Seven Degrees of Bogusby Ilan Herman |
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| part 3 of 6 |
Melissa White read the report and groaned. On her tenth cup of coffee of the day, all she wanted was to go home, nurse a deep Jack Daniels and Coke and watch Dancing with the Stars. She’d been a promising ice skater and dancer in her teen years, even auditioned for Disney Icecapades.
Then, in her senior year, she was infatuated with Brad, the quarterback, and joined the cheerleading squad. She volunteered to be tossed fifteen feet in the air while anxious arms waited to catch her. On a chilly and wet February night, the arms let her slip through. She crashed on the concrete and broke her left foot in three places. She never danced again. Brad, the quarterback, never knew of her sacrifice, but she wasn’t bitter about that. After all: One digs one’s own trenches.
Melissa’s discontent grew when she read “The Tingle,” a short story by Alan Abalian. The protagonist was an unpleasant fellow, one who readers could never root for as they did when reading “She’s Come Undone.”
Melissa had taken two semesters of creative writing and knew that it’s okay for the main character to have faults, even big ones, but that redeeming qualities were needed to temper the darkness. Abalian’s story didn’t do that. All it did was depict a solitary and slithery man draped in false kindness, one coldly calculating his survival no matter what the cost. The story was also rife with anarchist exposition.
“Whatever,” she muttered and then read the file detailing the extensive trip the suspect had taken to the Middle East. She angrily puckered her lips but then whispered, “Take it easy,” and rubbed her tired eyes. She’d been up since five in the morning and had worked twelve hours.
Melissa punched 7 on her desk phone and asked, “Is John still in?”
“He never leaves,” said Dolores, his secretary, who then whispered, “I swear he has no life.”
“Neither do I,” Melissa said. “Sad but true.”
“I thought you were dating that cute guy from MI-6,” Dolores said.
“No. Good riddance. All he cares about is jumping out of airplanes at 40,000 feet. Says he feels like a bird.”
“A cuckoo bird, if you ask me,” Dolores said. “You’re a great catch. Here’s John.”
“What’s up Melissa?”
“Probably nothing, but I forwarded you the case. Can you give a look? I really want to soak my feet and watch Dancing with the Stars. I wanna relax...”
John’s burly chuckle cut her off. “Don’t worry about it. I got your e-mail. Go home and have a stiff one, and then have one for me. You’re my girl.”
“Thanks, John. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’m here angel. John Grey is always here. I got that Abalian guy covered.”
* * *
Done with proofing a 450-page novel about teenage vampires, Alan turned off his computer and yawned. The book was an incoherent mess peppered with more clichés than an Iranian minefield in the ’84 war with Iraq. He didn’t mind the fantasy element, but was appalled by the poor vocabulary, angular plotline, and the absolute lack of adventurous writing; the author didn’t use one semicolon.
Alan looked forward to renting a car and driving to L.A, where his buddy Bob had a spare room. He wanted to spend time at the beach and meet with a few clients, possibly a literary agent who’d once mentioned that Alan “had promise.”
Admitting he wasn’t going to become a famous writer was sometimes difficult for Alan. Regardless of his talent, good bad or indifferent, it wasn’t meant to be. Commercial appeal wasn’t always about talent, amply proven by proofing the 450-page book about teenage vampires...
“Stop being a fuddy-duddy,” he mumbled to himself. “Go have some fun.”
* * *
14:07 pm. Suspect rented a Ford Focus from Enterprise. CA license plate 035DRZ.
16:50 pm. Suspect is driving south on I-5. Destination unknown.
19:00 pm. Suspect continues driving south on I-5. Possible destination LA,
20:00 pm. Suspect is in the San Fernando Valley driving on the 405 south.
20:15 pm. Suspect driving east on the 101.
20:18 pm. Suspect is off the 101 and driving south on Woodman.
20:20 pm. Suspect pulls into a parking lot. He exits his car and enters a restaurant called Carnival. They serve Mediterranean food. Lebanese owners. Operatives have been known to frequent the restaurant. Audio surveillance inconclusive. The restaurant is busy and noisy.
20:50 pm. Suspect leaves the restaurant in the company of a heavy-set, dark-skinned and bearded man. They sit in the suspect’s vehicle for 15 minutes. The bearded man returns to the restaurant. Suspect drives away.
21:30 pm. Suspect is in Mar Vista. Parks on Pacific Ave and enters 1246, an apartment building. He remains there for the duration of the night.
* * *
John Grey read the surveillance report. His right hand fingers simulated a horse trotting on his desk. The midnight hour had passed and he was still working, but he didn’t mind, welcomed the heavy workload. His best friend Mitch had died in the South Tower on 9/11. Mitch was a good guy with a wife and three kids; he had worked as a translator for a Japanese investment bank. His death served no purpose to Jihadist maniacs.
John Grey wanted to make sure that 9/11 never happened again. Keeping America safe gave him purpose and meaning. He was a fifty-five year old bachelor with no kids, and an avid scuba diver.
He hoped to retire in Panama, where he owned two acres on a nice beach, maybe open a bed and breakfast for upscale guests. He figured he knew at least 200 agency co-workers who’d pay to come down and sip margaritas on the beach and listen to spider monkeys chatter in the treetops.
The case against Alan Abalian was showing some teeth. A long trip to hostile locals, a nasty story filled with confidential and accurate facts, and now a visit to an Arab restaurant and a late meeting with an unknown man of Arab origin.
John took out a golden flask from his top drawer, and took a sip. He puckered his lips, took a deep breath, and then texted: “Take him in when he leaves the apartment.”
“Will do,” came the answer.
* * *
Copyright © 2011 by Ilan Herman
