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  It was close to midnight, mid-March, breezy and moist–a perfect evening for random travelers passing through–and Jimmy Knightly, tennis star, stood on the busy sidewalk along the east side of Washington Avenue having no clue where to go. With the baseball cap he had bought at the airport slung low over his brow and his tournament sunglasses fixed tightly to his face, he was certain no one would recognize him out here in a crowd of attractive nobodies. But still, he had already gambled much on assumptions this week. He was hoping to make the most of a bad situation. It was the least he could do now.

  He limped a few feet down the walk, heading south, checked over his shoulder. Only his right foot was completing the proper impacts with the sidewalk. His left dragged behind him. Each step had the potential to cause him pain, but he was careful. He had been doing this for weeks. He was becoming a pro at gimp-walking.

  He focused on a point a few blocks down the street, glanced across the busy avenue to the opposite curb, looked inside storefronts as shop employees closed their doors for the night. His best friend’s government contact was out here somewhere. Maybe he was watching him already. Too many people clogging the frenetic avenues and searching for dazzling clubs to know for sure.

  Jimmy had been thinking about the situation for several hours now. In truth, he didn’t want to call the guy. The government had already put him in harm’s way, mistakenly burnt down his house–bastards–and forced him on this course to the unknown. Dealing with yet another spook with a blurry face, at midnight no less, was no recipe for comfort. But he knew Ed, knew him since childhood, and, as his best friend, Edward Sewaller would not have steered him wrong. If he had believed this contact was necessary to find, then Jimmy would trust him. Even at midnight in Miami, he would trust him.

  “Hey, pal,” said a random voice to his left. “Guy with the sunglasses. Yeah, you.”

  Jimmy stopped mid-limp. Was this the contact already? He held his position. Wasn’t sure he wanted to meet the guy. Agreeing to talk to him, to even shake his hand, was admitting that his old life was on the bus ride to Gone-foreverville. But he couldn’t exactly ignore him. He glanced to his left, nervous about what was coming. Government spooks were full of dirty secrets. Submitting to this guy was to give him another–Jimmy Knightly, tennis star, running on a bad ankle, mostly aimless, stuck in a rut, fallen star–and this was the worst time in his life to have his well-being stagnating as a dirty secret in a government spook’s hands.

  This government spook was crouching at the foot of a hotel with a top hat by his feet. He was layered in grimy fatigues, a twenty-year-old flannel shirt, and his salty beard was more than likely swarming with lice.

  “Spare change for a bite to eat, pal?” the man asked him.

  Either the government was failing at economics across the board or this guy was not his contact.

  Jimmy considered his limited funds. After fleeing Los Angeles, he had resolved to live off of cash for as long as he could. With hotels costing a pretty penny in Miami, and astronomical cab fare adding up, and food costing more than the cow itself, his stash wasn’t destined for long-term existence anyway. But giving extra money to this guy ensured that he had less to work with in an emergency. He wasn’t convinced it was the best of ideas. He started thinking of excuses.

  The man looked up at him with dull brown eyes. They were staring at him with the intensity of chocolate cotton candy. Soft and chewy. They could’ve easily matched a puppy’s eyes. Total jerk move.

  Jimmy reached in his pocket and fished out a twenty. In Miami Beach, that would get the guy a nice plate of fries and bottled water. He passed it over. The man snatched it out of Jimmy’s fingers. He looked at it, shrugged, sniffed it, then glared at Jimmy as if he were some kind of cheapskate. Then he put it in his top hat. Transaction concluded. Jimmy would never see that money again. Welcome to Miami.

  Jimmy continued down the walk as thoughts about the tragedies behind him assaulted his heart. Was he safe here? He looked at each person who passed by. So many faces to process, so many eyes to stare into. None of those irises were gold-tinted, but more were yet to be seen. He clenched his jaw tightly. Squeezed the straps on his duffel bag together. Gripped his suitcase handle. He was probably being paranoid.

  He wondered if the police cruisers in the median would be of any help in a crisis. The ones in Los Angeles were self-made cannon fodder. Maybe they played the rules differently here in Miami, but the LAPD wasn’t known for its slouches, either. It was hard to believe in anyone’s competence anymore.

