the stacked young blonde in a booth alone, her otherwise-perfect face almost checkered with bruises. From the far wall, Bob Seger crackled through the tired speakers of an old jukebox. Holy shit, I thought. I've strolled into every country and folk song ever made.
But enough sightseeing; I had one reason to be there, and I still hadn't spotted him. It came naturally to start scanning faces, looking for the stare that would mean I'd been recognized. Table after dirty table, nothing. If my client was here, he was either in the pisser, or passed out in the drunken haze that looked ready to claim at least half the clientele. In a dive like this, nothing was impossible.
After more nothing, I gave up on finding him so soon, and shuffled my way towards the bar. Only ten past eight, so as I figured it, he had twenty minutes left until he'd be a certified ass. And who knows; a beer or three might soften the blow this joyful watering hole was leveling on my senses.
I felt no interest from the three wasted slobs down the bar as I slid onto an uncomfortable stool. Now, I didn't expect to be any sort of household name after Neo Metal Sonic was crushed, and moreso in a dive I'd never graced, so there was readiness to shrug it off and hail the bartender. But as my hand went up to call him from the far end, I caught the stiff two down from me, in a White Sox ballcap and painter's clothes, move a stool further, still shirking eye contact.
Me and punks never mixed well. "Hey", I called, slowly getting his buzzed attention, "You got a problem with crocs?" No answer. And seconds later, he turned away, commencing to whisper at the next cunt down.
Sadler Sundries was due to be on the news, big time. And I would gladly've gotten up and made it happen, if not for the short, stocky Buddy Hackett double with the job description of "college ball expert and distracted barkeep". Sensing the air's sudden chill, he made his way over to me, massaging my draught glass with a washrag. "What's your pleasure, buddy?", he sort of coughed, thick with Irish tone. After my welcome from the local scum, a beer wouldn't cut it anymore.
"Tom Collins, on the rocks. I want to make up for missing last night."
One corner of his mouth curled into a smirk. "Great way to start, then.", I heard, as if to say I'd follow up with pitchers more. Not likely; I had a direction in life, unlike his usual crowd. While he waltzed away - loudly - to fill the order, I shot a dagger-filled stare at the painter; but he didn't seem to notice. If I'd known no better, I'd have thought he and all other customers took a silent vote to crown me a fucking leper. Suited me fine... It's no fun being the life of a dead party, anyway. Let them keep to their Michelobs and their denim jackets and the food-wrapper carpet in their Gran Turinos. Who was I to stir up the rancid gumbo.
It came to no more than half a minute when the bartender came back drink in hand, quick to set it down and rush for whatever he could do that sat in view of the TV. I was close to downing the first sip, when a shadow crossed peripheral vision to my right, before the owner slowly mounted the empty seat.
He was huge, pure and simple. Of all the things you'd ever see in any sort of bar - at least, while you're still sober - an eight-foot orange dragon in pressed Armani isn't high on the list. My eyes drew to an outline of chiseled biceps in his jacket sleeves, and the deep scar on his left cheek, a model slice wound. Obviously, the clothes don't make the man.
But still... To top off the ensemble, he donned a brown fedora, cocked slightly to the left. Now, my digits were tightening. I have no dumb fear of hats, or a style experiment; but the only groups I'd ever known to follow that example were fops, mental ward graduates and crime lords. Generally, I had no place with any of them.
I'd become so absorbed in this one-of-a-kind picture, I almost missed the context. Once I calmly snapped back to reality, things looked alot different.
'Shit, this mongoloid is my client? A scaly tower of cold-blooded flesh that dwarfs me in every way? ... Should I be looking for a sign, or for the exit?'
It speaks volumes of anyone, to be around me for so short a time, and already have me so far from secure. After all, I build muscle like I built LEGOs back in the day; everything goes fine and smooth for a while, then the dead end - or plateau. And his peak made my best the California valley... If I'd even been looking on it all this time.
Through the dim fire in his eyes, he seemed to be sizing me up. I don't doubt we had the same conclusion, as I learned his smile a moment later. Out of nowhere, Buddy appeared, to slide a full shotglass in front of him from marked distance, without a word. Seemed I was dealing with a regular in this shithole, no matter how he might've fit in. Seconds passed while he stared at the brown contents, like it really mirrored something unseen, before ridding us of tense uncertainty.
"I'm sure we don't exactly see this place in the same light. But for a first taste of hell, you can't beat it."
It caught me completely off-guard, like hearing pearls thrown over pigs; I wanted to laugh, if I hadn't thought it such a risk. The best idea - and no genius epiphany - was to keep it low-key until business could be done - privately. "More like the first heaping bowl. You should've seen the welcome I didn't get."
"And you're surprised?", he shot back. His voice ran deep and gravelly, reminding me of how lung cancer survivors usually sound. "We didn't meet at the Chateau D'elyse. Plus, the filth around here knows that if they see a new face, it's my fault."
A sense of humour about himself: My fear shrank like it dove in cold water. "Ah. And you enjoy the same reception?"
He grinned, showing a set of choppers so sharp they were visions of bear traps. "I net a steady six figures and my body isn't shaped like a pear. So to them, I'm superior, and I don't sit around spinning hero stories with a pool cue in my hand. They keep to themselves, and I get to see the worst of what I'm not. A very pleasing view."
There goes a question or two. Maybe I hadn't stuck myself with a hardass gangster at all. "I see what you mean", I returned with a quick nod. Now mostly loosened up, I craved the cherry for my mental sundae, sifting through my pocket to pull another smoke. "Beg a light?", I asked, sure that a man like him would share my love of nicotene. But all he had for me was a rail-thin smirk, and ironic cold stare.
"Negative. I don't set out to kill myself a bit every day. In fact, it would do me fine if you could wait, and keep that out of my lungs."
Okay, minor setback in probing his mind. "Fair enough", I shrugged. "Your money doesn't pay for my satisfaction." I could feel his gaze as I toked. A blind mistake is an easy wedge to stiffen small talk, so that time was effectively over. "Okay, we both know that we both know," I continued, "So to hell with charades. What brought you to the Team Chaotix agency?"
