Zero Hour: 01 - At Least The Coffee Was Good Read online

Zero Hour

  01: At Least The Coffee Was Good

  By

  Donald Yenson

  Cameron Craig

  Copyright 2015 Donald Yenson

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  “At Least The Coffee Was Good”

  By

  Donald Allan Yenson

  Cameron Craig

  Grand Rapids, Michigan. A small sized metropolis of about half a million on the western side of the state, best known as the 'Bible Belt' of Michigan. A cool Fall breeze runs down Wealthy Street in the East Town neighborhood, a mostly residential area with hundred year old, three story houses and hip, trendy shops down its main strip. The street fills to capacity as rush hour nears. Average citizens rush from their work places to the various 'Mom and Pop' stores and restaurants, picking up smokes, dinner, or a drink before going home.

  The humming noise of car tires rolling on the old red brick road do little to drown out the clicking sound of the high end heels worn by a tall woman in a black trench coat and large sunglasses. A woman that most people would characterize as 'confident', 'focused', even 'stunning', but would be hard pressed to divulge a more detailed response. She had managed to pull off a persona that said “Don't fuck with me.” while remaining pretty much 'undistinctive'.

  A young couple appears walking down Wealthy Street, towards the woman, lost in a personal discussion of class choices and professors, holding hands. As they approach the discreet woman in sun glasses and trench coat, the young woman smiles. “Hello.” The woman manages to break into a small disingenuous smile, walks past, returning to her blank, unwavering expression. The young girl, slightly incensed by the phony smile decides to forget it and returns to the conversation at hand.

  The woman stops in front of, and enters a moderate, middle-of-the-road family dinner. The black chalkboard hanging in the lobby, noting the current daily specials, clearly states 'Please Seat Yourself' in bold, multicolor letters at the bottom. The Woman barely pauses as she enters the dining room. She stops cold in her tracks when she comes up to a tall, young, blonde waitress. “One coffee please, black, no sugar.” The waitress acknowledges the order and goes about her business, the Woman continues through the dining room, that is, until she approaches the booth at the far end.

  The man sitting at the far seat doesn't move, react, not even to notice the Woman now standing at his table. He continues to stare into his coffee, stirring. His hair is dirty blonde, unkempt, slightly greasy, combed back; and it's been days since his chiseled face has seen anything resembling a razor. He too is wearing an overcoat somewhat similar to the woman's except his is brown, wrinkled, with one side of his collar popped up when it should be down. He is someone that hasn't slept in days, at least not at his own place or a hotel. If he's caught any shut eye, it's been on an uncomfortable couch or maybe the backseat of a car. This greatly contrasts The Woman's perfectly kept appearance; well rested and prepared.

  “By all means, please, sit down.” He says without looking up or disturbing his obsessive stirring. The Woman slips into the opposite side of the booth, hands clasped, fingers intertwined. Still not a movement from the Man, except the stirring of his coffee, which he manages to do without a sound.

  “The least you can do is pretend to enjoy the human interaction. How much of that do we really get?” The Woman states, breaking the uncomfortable silence. The man looks up, but with no expression. “So, are you going to order the lady a cup of coffee?”

  The Man finally cracks a smile. “Only if that means your not going to stick around.” He returns to a neutral expression.

  “Good thing I already ordered it!” The Woman removes her sunglasses, sets them down, and removes the band holding her hair in a ponytail. She shakes her hair out, and runs her fingers through it. She opens her coat revealing a silk blouse that buttons up dangerously close to 'not enough'. She takes a deep breath that threatens to spill her bosom out of its silk casing. She looks down at her cleavage and performs a slight adjustment, looks back up at the Man with wide innocent eyes and a warm smile. “Come on, an attractive member of the opposite sex is sitting on the other side of the table!”

  The Man leans in, no change in his expression. “And I'm supposed to enjoy the view? That's your style, isn't it?” He never takes his eyes off hers, not even to steal a glance at her presented womanhood.

  The Woman holds her chin with her hand, a slender finger slowly caresses from there to the side of her neck in a seductive movement. “Well, I suppose it is a bit lost on you. So what reason could you possibly have to call me over here?”

  “Perhaps you would have known if you had gotten here on time.” The Man states in 'no uncertain' terms, leaning into her direction without taking his eyes off hers. Even as her hand falls between her breasts.

  She finally gives up and sits back, obviously pissed that her efforts at this old age tactic of 'sex as a distraction' failed. “Oh there we go, Mister Punctuality. Shall we get the boasting out of the way now, or do I have to put up with your anti-social angst until I get through with my coffee?”

  The waitress approaches the table, not a moment too soon, and places the Woman's coffee on the table in front of her. “Thank you.” The woman says with a smile to the waitress. “Would you like to order now?” The waitress says as she pulls out her order book from the front pocket of her apron. “Give me a few minutes, this shouldn't take too long.” The Woman declared. Discerning the tension between the Man and Woman, the waitress nods and leaves to take care of another patron.