  With so much uncertainty, he decided it was better to stay off the street.

  He found a karaoke bar south of Lincoln Road and ducked inside. The bouncer didn’t give him a second look. Maybe conspicuous people in dark sunglasses at midnight were a common thing around here; he didn’t know. He was thankful the guy didn’t ask for ID. That could’ve caused a problem.

  The establishment was not crowded. An open dance floor spanned the length of the main floor between the southern stage and the eastern bar. A few middle-aged women were bobbing to the music, careful not to spill their martinis while their chunky male friend with the broken Mr. Ed voice sang a country song Jimmy had never heard before. Jimmy veered around them. He noticed a flat-screen television in the adjacent room and headed there. Those paying attention were watching basketball. That was good, he thought. Made it easier to blend in.

  He felt a presence beside him a minute after he had sat on the stool. He didn’t want to look, but could smell the change in the air. Body odor, long expired. The bartender showed up just in time to break his concentration.

  “Cherry Coke,” he told the bartender, when the lanky twenty-five-year-old asked him what he wanted.

  Jimmy sized the guy up, noticed his chiseled chin and well-defined muscle tone and immediately became jealous. Guy probably had a good ankle. Probably had easy access to whatever posh gym the metrosexuals liked these days. Probably had no idea how lucky he was to do whatever the hell he wanted, whenever he wanted, and to stay fit and out of a maniac’s crosshairs all hours of the day.

  “Anything else?” the bartender asked.

  “On the rocks,” Jimmy said.

  “How about you?” he asked the man sitting next to Jimmy.

  Jimmy glanced to his right, to the shoulder brushing his biceps. The homeless guy with the top hat had followed him in. Now he was beside him, causing the bar to stink of failed deodorant. Jimmy would have to do a better job watching his back. The guy had his elbows on the bar and was staring hard at the many glasses along the back wall. Decisions eluded him. Jimmy figured he’d make one for him.

  “Give him some bourbon,” he said. “Your best inexpensive brand.” Jimmy looked at him. Lowered his brow. “You like bourbon?”

  The homeless man shrugged. Something sparkled in his beard. Perhaps a lightning bug had gotten trapped in there. Jimmy wasn’t sure what kind of insects buzzed the night in Miami. Maybe some kid had stuffed a penlight under his chin earlier while he was fast asleep. Hard to tell. Didn’t seem like the sparkle was voluntary at any rate. Jimmy took it as a “yes.”

  “Bourbon for my friend, who doesn’t seem to give a crap,” he said.

  The bartender flashed a Cheshire grin as he reached for a glass. Jimmy shuddered. The last time he saw a smile like that, he was looking down the barrel of a pistol.