Silent, he picked up his shotglass and downed the contents, showing no sign of the visually-neutering sissy grimace. A man after my own heart. "A newspaper page", he replied, eyes straight ahead as the glass came back down. "You were sandwiched between Dave Barry and tripe about a cat who tells the future with its tongue. I don't usually read my news, but seeing what I got for the trouble, the change was a good one."
I nodded, sensing no dishonest vibes. "Good for me and my two associates, anyway. But an article that didn't paint us as 'This year's small business to watch' is new ground for me." Yes, all the pomp in my voice came easily through.
Then, Buddy was back with an unprovoked refill, for Fire-fop. Lucky bastard, to command that kind of service. He ignored the gratuity, with his focus trained on the softening ice. "So you lie like you drink; gently."
To quote the wise Yosemite Sam, them's FAHtin' werds, but this was not the place; or an even match. "Ah, it's all in fun," he quickly added. "You should be happy right now... You're already more than I expected, since you found me out with no sign or signal on my part."
High praise indeed; too high. "Call it intuition," I smiled, "Or, just call it what it is; you're a falcon in a flock of turkeys. But now that we're here, time's pissing away, and you have yet to break the crust over my role in your future."
He seemed to draw inward like a shy kid, and any traces of 'buddy'-type mood flew right out the window. "I'm... Just not sure I can trust this rabble. Their eyes are used to me, but their ears never stop learning." He wasted little time with his second shot, slamming the empty glass down beside the first. "Meet me out back in fifteen minutes. Otherwise, I'll be hoping you make it home before the street trash gets wind of fresh money." With that, he simply got up and walked away, following the guidance of a "Restrooms" sign.
Okay, I thought, time to take stock of the situation. I'm in a run-down tavern full of swaggering pinheads; I finally met my client, a tower of scales that dwarfs the entire NBA; and whatever he expects from me, it's more than just a passive little secret.
Somehow or another, my head convinced me this could still be very normal; par for the course with the big players, and the deeper dirt. If nothing else, I believed because I wanted to. In my head, lay newborn plans of how to spend the paycheck, before Serpent O' Style even trusted me with his name. First, I'd go with a Shelby Cobra, then maybe an Aston Martin for weekends, vacations abroad... And cruising through ritzy neighborhoods, if I felt the itch to play socialite. Or maybe just a nice, deep massage to start it all off - and more, if the masseus packs a D-cup or better. With enough bread, nothing's out of your reach... Or out of her mouth. And let the record show that's a reference to tattling.
"Hey," Bar-Belly yelled from the far side of the counter, putting my fantasies to death. "I got a message for ya. Some guy named Espio, says it's urgent and to call him ASAP."
...Him, trying to contact me here and now?
Forget the fact he had no idea where I was in reference to my client; what could possibly be so important that he'd go to this kind of trouble, knowing damn well what I was there to do? Urgent, I could handle, but an emergency right now would mean two very disappointed men, and one very likely to hurt the other. Uncertainty alone filled me with a hybrid of dread and anger; should I need to skip out on this lucrative engagement for any reason, it would have to be a bad one anyway. My mind swelled with unanswered questions; what could the mongoloid have in store for me, once we were outside and freezing? And what trouble did Espio bring my way, God forbid?
"The public phone's in back", he finished, pointing down a corridor that split the dingy rear wall. "If ya need a phone book, you're out o' luck. Last one was snatched right off the street, same day it came."
At that point, I was just happy to hear someone else's problems. "Thanks, but I know his number. He's an... Under of mine."
Baldfaced fucking lie, as we were all but equal partners, even if I called the most important shots. Looking back, it was deathly cold of me to reduce him like that, but greed had me riding high, and every new surprise was a shot of nitrous. I thanked the barkeep-slash-scorekeep, and took a few man-sized swigs from the Tom Collins. I was done, with business calling, so half of it sat to guard my fat tip while I made for the back and all its possibilities.
Finding the phone was easy; Learning how to work it wasn't. A relic, whose first call came way before my Dad's underroos. Lucky patrons like me would find the hilarious wind-up receiver, housed in very real, very rotten wood. I paid the change and dialed Espio's home line, only to have it ring around twenty times with no answer. So I hung up, and no more than two seconds later, a shrill noise sounded the return. My nerves were jittery as I picked it up, but no shred of stammer would leave my lips. To let him hear what he'd just done to me, would be shooting the messenger.
"Vector?"
"In the flesh."
I could hear him sigh heavily. "Thank goodness. I'd begun to fear the worst."
It threw me off so badly, my thoughts took moments to collect. "...Why? You knew I was out on our big case tonight."
"Yes, I did, but I had no idea where that address would fall. You're on the news right now."
"WHAT!? Why the hell would-"
"Someone spotted you ducking into Sadler Sundries half an hour ago and reported it. There's already speculation you're involved in some sort of illegal activity. Looks like you shirked research on that locale before you left... It's nothing but shady characters and dirty dealings. I'll straighten up all the hearsay as best I can, but I want you out of there."
"Yeah, I can believe it", I muttered, peeking out over the dining area. "And believe this: My butt won't be staying for a second after I'm needed. But they'll retract all that shit in the morning. It goes without saying that my nose is clean, no matter where the hell I find myself."
"It does, to me. But I'm not a reporter, or any of the millions watching them. Do you realize what happens to our image while you're there? No one knows why, but everybody's thinking. We could be losing tons of business this way."
Banked, but completely ignored; I was in the mood to hear someone else. "That's for me to judge. Look, I'm minutes from the greatest opportunity in our puny lives, and you want me to jump ship because of some stupid goons on network television?"
"I'm dead serious, Vector. You're the figurehead of our company, and as such your actions have deep reprocussions on all of us." I'd never heard such a flat scorn from his mouth, on my head. "If you believe in that case, fine by me. Just please, get out of there while you can, before you draw any more attention."