  The Man sits back, relaxing a bit. “Fine. Enough of the chit chat, even though you were late.” The tension has melted a little in his voice.

  “By all means, throw it on the table, show me what you've got!” The animosity and impatience has risen in the Woman. This wasn't a playful statement, but a direct challenge. With this, the Man stretches his arms across the back of the worn leather booth with a small smile on his face.

  “Come now, do you really think your pathetic career can really compare to mine?” The Man's smile widens as the words roll off his tongue with bravado.

  The Woman counters the challenge. “I did take care of that ex-patriot in Texas!”

  Six months earlier in the arid dessert somewhere in Texas a Prius pulls up to a medium size wooden house. The building is unremarkable to any other from the area. Extensive front porch with a couple of weathered wooden rocking chairs and a small table between them. Ample windows throughout all sides of the structure. A small wooden rail on the west side of the building to tie up your horse. But several things shatter the illusion of 19th century Wild West – solar panels on the roof reflecting the intense dessert sun, the handcrafted device of rubber tubes and containers capturing and recycling water, and the satellite dish pointing to the heavens behind the building.

  As the Prius pulls up in front of the domicile, throwing up dust in its wake. A thin man, mid-forties, long greying Dred Locks, and Phish t-shirt exits the car. He ta
kes a complete look around, making sure there's no one else. Being the only person, the only structure for miles, it was easy to see anything 'out of the ordinary', much less any one approaching. Nothing, nothing for miles, today, yesterday, every day since he arrived several months ago. He walks up unto the porch, taking a step, stops suddenly. Nervously takes another look around... nothing. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a small metal object. Pressing it to his lips, he lights one end with a lighter in his other hand. As the weed crackles, he inhales deeply. Throwing his head back after the inhaling, a moment elapses before the intoxicating smoke is released into the dessert air.

  Now more at ease, he enters his humble dwelling. Two steps in, a familiar click stops him cold. The feeling of the metal barrel on his temple is undeniable evidence of becoming lax in his vigilance. He should have forgone the drugs while hiding out, which would have been the 'professional' thing to do. But boredom can be a killer.

  “BANG!” A large mist of red sprays through the dusty air, mixed with the grey of brain matter. The body of the Prius driver falls heavy to the floor.

  Back at the restaurant, the Man dismisses with a wave in his hand. “Psst. Anyone could have done that one!”

  The Woman becomes agitated, more animated. “So you think that a new comer couldn't possibly live up to your reputation?”

  The Man's smile widens, head tilts to one side as if he's explaining something to a small child. “You may take this as boasting, but I did do that 'Family' job in Baltimore without leaving witnesses!”

  The Woman starts tapping on the table emphasizing every word she says. The Man's prodding is getting through her armor. “Give me some credit, it was my first job and everyone passed on it taking him for the schizophrenic that he was!” She pauses, realizing she's about to lose her edge, the upper hand. She composes herself once again. “So answer me this; why are we talking about this here?”

  He dismisses her again with a wave of his hand, trying to continue to get under her skin. “Never mind that.”

  “What, you think that I won't drop you here and now because it's a public place?” The Woman reaches into the side pocket of her coat. It doesn't go unnoticed. The Man raises his hand in a 'stop' motion.

  “No, it's because when I show you your place, I want everyone to know it was me.” The Man grabs his coffee, raises it almost to his mouth, and with a simple nod... “Now sit back and enjoy your last cup of coffee.”

  She pulls her hand out of her coat, empty, and palms her cup, calmly. “Spare me your wasted efforts, I don't need it.”

  The Man's big smile takes on a more devilish look. “But the niceties must be observed.” The Woman blows, then slowly sips her coffee, at first not taking her eyes off her adversary. But at the first taste, closes her eyes momentarily.

  She puts the hot cup down and takes a casual but measured look around inside the diner. “So, is this supposed to be your style? Trust me, you could do better than some half attempt at a tea ceremony in some sleazy family establishment.” She states calmly.

  The Man barely pays attention to her as he returns to his obsessive coffee stirring. “You have yet to prove to me that you deserve better.”

  The Woman raises an eyebrow. Finally a chance to get back the upper hand. “There was the Pakistani Diplomat that turned out to be an arms dealer to terrorist cells here in the States.”

  Two months earlier in a posh section of Georgetown. A short husky Middle Eastern man in a tailored, expensive suit exits an office building that happens to contain the offices of an International Trading Company as well as one of the most prestigious Law Firms in the country. He's surrounded by three body guards with dark glasses and earwigs. The shaded men move with the precision of highly trained military unit. The Dealer walks to a black town car parked in front, where one more body guard opens the back door. The position of the four man surrounding the Dealer leaves no clean shot. He enters the rear, two guards from his sides enter the two front seats, and the last two enter the back. One entering from the same door as the subject, the last from the opposite back door.