  He blinked. Turned away. Watched the middle-aged women dancing to his right. They swayed their hips as if they had no care in the world. Tomorrow was of no consequence to them. Whatever they had left behind yesterday, it was behind them forever. He closed his eyes. Listened to the singer with the horse’s voice wailing away about alcohol and cheating wives. Lamented his ill luck. To think this was the best place in the world he could be right now.

  ~~~~~

  From Risen Ordinaries (A Modern-day Fantasy, Book 3)

  The pounding on the wooden desk in the back room began to sound like the bass line to his favorite dance tune, and proud barista, Gary Zale
, pouted his lips as he rocked his head to the electric beat. Boom, boom, boom, zip, cracka-lacka, rhythm and sway, rhythm and sway–another minute of this sick groove and he’d have to twirl his elbows and call it a dance party.

  From over the serving counter, his customer couldn’t see him oscillating his hips from side to side, but the awkward smile on the businessman’s face suggested that he knew something was up. Gary squeezed his teeth together and sucked rhythms through his throat, mimicking the distant ungh-unghs of a DJ’s 1000-watt-speaker heart line, paying no mind to “professionalism” as he pulled the latte machine lever toward him, dropping that fat foam into his hipster groove café latte ceramic mug the customer had been waiting so stiffly for. He bit his lower lip and closed his eyes, feeling the forward thrust of his chin revving up for that rooster rhythm, and was about to sing a few falsetto lyrics about pouring coffee under his breath, when his boss, the one responsible for the back room banging, thundered out of his office and grabbed Gary by the back of his neck. Gary’s eyes shot open. The first thing he saw was the customer staring back at both men with misunderstanding.

  “Zale,” his boss barked. “Enough of the dancing. Have you heard anything from Teddy?”

  Gary felt something washing over his hand. Something creamy. He looked down to witness the steamed milk spilling over the cup and racing down the back of his arm. He released the lever and passed the overflowing cup to the customer. The customer grabbed a napkin as he took it. His face was less than pleasured.

  “No, he and I aren’t friends,” Gary said, as he also reached for a napkin. “He not answering his phone again?”

  “His mistress answered this time. She hadn’t seen him in days.” Mr. Ingram, the short-tempered, short-in-stature manager of the Sludgeworks Coffee House, tramped toward his office door, cursing at 16 FBPM (F-Bombs per Minute). When he reached the door, he lay his head against it and pounded the wooden surface with both fists–boom, boom, boom-thumpity-thump-thump, boom. “Three days, no call, no show! That’s not Teddy’s style, dammit, and I’m not happy.”

  “Maybe he’s tired of the dead-end circuit,” Gary said, innocently. “It’s hard to support a mistress on our pay.”

  The manager sneered as he shook his head.

  “Now is not the time, Zale. Now is not the time.”

  “Well, in fairness, he was never claiming an undying loyalty to this place. Maybe he moved on and forgot to tell you.”

  Mr. Ingram stared daggers at him.

  “You think so, Zale? Did he, perhaps, move on and forget to tell Colette, too? She hasn’t seen him since we last saw him.”

  Gary didn’t have much to say about that. Teddy had brought Colette in once to meet the gang, on a whim, or a dare. He didn’t say much about her, but he was silent with a smile. Teddy’s reflection of personality did a poor job casting back on her. She was hardly in the category that Gary considered “nice,” but man was she gorgeous. Long, flowing, raspberry hair, ski-sloped nose and grayish violet eyes–way out of Teddy’s, the slack-jawed floppy blond dweeb’s, league. Sometimes when Gary would open a fashion magazine to fantasize about the women inside, he would mentally put Colette’s face on the models’ bodies–not just the ones in evening gowns or store-brand lingerie, either, but on the male models and the plastic toy robots, too. (Fashion magazines often joined forces with store catalogues in New Switzerland, so it wasn’t unusual to find advertisements and prices on kids’ toys in publications like Skimpy or The Other Shoe; though, no one who read the magazines for fashion cared a lick about kids or their plastic toys.) There was no way in heck a guy like him would simply walk out on a woman like her, not unless he was crazy, stupid, or kidnapped.

  Then the question came to him even though he wasn’t sure how appropriate it was to ask. He asked anyway.

  “Do you think he’s joined the ranks of the missing persons? Just a thought?”

  Mr. Ingram stared at his office door for about ten seconds. Then he spun on his heels to face the coffee machines. Gary had begun the process of wiping his arm clean of the steamed milk runoff when his boss looked as though he was about to respond. He even had his forefinger pointed and ready for judgment.

  Just then, the mounted bell hanging over the shop’s glass entrance chimed, and a flood of bending light washed into the service area. Both Gary and Mr. Ingram glanced at the door. The other barista, Delton Highsmith, a skinny kid whose mind was always on fixing cars, not on coffee for rich businessmen, waltzed in, oblivious to the sour mood hovering in the air. Even the customer, who had taken the opportunity to carry his coffee outside, seemed to escape his notice as he practically passed right through him.

  “Highsmith,” Mr. Ingram said. “You’re late.”