I paused, to conjure some kind of retort that would open his views to mine. The frustration of everything, with an added bonus - Eau de Hops, Stale Brew - likely steered my choice. "I'll leave when I damn well please, and when I do, it won't have anything to do with you or your paranoia."
I meant every word, and came close to slamming the phone down right then and there. I'd hoped for a reason to cut it short, and end his preaching.
Maybe, nagging him back would do the trick.
"How did you get this number, anyway?"
A short pause, and his voice came through the static again. "From the file here in the office. It's the only number down the entire page, so I did a bit of deduction, and-"
"-Spare me. But just why are you at the office after hours in the first place, and not putting a dent in your own assignment?"
"Intuition told me I was needed here, so I returned to do what off-site allowed. And from the looks of it, I was right."
I sighed heavily, unswayed and exasperated. "No one said this call was ever needed." Our connection had all the fuzz and pop of a vintage phonograph; constant and annoying little sound demons. Clearly, the excuse I'd been waiting for. "Now, spare me your whining until tomorrow. I might already be late, pissing him off and wasting all this time and exposure. Unless war breaks out in the next two hours, you'll see me in the morning. Dig?"
Again, no answer for a few breaths.
"I have no choice. Remember your common sense, and try not to get us killed."
At that point, I just hung up the receiver. 'Us' was a pretty turn of phrase, and I saw right through it; not caring much more for the rest. He was the second opinion, and what I'd find out that door was the first. But his last sentence planted a seed, only sprouting three days later, while it all played out; poetic justice for the stakes I tapped slowly down through both of us.
I took a moment to check my watch as I glided toward the exit. Five minutes left; none of which I was eager to spend freezing my tail off in dark and rough territory. But after suffering true Sadler ambience, it was preferable to staying inside with the Dead-End Gang.
Night air hit me harder coming out than going in. Maybe, around my little sphere of chaos, a front crept its way in. Why not; cold follows death, and the best candidates were right inside those walls. I tried shaking the lust for a heavy jacket as I rounded the block, desperate for an empty street with no thug-sized shadows. Fifteen seconds later, I found the single alleyway leading behind street frontage. Now, to play the waiting game for five, give or take as many.
There's never been a time in life I wanted to end sooner. The alleyway opened up at length from behind the building, into a huge paved clearing the size of a parking lot; and no lights at all to help the moon. Had someone been waiting for me in a different sense, there'd be no way in hell I could see to defend myself, especially through my earthquakes of shivering. Any lowlife that needed my lights out would have no problem, and then go casually away thinking they were so lucky to run across a man with Parkinsons.
Knocking on three minutes, I heard the sharp racket of a trashcan lid flipping over. Being helpless in the dark, I jumped so high that I easily could've steered to come down topside of the loading bay behind me. But in seconds, I watched the cause scurry away with a half-eaten corn cob. Goddamn raccoons.
It was the leap that made me realize there was a loading bay. Curious port for a bar to have, of any kind; and there it was, square on the middle of the rear wall, just as big and obvious as anything else that could dock a semi. Maybe, it served those businesses tolerating the floors above Sundries. What low rents they must enjoy.
And then, there he was before me... Breaking through one of many shadows for the world's most heart-stopping rendezvous.
His fedora was gone, revealing a scalp with numerous scars, which the moon only served to illuminate. Outside, he was the same, unruffled giant who pulled me from my desk at Easy Street; but how he acted was a different story. On a path I'd found easy to walk, he seemed to stagger with odd steps, especially when the pavement dipped down to a storm drain. No hiding it: my new best friend helped himself to another drink or three before stepping out. In a way, it made me feel kind of stupid, or even weak... I let the bar's grit and smog get to me, in the worst way, when I could've braved it and spared myself a little hypothermia. Only twenty minutes into each other's lives, and his genius was already growing on me.
His approach was slow and steady, as he shot me the most disturbing glare; one I couldn't even start to understand. Now, was the real dilemma; what to say to break the ice, a second time, with the strangest and most intimidating character I'd ever met.
"Tough crowd in there, huh?", I almost squeaked.
He shook his head slowly, with purpose. "Drop the formalities. Stevie Wonder could've seen the way you studied my walk over here." Oh shit, came the mental scream; All clues were telling me I'd already screwed myself. But, no one's intuition is perfect; he was gracious. "That would be what's left when a psycho nearly plants a katana in your skull. My equilibrium's shot forever, and just forget about night vision. It's a long story, and I don't feel like going there, so you won't."
You, I heard, and the meaning sank deep. Damn... Maybe I was chained to a hardballer after all. "Sorry to hear that", I returned, easily faking the art of sympathy.
"Yeah, whatever", in calm baritone. Now out of panic mode, the usual pack of observations started in: I hadn't a snowball's chance in Egypt of getting info for what he felt was personal. A huge disappointment, since it can make or break certain cases; though maybe not this one, barring any of the countless possibilities. Still, I respected him for a trait like that, but not because I think myself a private man... It just meant that me, and the wrong people, had a good chance of knowing about the same.
"Alright," he continued, "Now that we're free of prying ears, you've probably bit your tongue bloody to learn anything at all about me. My name's Nathan Croele, but I go by N. And that means everybody joins in on the nickname, including you. You dig?"
"Yes sir," I answered like a castrated slave. It wasn't being smart or ironic; fear suppressed any urge to defend my manhood. If this was him trying to show me where I stood, I would let him.
He resumed with a deep, almost hesitant breath. "You'll probably find out later anyway, so I might as well tell you now. A lifetime ago, I dealed in contraband trafficking. I've cleaned up my act long since, and this suit is all thanks to a solid career in real estate. A number of warehouses in the Port district are under my ownership, a quarter mile from the docks."
I only nodded rapidly; after waiting this long for the scoop, I wasn't about to delay the conclusion.
"That," he continued, "Is the reason you were contacted. Some of those warehouses are used to store smaller sea crafts; speedboats, sailboats, lower-end yachts, whatever can fit under the roof and ride on water. Their owners come to me with their semi-annual rent, and in return, they get a place to house their expensive toys no more than a stone's throw from the lake." He reached into his pocket, and carefully pulled a few black-and-white photos, then holding them up for me to study. At the center of all three was a short, dark silhouette, but the quality was so poor that I couldn't even pinpoint its gender. "Three nights ago, I caught this assclown in my property at the corner of West Bend and McMillan, running out with an armload of boat parts. Darkness and my scars put visibility at about five feet, so this is all I could do."