  Back at the restaurant, the Man is seemingly shaken a bit by the Woman's claim. He reaches for a cigarette from his beat up, half pack on the table. He places it in his mouth and starts to light it. The Woman quickly yanks it before he gets the chance.

  “Don't even think about lighting that filth in here! You know as well as I do, there's no ventilation!” She affirms as she vigorously puts out the cancer stick in the ashtray.

  The Man pulls out another cigarette out of the pack but places it on the table. “Fine. But you have to tell me how you pulled that one off.”

  Two months earlier at a lush apartment, the Pakistani arms dealer sits at vast dark wood desk adding entries into a leather bound planner. He begins to write, calories from his last meal, some random notes about the day. He stops, turns back a few pages, looks at earlier passages from previous days. He touches his chin, once, twice, three times then closes the book. Leaving the room, he turns off the lights, on, then off again. He walks to the front door of his apartment, opens the door, looks out and sees the body guard sitting in the chair reading a newspaper. The guard nods and he shuts the door. Turns all three locks five times in session. Walks back into the room with the writing desk, walks passed, pauses, and backs up to the desk. Notices something wrong. The ledger looks askew, he straightens it out. Walks away into the kitchen.

  As he opens the cupboard, the man stops and stares into it, puzzled, frozen, afraid. He slowly raises his hand to grab something, but snatches it back. Puzzled he forces himself to try again, stops midair, unable to do anything.

  “How?” He says looking into the cupboard. Four glasses line the front of the self with a large green leaf design on the front, all except one which has been turned so that the design faces sideways. “When all is in order, then all is well” He sings as he fixes the errant glass. “Disorder turns to chaos, the road to hell.” He grabs the glass to the left and walks to the fridge. After he opens the fridge door his face distorts in horror. All the plastic containers holding various foodstuffs have the opening taps to the left, not to the right as the arms dealer had them previously set, to his liking, to his sense of order in his universe. The handle to the jug containing his favorite iced tea is set for someone to grip with their left hand, not their right hand. He turns it to its proper position, then stares at the contents of the fridge for a few seconds. With violent rage he pulls everything out of the fridge and unto the floor, food and fluids go everywhere. He throws himself against the wall, hands hiding his face, as he slowly lowers himself to the floor.

  “Why, why, why.... why have you been torturing me like this all week? Who the fuck are you, what the fuck do you want!” He yells to no one, an empty apartment. He begins to beat the back of his head against the wall, hard. “Cleanliness is close to Godliness. Everything in its place. All must be in order.” He stops, looks up to the kitchen counter, notices the coffee cup he placed on the counter was wrong, handle positioned for a left hander. “Whoever you are, just do it! Get it the fuck over! You have proven you can get to me, so here I am. Just fucking end it now!”

  Back at the restaurant, the Woman smiles, head tilted, feeling the joy of besting her opponent. “Come on, he was too habitual for his own good. Wait, don't tell me you couldn't pull that one! The man even scheduled brushing his teeth in that little day planner of his. Once I upset the order of his life he was begging for me to end it.” The corner of her smiles increases creating a smirk.

  “You evil bic-” The woman bangs a fist on the table before the Man can finish. “Watch it! I have even less tolerance for that type of language than I do for that filth you inhale.” She points to the cigarette that the Man started to pull from his tattered pack.

  With the cigarette between his fingers, he uses it as a pointer, emphasizing his every word. “Don't be so quick to brush it off. It's not often I give such complements.” He places the cancer stick into his mouth, chan
ging his mind he places it behind his ear.

  The Woman leans in closer, baring her teeth. “Am I supposed to feel honored by the one ASSUMING the crown? In this line of work, the position of top gun is always up for grabs!”

  The Man moves in closer as well, stressed anger crosses his face. “You're the one assuming too much. You sit there and tell yourself that you know everything when, to tell the truth, you've only been in the circuit for a couple of months. You don't even know my name, yet you assume that I don't work my fingers to the bone day after day protecting my metaphoric crown. I give everyone a shining example of how this job should be done only to put up with...”

  The woman backs off, sits back down, hand up signaling a stop, or calming down of hostilities. “Whoa, calm down there, cowboy, this isn't a western, and neither of us gets to be the hero of this story.”

  The Man is now standing, bent over the table, very close to the woman. His face registers his heightened anger, red faced, with veins popping. “What, you think you could possibly do better then everyone who's tried before?”

  The Woman gets back up, leaning over the table into the man. They are so close they could kiss if they were so inclined. “I could whistle you Dixie to the tune of a 35 between your vacant eyes.”

  “A 35!? I've got way more than a 35 right here!” The Man reaches into the side pocket of his overcoat, throws a pair of odd shaped, 20 sided dice. They roll across the table, tumbling, till they finally stop in front of the Woman. The up sided face adds up to 2. The Man sits back, deflated. “SON OF A B-”

  “I told you to watch the language! This is a family game!” The Woman says with a big grin.

  The sign outside the dining room: “The Eatery Welcomes the Second Annual ASSASSINS Role Playing Gamers”