  When he made eye contact with Mr. Ingram, Delton merely shrugged.

  “I know, Pops,” he said. “Found a roach in my shower this morning. Damn near freaked me out. Couldn’t get clean ‘til the ugly thing scampered off. Waited fifteen minutes to get under the showerhead. Another five to be sure the stupid monster bug was gone. Would’ve been on time otherwise.”

  Mr. Ingram issued him a backhanded wave.

  “Whatever. Never mind. Flip off the open light while you’re standing there. We’re closing early.”

  Both Gary and Delton shot glances at their boss.

  “Aw come on, Poppa-tone,” said Delton. “I ain’t that late, am I? No need to punish everyone over that Neanderthal roach. How the rich businessmen supposed to get their precious coffee now if we ain’t here to pull the levers for them?”

  “Not closing because you’re late. An unpleasant thought occurred to me. Something serious. Get your things. Both of you. I’ll explain on the way to city hall.”

  ***

  They had to navigate a queue of red tape before Mayor Applewhite would see them. Round and round the tables they went, through secretaries and security, information officers and deputies, but eventually they received their audience, and the exchange of dialogue was less than comfortable.

  Mr. Ingram’s cheeks were ruddy with frustration. His pockets bulged with the fists he restrained from showing off to the mayor. Neither Gary nor Delton understood why he had to stand there and watch his boss bite the mayor’s head off in his own squeaky-clean office, but they showed their loyalty to him nonetheless. They also showed respect by remaining silent. Gary imagined a DJ auto-tuning the conversation later.

  “I think you’re doing a terrible job,” Mr. Ingram said, directly to the mayor’s face; there was no room for cordiality. “I’m starting to wish Mollusk had won, and he’s running Hardcore City into the ground.”

  Mayor Applewhite did not appreciate this dig on his character or on his victory over Lester Mollusk for the mayoral seat four years earlier, but Gary was impressed with his ability to compose himself. If not for that flicker of irritation registering in his eyes, Gary would’ve assumed all was well with Mr. Politics.

  “I appreciate your feedback, citizen,” the mayor said, with a fake smile. “Though, I would’ve preferred you had used the official comment cards we distribute at reception. Time is precious.”

  “I won’t apologize for breaking protocol.”

  “Yes, of course not. And I understand. My staff informs me you have an urgent matter to discuss?”

  “It’s a matter for the police, and I intend to bring it to their attention shortly, but I’m fed up as a voter and don’t believe the cheap law enforcement you have in place is effective enough, so before I complain to them, I think it’s fair that I complain to you, so that you might, in turn, complain to them. Maybe then they’ll do something about the crisis we all face in this town and stop jerking us around because ‘we don’t understand the law’ or some dip-nugget response like that.”

  Again, that flash of irritation dazzled the mayor’s eyes as he sat and pondered the criticism that was laid before him. He couldn’t cover his wincing at the words “law enforcement” fast enough.

  “You’re going to have to be more s
pecific than that,” the mayor said. He was now covering his brow with the flat of his hand.

  “Two words: kid-napping.”

  The mayor fidgeted in his seat slightly. The term was likely all too familiar with him.

  “Not to sound daft, but I want to make sure I understand you properly. Do you mean two words literally, or do you mean to tell me somebody’s been kidnapped?”

  Mr. Ingram rolled out his elaborate theory on what he believed had happened to Teddy in the last three days, highlighting each of his points with sweeping gestures to ensure that the mayor understood. Mayor Applewhite nodded at every fifth word, saying, “Mmm-hmm, okay, mmm-hmm,” and looked strained by the information. If Mr. Ingram had actually delivered a credible story with concrete details, the mayor might’ve suffered from a spasm of unrest. The story he gave was speculative and typical, as if he had plucked it from the news.

  “Look,” said Mr. Ingram. “I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job. You were elected to this seat and I wasn’t, so far be it from me to take over your mandates. But the rate of disappearances in Cannonball City is becoming a source of fear, and I think it’s high time you understood that your citizens know that their safety is dwindling, or if you want to avoid the inevitable political fallout that would follow, figure out how to fix the problem.”

  Mayor Applewhite was a politician to the core. Mr. Ingram was stern with his warnings, but the mayor took none of it to heart. He maintained his friendly smile even as his eyes began to gloss over from the repetition of ideas.

  “I am aware of the paranoia brewing,” he said, after tapping his fingers and clearing his throat. “But I need to remind you that the disappearances are not exclusive to Cannonball City. Much of the Strip has been affected, as far west as Primex, all the way to the harbor, and it is my understanding that few of the southern towns in the Hardcore Countryside have also endured a common fate. This is not a problem with local leadership, but with the governor on his throne at Cannonball Peak, and it is precisely the reason why I am running for his seat. And, if I can get your vote–from all three of you–then I assure you I will allocate every available resource to stopping this menace before it can strike again.”