"Well, you're clearly a seasoned shutterbug," I replied, making him smirk as he picked up where he'd left off.
"The next day, I get a call from five of the boat owners, telling me they stopped in to check on their vessels and found them gone without a trace."
"Ouch. Do you give them all keys to the building?"
"Have to. It's the only way I could convince city hall to let me run this kind of business. They don't like having seaworthy anything stored so close to the docks outside of a marina without strict regulations... Too much risk of someone jacking them to go drug running, or for terrorism. By giving the owners 24/7 access to their crafts, I'm alot more secure and a little less liable."
"Looks like whoever jacked them had a creative streak, if they're leaving the door in pieces." I needed nothing more to sum up the gist of my role here. "And, you want me to track down the cocksucker in those photos, correct?"
"Of course," he returned, "But here's the real clincher: I know I said his identity was undetermined, but what I'm about to point out is strictly off the record. Got that?"
Ooooo, a secret. "Whatever you say. It's your money."
"Good answer." He held the pictures out to me. "Take a long, hard look at these, and tell me who it favours, just from the silhouette."
I obliged, snatching them up and holding each seperately to the dim crescent moon. It took a short while for me to see what he had, but once I did, you could've laid me out with a feather. The outline was short, smooth and capped with several blurry but distinctive spikes.
I now knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, why I'd really been chosen for this unlikely mystery.
"Uh-huh," he smiled, clearly vindicated. I didn't think my face would be that easy to read, but then again, I was dealing with a man who defied explanation. "You see," he continued with gobs of pride, "I could've chosen to hire the best gumshoes in the city - no offense, of course - but I knew the minute they got a hold of those snaps, any rising Sherlock would want to run with it, just to say they nailed such a massive name. Now, I read magazines. It's well-known that, while you two might not be busom buddies, you are close enough to give him a fair shake, and not turn it into some scathing indictment of his secret life while you shoot to the top ranks of . And I know - even the implication alone is fucked up - but I respect what he's done for the world, so his fall should come fair. And if it turns out we're off by a mile, all the better; but I'm not holding my breath, and I'm sure you're not either."
My heart sank like a cheating spouse. No wonder details had been so sketchy; he knew I'd never be convinced if I wasn't interested. By drawing me out like this, he'd gained the ultimate leverage: staring me down, in the center of his world, where there was no other choice but to listen. Should I turn him down, he could easily feel that I knew too much... And then I'd feel something close to a solid wall at forty miles per hour.
I'd have shined his fucking shoes if he'd asked.
"Now, I realize this is putting you between a rock and a hard place", he appealed, "Or else, you wouldn't be naming your price. Which still stands, by the way. However much you think you're worth, so long as it's not millions. I have my limits."
"Under e-e-...", and I was done, certain that my ears were playing tricks on me. Sure, I'd taken him as rich from the moment we met - but not loaded. Any questions still hanging on by then went quickly and quietly to their death.
"I still need an answer." He edged up slowly, playing all of his strengths. "Do I get your help, or was this a waste of my time?"
Now, drop yourself into my shoes after hearing that. Then see if you could walk away.
"Alright," I sighed, "I'll do it. Just give me until morning, so I can keep from shocking my associates. Something like this would need buffer time."
"By all means," he submitted, stepping back to prove it further. "I'm not such a monster that I expect you to work miracles. Everyone with a hand in this deserves their share of notice." Yes, and I'd see to it they got plenty... But not due to any obligations. It was the perfect case to break in solo duty, and save them from doing a friend so dirty. Guilty or not, I knew how hard that could be.
"Not really, ... N." The handle would take some getting used to. "I'll be handling this one alone. New change in our operations."
He wrinkled his nose, clearly unhappy with the news. "Not as new as the last few minutes, I hope." Then, he raised his right arm, and I almost pissed myself.
It would've been for nothing; with the other hand, he rolled up his sleeve to reveal a Rolex. "Damn, it's later than I thought. Wait for me to ring your office at noon tomorrow, so I'll know if you have it sewn up. Is that acceptable?"
Not really, since it was lunchtime, but whatever he wanted. "Sure," I murmured, doing some convincing of my own.
"Terrific. And again, no offense, but I expect you to pick it up. There's still a few points to cover, when we both have more time; some of my clients make their living very publicly, so you'll need to be aware of certain things before you start."
He stuck out his hand, and still very mindful of my fear, I did the same. His grip was unnaturally strong... Not that it surprised me.
With business done - and me safely on his side - he turned to leave, as I stood numb from both the cold and what I had to learn. For some reason, he shot me a halfhearted salute before vanishing back into the darkness.
And there I stayed for minutes, like an idiot, trying to decide on what to think. In one fell swoop, my whole idea of Sonic had been dashed to bits. The pictures told even more than their owner, in how far they were from discernible fakes. How the hell I could break this to Espio... Let alone a naive kid like Charmy? To them, and the rest of the world, I would be the end of a legend. To know the truth was bad enough; I had the charge of revealing it.
With a heavy heart, I began moping homeward in a fog. Desperate for ways to soften the blow, or an excuse that would buy their forgiveness, and there was nothing; only dread, guilt and mounting anxiety.
A beautiful night, for insomnia.
To be continued...
by Foxy Boy
*************************************
First impression, was that I'd walked into the kind of place living in brawler flicks; a perfect set for any Roadhouse fight scene. Ugly green light fixtures, dusty arcade machines and chairs pocked with cigarette-shaped burns, overlooked by a grab-bag of framed movie posters. The only thing close to 'atmosphere' was the huge cloud of cheap cigar smoke and broken dreams, every bit as depressing and past-its-prime as the middle-aged losers running three- and four-figure bar tabs. There could be no doubt that every '80s high-roller in a ponytail and leisure suit had parked his ass on the ragged stools in the joint's glory days, bullshitting about Christy Brinkley, Led Zeppelin or cherry-red Ferraris. And two decades since, they were still here, the debt-crippled waste from a life of excess. In the far corner, a bald beer belly on legs in a dingy sport jacket tried his damndest to hit on his waitress through a mouthful of yellow teeth. Straight across, four grey-bearded bikers were deep in a poker game, and even deeper in a pile of broken peanut shells. After each turn, one or two of them would cut a glance at the stacked young blonde in a booth alone, her otherwise-perfect face almost checkered with bruises. From the far wall, Bob Seger crackled through the tired speakers of an old jukebox. Holy shit, I thought. I've strolled into every country and folk song ever made.
But enough sightseeing; I had one reason to be there, and I still hadn't spotted him. It came naturally to start scanning faces, looking for the stare that would mean I'd been recognized. Table after dirty table, nothing. If my client was here, he was either in the pisser, or passed out in the drunken haze that looked ready to claim at least half the clientele. In a dive like this, nothing was impossible.
After more nothing, I gave up on finding him so soon, and shuffled my way towards the bar. Only ten past eight, so as I figured it, he had twenty minutes left until he'd be a certified ass. And who knows; a beer or three might soften the blow this joyful watering hole was leveling on my senses.
I felt no interest from the three wasted slobs down the bar as I slid onto an uncomfortable stool. Now, I didn't expect to be any sort of household name after Neo Metal Sonic was crushed, and moreso in a dive I'd never graced, so there was readiness to shrug it off and hail the bartender. But as my hand went up to call him from the far end, I caught the stiff two down from me, in a White Sox ballcap and painter's clothes, move a stool further, still shirking eye contact.
Me and punks never mixed well. "Hey", I called, slowly getting his buzzed attention, "You got a problem with crocs?" No answer. And seconds later, he turned away, commencing to whisper at the next cunt down.
Sadler Sundries was due to be on the news, big time. And I would gladly've gotten up and made it happen, if not for the short, stocky Buddy Hackett double with the job description of "college ball expert and distracted barkeep". Sensing the air's sudden chill, he made his way over to me, massaging my draught glass with a washrag. "What's your pleasure, buddy?", he sort of coughed, thick with Irish tone. After my welcome from the local scum, a beer wouldn't cut it anymore.
"Tom Collins, on the rocks. I want to make up for missing last night."
One corner of his mouth curled into a smirk. "Great way to start, then.", I heard, as if to say I'd follow up with pitchers more. Not likely; I had a direction in life, unlike his usual crowd. While he waltzed away - loudly - to fill the order, I shot a dagger-filled stare at the painter; but he didn't seem to notice. If I'd known no better, I'd have thought he and all other customers took a silent vote to crown me a fucking leper. Suited me fine... It's no fun being the life of a dead party, anyway. Let them keep to their Michelobs and their denim jackets and the food-wrapper carpet in their Gran Turinos. Who was I to stir up the rancid gumbo.
It came to no more than half a minute when the bartender came back drink in hand, quick to set it down and rush for whatever he could do that sat in view of the TV. I was close to downing the first sip, when a shadow crossed peripheral vision to my right, before the owner slowly mounted the empty seat.
He was huge, pure and simple. Of all the things you'd ever see in any sort of bar - at least, while you're still sober - an eight-foot orange dragon in pressed Armani isn't high on the list. My eyes drew to an outline of chiseled biceps in his jacket sleeves, and the deep scar on his left cheek, a model slice wound. Obviously, the clothes don't make the man.
But still... To top off the ensemble, he donned a brown fedora, cocked slightly to the left. Now, my digits were tightening. I have no dumb fear of hats, or a style experiment; but the only groups I'd ever known to follow that example were fops, mental ward graduates and crime lords. Generally, I had no place with any of them.
I'd become so absorbed in this one-of-a-kind picture, I almost missed the context. Once I calmly snapped back to reality, things looked alot different.
'Shit, this mongoloid is my client? A scaly tower of cold-blooded flesh that dwarfs me in every way? ... Should I be looking for a sign, or for the exit?'
It speaks volumes of anyone, to be around me for so short a time, and already have me so far from secure. After all, I build muscle like I built LEGOs back in the day; everything goes fine and smooth for a while, then the dead end - or plateau. And his peak made my best the California valley... If I'd even been looking on it all this time.
Through the dim fire in his eyes, he seemed to be sizing me up. I don't doubt we had the same conclusion, as I learned his smile a moment later. Out of nowhere, Buddy appeared, to slide a full shotglass in front of him from marked distance, without a word. Seemed I was dealing with a regular in this shithole, no matter how he might've fit in. Seconds passed while he stared at the brown contents, like it really mirrored something unseen, before ridding us of tense uncertainty.
"I'm sure we don't exactly see this place in the same light. But for a first taste of hell, you can't beat it."
It caught me completely off-guard, like hearing pearls thrown over pigs; I wanted to laugh, if I hadn't thought it such a risk. The best idea - and no genius epiphany - was to keep it low-key until business could be done - privately. "More like the first heaping bowl. You should've seen the welcome I didn't get."
"And you're surprised?", he shot back. His voice ran deep and gravelly, reminding me of how lung cancer survivors usually sound. "We didn't meet at the Chateau D'elyse. Plus, the filth around here knows that if they see a new face, it's my fault."
A sense of humour about himself: My fear shrank like it dove in cold water. "Ah. And you enjoy the same reception?"
He grinned, showing a set of choppers so sharp they were visions of bear traps. "I net a steady six figures and my body isn't shaped like a pear. So to them, I'm superior, and I don't sit around spinning hero stories with a pool cue in my hand. They keep to themselves, and I get to see the worst of what I'm not. A very pleasing view."
There goes a question or two. Maybe I hadn't stuck myself with a hardass gangster at all. "I see what you mean", I returned with a quick nod. Now mostly loosened up, I craved the cherry for my mental sundae, sifting through my pocket to pull another smoke. "Beg a light?", I asked, sure that a man like him would share my love of nicotene. But all he had for me was a rail-thin smirk, and ironic cold stare.
"Negative. I don't set out to kill myself a bit every day. In fact, it would do me fine if you could wait, and keep that out of my lungs."
Okay, minor setback in probing his mind. "Fair enough", I shrugged. "Your money doesn't pay for my satisfaction." I could feel his gaze as I toked. A blind mistake is an easy wedge to stiffen small talk, so that time was effectively over. "Okay, we both know that we both know," I continued, "So to hell with charades. What brought you to the Team Chaotix agency?"
Silent, he picked up his shotglass and downed the contents, showing no sign of the visually-neutering sissy grimace. A man after my own heart. "A newspaper page", he replied, eyes straight ahead as the glass came back down. "You were sandwiched between Dave Barry and tripe about a cat who tells the future with its tongue. I don't usually read my news, but seeing what I got for the trouble, the change was a good one."
I nodded, sensing no dishonest vibes. "Good for me and my two associates, anyway. But an article that didn't paint us as 'This year's small business to watch' is new ground for me." Yes, all the pomp in my voice came easily through.
Then, Buddy was back with an unprovoked refill, for Fire-fop. Lucky bastard, to command that kind of service. He ignored the gratuity, with his focus trained on the softening ice. "So you lie like you drink; gently."
To quote the wise Yosemite Sam, them's FAHtin' werds, but this was not the place; or an even match. "Ah, it's all in fun," he quickly added. "You should be happy right now... You're already more than I expected, since you found me out with no sign or signal on my part."
High praise indeed; too high. "Call it intuition," I smiled, "Or, just call it what it is; you're a falcon in a flock of turkeys. But now that we're here, time's pissing away, and you have yet to break the crust over my role in your future."
He seemed to draw inward like a shy kid, and any traces of 'buddy'-type mood flew right out the window. "I'm... Just not sure I can trust this rabble. Their eyes are used to me, but their ears never stop learning." He wasted little time with his second shot, slamming the empty glass down beside the first. "Meet me out back in fifteen minutes. Otherwise, I'll be hoping you make it home before the street trash gets wind of fresh money." With that, he simply got up and walked away, following the guidance of a "Restrooms" sign.
Okay, I thought, time to take stock of the situation. I'm in a run-down tavern full of swaggering pinheads; I finally met my client, a tower of scales that dwarfs the entire NBA; and whatever he expects from me, it's more than just a passive little secret.
Somehow or another, my head convinced me this could still be very normal; par for the course with the big players, and the deeper dirt. If nothing else, I believed because I wanted to. In my head, lay newborn plans of how to spend the paycheck, before Serpent O' Style even trusted me with his name. First, I'd go with a Shelby Cobra, then maybe an Aston Martin for weekends, vacations abroad... And cruising through ritzy neighborhoods, if I felt the itch to play socialite. Or maybe just a nice, deep massage to start it all off - and more, if the masseus packs a D-cup or better. With enough bread, nothing's out of your reach... Or out of her mouth. And let the record show that's a reference to tattling.
"Hey," Bar-Belly yelled from the far side of the counter, putting my fantasies to death. "I got a message for ya. Some guy named Espio, says it's urgent and to call him ASAP."
...Him, trying to contact me here and now?
Forget the fact he had no idea where I was in reference to my client; what could possibly be so important that he'd go to this kind of trouble, knowing damn well what I was there to do? Urgent, I could handle, but an emergency right now would mean two very disappointed men, and one very likely to hurt the other. Uncertainty alone filled me with a hybrid of dread and anger; should I need to skip out on this lucrative engagement for any reason, it would have to be a bad one anyway. My mind swelled with unanswered questions; what could the mongoloid have in store for me, once we were outside and freezing? And what trouble did Espio bring my way, God forbid?
"The public phone's in back", he finished, pointing down a corridor that split the dingy rear wall. "If ya need a phone book, you're out o' luck. Last one was snatched right off the street, same day it came."
At that point, I was just happy to hear someone else's problems. "Thanks, but I know his number. He's an... Under of mine."
Baldfaced fucking lie, as we were all but equal partners, even if I called the most important shots. Looking back, it was deathly cold of me to reduce him like that, but greed had me riding high, and every new surprise was a shot of nitrous. I thanked the barkeep-slash-scorekeep, and took a few man-sized swigs from the Tom Collins. I was done, with business calling, so half of it sat to guard my fat tip while I made for the back and all its possibilities.
Finding the phone was easy; Learning how to work it wasn't. A relic, whose first call came way before my Dad's underroos. Lucky patrons like me would find the hilarious wind-up receiver, housed in very real, very rotten wood. I paid the change and dialed Espio's home line, only to have it ring around twenty times with no answer. So I hung up, and no more than two seconds later, a shrill noise sounded the return. My nerves were jittery as I picked it up, but no shred of stammer would leave my lips. To let him hear what he'd just done to me, would be shooting the messenger.
"Vector?"
"In the flesh."
I could hear him sigh heavily. "Thank goodness. I'd begun to fear the worst."
It threw me off so badly, my thoughts took moments to collect. "...Why? You knew I was out on our big case tonight."
"Yes, I did, but I had no idea where that address would fall. You're on the news right now."
"WHAT!? Why the hell would-"
"Someone spotted you ducking into Sadler Sundries half an hour ago and reported it. There's already speculation you're involved in some sort of illegal activity. Looks like you shirked research on that locale before you left... It's nothing but shady characters and dirty dealings. I'll straighten up all the hearsay as best I can, but I want you out of there."
"Yeah, I can believe it", I muttered, peeking out over the dining area. "And believe this: My butt won't be staying for a second after I'm needed. But they'll retract all that shit in the morning. It goes without saying that my nose is clean, no matter where the hell I find myself."
"It does, to me. But I'm not a reporter, or any of the millions watching them. Do you realize what happens to our image while you're there? No one knows why, but everybody's thinking. We could be losing tons of business this way."
Banked, but completely ignored; I was in the mood to hear someone else. "That's for me to judge. Look, I'm minutes from the greatest opportunity in our puny lives, and you want me to jump ship because of some stupid goons on network television?"
"I'm dead serious, Vector. You're the figurehead of our company, and as such your actions have deep reprocussions on all of us." I'd never heard such a flat scorn from his mouth, on my head. "If you believe in that case, fine by me. Just please, get out of there while you can, before you draw any more attention."
I paused, to conjure some kind of retort that would open his views to mine. The frustration of everything, with an added bonus - Eau de Hops, Stale Brew - likely steered my choice. "I'll leave when I damn well please, and when I do, it won't have anything to do with you or your paranoia."
I meant every word, and came close to slamming the phone down right then and there. I'd hoped for a reason to cut it short, and end his preaching.
Maybe, nagging him back would do the trick.
"How did you get this number, anyway?"
A short pause, and his voice came through the static again. "From the file here in the office. It's the only number down the entire page, so I did a bit of deduction, and-"
"-Spare me. But just why are you at the office after hours in the first place, and not putting a dent in your own assignment?"
"Intuition told me I was needed here, so I returned to do what off-site allowed. And from the looks of it, I was right."
I sighed heavily, unswayed and exasperated. "No one said this call was ever needed." Our connection had all the fuzz and pop of a vintage phonograph; constant and annoying little sound demons. Clearly, the excuse I'd been waiting for. "Now, spare me your whining until tomorrow. I might already be late, pissing him off and wasting all this time and exposure. Unless war breaks out in the next two hours, you'll see me in the morning. Dig?"
Again, no answer for a few breaths.
"I have no choice. Remember your common sense, and try not to get us killed."
At that point, I just hung up the receiver. 'Us' was a pretty turn of phrase, and I saw right through it; not caring much more for the rest. He was the second opinion, and what I'd find out that door was the first. But his last sentence planted a seed, only sprouting three days later, while it all played out; poetic justice for the stakes I tapped slowly down through both of us.
I took a moment to check my watch as I glided toward the exit. Five minutes left; none of which I was eager to spend freezing my tail off in dark and rough territory. But after suffering true Sadler ambience, it was preferable to staying inside with the Dead-End Gang.
Night air hit me harder coming out than going in. Maybe, around my little sphere of chaos, a front crept its way in. Why not; cold follows death, and the best candidates were right inside those walls. I tried shaking the lust for a heavy jacket as I rounded the block, desperate for an empty street with no thug-sized shadows. Fifteen seconds later, I found the single alleyway leading behind street frontage. Now, to play the waiting game for five, give or take as many.
There's never been a time in life I wanted to end sooner. The alleyway opened up at length from behind the building, into a huge paved clearing the size of a parking lot; and no lights at all to help the moon. Had someone been waiting for me in a different sense, there'd be no way in hell I could see to defend myself, especially through my earthquakes of shivering. Any lowlife that needed my lights out would have no problem, and then go casually away thinking they were so lucky to run across a man with Parkinsons.
Knocking on three minutes, I heard the sharp racket of a trashcan lid flipping over. Being helpless in the dark, I jumped so high that I easily could've steered to come down topside of the loading bay behind me. But in seconds, I watched the cause scurry away with a half-eaten corn cob. Goddamn raccoons.
It was the leap that made me realize there was a loading bay. Curious port for a bar to have, of any kind; and there it was, square on the middle of the rear wall, just as big and obvious as anything else that could dock a semi. Maybe, it served those businesses tolerating the floors above Sundries. What low rents they must enjoy.
And then, there he was before me... Breaking through one of many shadows for the world's most heart-stopping rendezvous.
His fedora was gone, revealing a scalp with numerous scars, which the moon only served to illuminate. Outside, he was the same, unruffled giant who pulled me from my desk at Easy Street; but how he acted was a different story. On a path I'd found easy to walk, he seemed to stagger with odd steps, especially when the pavement dipped down to a storm drain. No hiding it: my new best friend helped himself to another drink or three before stepping out. In a way, it made me feel kind of stupid, or even weak... I let the bar's grit and smog get to me, in the worst way, when I could've braved it and spared myself a little hypothermia. Only twenty minutes into each other's lives, and his genius was already growing on me.
His approach was slow and steady, as he shot me the most disturbing glare; one I couldn't even start to understand. Now, was the real dilemma; what to say to break the ice, a second time, with the strangest and most intimidating character I'd ever met.
"Tough crowd in there, huh?", I almost squeaked.
He shook his head slowly, with purpose. "Drop the formalities. Stevie Wonder could've seen the way you studied my walk over here." Oh shit, came the mental scream; All clues were telling me I'd already screwed myself. But, no one's intuition is perfect; he was gracious. "That would be what's left when a psycho nearly plants a katana in your skull. My equilibrium's shot forever, and just forget about night vision. It's a long story, and I don't feel like going there, so you won't."
You, I heard, and the meaning sank deep. Damn... Maybe I was chained to a hardballer after all. "Sorry to hear that", I returned, easily faking the art of sympathy.
"Yeah, whatever", in calm baritone. Now out of panic mode, the usual pack of observations started in: I hadn't a snowball's chance in Egypt of getting info for what he felt was personal. A huge disappointment, since it can make or break certain cases; though maybe not this one, barring any of the countless possibilities. Still, I respected him for a trait like that, but not because I think myself a private man... It just meant that me, and the wrong people, had a good chance of knowing about the same.
"Alright," he continued, "Now that we're free of prying ears, you've probably bit your tongue bloody to learn anything at all about me. My name's Nathan Croele, but I go by N. And that means everybody joins in on the nickname, including you. You dig?"
"Yes sir," I answered like a castrated slave. It wasn't being smart or ironic; fear suppressed any urge to defend my manhood. If this was him trying to show me where I stood, I would let him.
He resumed with a deep, almost hesitant breath. "You'll probably find out later anyway, so I might as well tell you now. A lifetime ago, I dealed in contraband trafficking. I've cleaned up my act long since, and this suit is all thanks to a solid career in real estate. A number of warehouses in the Port district are under my ownership, a quarter mile from the docks."
I only nodded rapidly; after waiting this long for the scoop, I wasn't about to delay the conclusion.
"That," he continued, "Is the reason you were contacted. Some of those warehouses are used to store smaller sea crafts; speedboats, sailboats, lower-end yachts, whatever can fit under the roof and ride on water. Their owners come to me with their semi-annual rent, and in return, they get a place to house their expensive toys no more than a stone's throw from the lake." He reached into his pocket, and carefully pulled a few black-and-white photos, then holding them up for me to study. At the center of all three was a short, dark silhouette, but the quality was so poor that I couldn't even pinpoint its gender. "Three nights ago, I caught this assclown in my property at the corner of West Bend and McMillan, running out with an armload of boat parts. Darkness and my scars put visibility at about five feet, so this is all I could do."
"Well, you're clearly a seasoned shutterbug," I replied, making him smirk as he picked up where he'd left off.
"The next day, I get a call from five of the boat owners, telling me they stopped in to check on their vessels and found them gone without a trace."
"Ouch. Do you give them all keys to the building?"
"Have to. It's the only way I could convince city hall to let me run this kind of business. They don't like having seaworthy anything stored so close to the docks outside of a marina without strict regulations... Too much risk of someone jacking them to go drug running, or for terrorism. By giving the owners 24/7 access to their crafts, I'm alot more secure and a little less liable."
"Looks like whoever jacked them had a creative streak, if they're leaving the door in pieces." I needed nothing more to sum up the gist of my role here. "And, you want me to track down the cocksucker in those photos, correct?"
"Of course," he returned, "But here's the real clincher: I know I said his identity was undetermined, but what I'm about to point out is strictly off the record. Got that?"
Ooooo, a secret. "Whatever you say. It's your money."
"Good answer." He held the pictures out to me. "Take a long, hard look at these, and tell me who it favours, just from the silhouette."
I obliged, snatching them up and holding each seperately to the dim crescent moon. It took a short while for me to see what he had, but once I did, you could've laid me out with a feather. The outline was short, smooth and capped with several blurry but distinctive spikes.
I now knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, why I'd really been chosen for this unlikely mystery.
"Uh-huh," he smiled, clearly vindicated. I didn't think my face would be that easy to read, but then again, I was dealing with a man who defied explanation. "You see," he continued with gobs of pride, "I could've chosen to hire the best gumshoes in the city - no offense, of course - but I knew the minute they got a hold of those snaps, any rising Sherlock would want to run with it, just to say they nailed such a massive name. Now, I read magazines. It's well-known that, while you two might not be busom buddies, you are close enough to give him a fair shake, and not turn it into some scathing indictment of his secret life while you shoot to the top ranks of . And I know - even the implication alone is fucked up - but I respect what he's done for the world, so his fall should come fair. And if it turns out we're off by a mile, all the better; but I'm not holding my breath, and I'm sure you're not either."
My heart sank like a cheating spouse. No wonder details had been so sketchy; he knew I'd never be convinced if I wasn't interested. By drawing me out like this, he'd gained the ultimate leverage: staring me down, in the center of his world, where there was no other choice but to listen. Should I turn him down, he could easily feel that I knew too much... And then I'd feel something close to a solid wall at forty miles per hour.
I'd have shined his fucking shoes if he'd asked.
"Now, I realize this is putting you between a rock and a hard place", he appealed, "Or else, you wouldn't be naming your price. Which still stands, by the way. However much you think you're worth, so long as it's not millions. I have my limits."
"Under e-e-...", and I was done, certain that my ears were playing tricks on me. Sure, I'd taken him as rich from the moment we met - but not loaded. Any questions still hanging on by then went quickly and quietly to their death.
"I still need an answer." He edged up slowly, playing all of his strengths. "Do I get your help, or was this a waste of my time?"
Now, drop yourself into my shoes after hearing that. Then see if you could walk away.
"Alright," I sighed, "I'll do it. Just give me until morning, so I can keep from shocking my associates. Something like this would need buffer time."
"By all means," he submitted, stepping back to prove it further. "I'm not such a monster that I expect you to work miracles. Everyone with a hand in this deserves their share of notice." Yes, and I'd see to it they got plenty... But not due to any obligations. It was the perfect case to break in solo duty, and save them from doing a friend so dirty. Guilty or not, I knew how hard that could be.
"Not really, ... N." The handle would take some getting used to. "I'll be handling this one alone. New change in our operations."
He wrinkled his nose, clearly unhappy with the news. "Not as new as the last few minutes, I hope." Then, he raised his right arm, and I almost pissed myself.
It would've been for nothing; with the other hand, he rolled up his sleeve to reveal a Rolex. "Damn, it's later than I thought. Wait for me to ring your office at noon tomorrow, so I'll know if you have it sewn up. Is that acceptable?"
Not really, since it was lunchtime, but whatever he wanted. "Sure," I murmured, doing some convincing of my own.
"Terrific. And again, no offense, but I expect you to pick it up. There's still a few points to cover, when we both have more time; some of my clients make their living very publicly, so you'll need to be aware of certain things before you start."
He stuck out his hand, and still very mindful of my fear, I did the same. His grip was unnaturally strong... Not that it surprised me.
With business done - and me safely on his side - he turned to leave, as I stood numb from both the cold and what I had to learn. For some reason, he shot me a halfhearted salute before vanishing back into the darkness.
And there I stayed for minutes, like an idiot, trying to decide on what to think. In one fell swoop, my whole idea of Sonic had been dashed to bits. The pictures told even more than their owner, in how far they were from discernible fakes. How the hell I could break this to Espio... Let alone a naive kid like Charmy? To them, and the rest of the world, I would be the end of a legend. To know the truth was bad enough; I had the charge of revealing it.
With a heavy heart, I began moping homeward in a fog. Desperate for ways to soften the blow, or an excuse that would buy their forgiveness, and there was nothing; only dread, guilt and mounting anxiety.
A beautiful night, for insomnia.
To be continued...