"Watchman, How Much Longer the Night?"
Canto V
Circumstance and Consequence
Scene 1
"Notice the waves, each moving in its own order, predictable, unchanging. But drop in a single stone and see how the pattern changes. Everything around it is altered."
— Ambassador Delenn to Sinclair, Babylon 5: "The Gathering"
To be honest, Jebediah George was accustomed to listening to instructions and doing his job well. Usually, his instructions were pretty simple. He started out working security as a bouncer at a club there in St. Louis. Drunken fans weren't too much of a problem for someone with his martial arts skills, and he longed for something a little more challenging. Then, about a year ago, he bumped into Mr. Thompson at the club one night. Almost literally.
It seems that Mr. Thompson and his entourage were casing a bit of a fuss in the crowd. Mr. Thompson was imbibing freely. Many in the crowd had also lowered their inhibitions quite freely. However, each time someone came too close to Mr. Thompson's table, he instructed one of his heavyweights to take care of it, to the surprise of the club patron.
Jebediah happened to see one of these unfortunate souls as they were tossed over a railing separating the dance floor from the slightly elevated sitting area occupied by Mr. Thompson. This was lucky for Jeb, as the airborne victim was heading directly at him. This was, in addition, lucky for the flailing man, as Jeb caught him and set him on his feet. Before the man could begin to complain, Jeb moved around the railing to "speak with" the bully who was laughing about his prowess in "club bowling".
As Jeb approached, the bully stepped up to meet him. Jeb was a sturdy man, over six feet in height, but was at least half a foot shorter than the imposing figure standing in front of him and jabbing a finger into Jeb's chest.
"Go away," said the man.
Almost instantly, Jeb made several quick observations. I don't know these people, so they are not regulars here. This guy is big and sober, but slow and overweight. His nose is crooked; broken before, probably in a fight. None of this posse are carrying a gun tonight, but I see their boss is. He's drunk, but not stupid, although his taste in jewelry implies he doesn't have enough to spend his money on. He is only mildly entertained by the antics of his followers. All of these guys look like they are wearing armored vests under their fancy suits. This should be easy. Making quick observations was a well-honed skill for Jebediah.
Jeb grabbed the man's wrist, gave it a little pull, twist and shove, and the ungraceful brute hit the floor. It took a moment for the people with Mr. Thompson to register what had happened, but when they did, they stood right where they were. Their boss shifted in his seat to get a better view, clearly more interested now.
Jeb was aware of their reaction. So far, so good. As long as I don't threaten the boss, this is just between the two of us. Two other bouncers are already working their way through the crowd, anyway.
The man who picked himself up off the floor was now feeling a combination of embarrassed, angry, belligerent and violent. For most people, this would have been the best time to run. For Jebediah, it was merely a moment to mentally catalogue the current location of every person, table and chair around him, without taking his eyes from his opponent. So, when the brute rushed at him, Jeb simply stepped under his outstretched arm, grabbed his wrist, and used the man's momentum to pin the brute up against the railing. Because the man had become outright dangerous to the other patrons, Jeb dislocated his shoulder in the process, temporarily eliminating any resistance. The other bouncers arrived as if on cue.
"Take him out," Jeb said, dropping the man's arm and turning back to look at the rest of the group. To his surprise, the man with too much jewelry began to applaud.
"Congratulations!" Mr. Thompson shouted over the pulsing music. "That was very entertaining. Poor Bruce, there, has never been overmatched before." Jeb watched carefully as the man's left hand slipped into his jacket— the gun's holstered for a right-hand pull—and reappeared holding a calling card. The man stood and handed the card to Jeb.
"I am Mr. Thompson. Please, call me at your earliest convenience. I would like to discuss the possibility of hiring a person of your skill and...," the man paused briefly as he chose his words, "...diplomacy. I assure you, the pay is far higher than what you make here."
With that, Mr. Thompson strode away toward the main exit of the club, the rest of his entourage spread strategically around him.
Jeb looked at the card. There was no name, no address, nothing but a St. Louis phone number. He pocketed the card and returned his attention to the other club patrons. He could use a raise.
Scene 2
"Nobody ever did, or ever will, escape the consequences of his choices."
— Alfred A. Montapert
These days, Jebediah's job was simultaneously simple and complicated. As a "personal protection specialist" to Mr. Thompson, all he had to do was keep Mr. Thompson alive and unharmed. Simple enough. Oh, yes, the complicated part: Mr. Thompson had a lot of... un-well wishers in and around St. Louis. Mr. Thompson's way of climbing the ladder of success required a lot of people to step on, and he seemed to enjoy doing so. This provided a lot of job security for Jeb and the other bodyguards. On the average day there might be destinations to scout, routes to plan, decoys to arrange and cars to drive. Occasionally, even assassins to expose, goons to take down, and bullets to avoid—or if necessary, take. (Body armor provided a small comfort.) There was a lot of standing around, too, but hey, it was a job, it used his skills, and it paid well.
Jeb was uncomfortable with one aspect of the job: Mr. Thompson's "business". Mr. Thompson—and Jeb wasn't even sure if he had a first name—took the word "organized" very seriously. Of course, Jeb didn't have any issues with that part. It was the "crime" part of the job that left him uncomfortable. Guns. Drugs. Illegal immigrants. Prostitutes. Money laundering. Various mixes of all of the aforementioned vices. Jeb wasn't in on any of the details, but he knew enough. And Jeb knew well enough that, now that he was in deep, that if he ever faltered in his loyalty, his corpse might never be found.
In his time off, Jeb had to watch his own back, also, seeing that others knew him to be an associate of Mr. Thompson's. The cash flow took the edge off the stress, and he had pretty much what he wanted. A nice apartment. A black VRSCD Night Rod Harley. Some spare cash squirreled away. He was debt-free, and life was good.
Hmmm. Debt-free except for one small detail. It wasn't money, it was a favor...
Scene 3
"One of the common failings among honorable people is a failure to appreciate how thoroughly dishonorable some other people can be, and how dangerous it is to trust them."
— Thomas Sowell
Cecilia stopped and looked around the hallway. No one. Not a soul. At this time of day, everyone at the Covenant House was supposed to be in a class or working. The door to the director's office was open just a crack. Now might be her only chance to talk to him without creating a fuss, and without any interference from Sister Wier. She is such a... witch. Bitch. Snitch. Yeah, all that.
As Cecilia stepped up to the director's door, she heard his phone ring, and paused to listen to the one side of the conversation.
"Hello?"
"Yes."
"A Sentinel? Are you sure?"
"I suppose it was only a matter of time, after all. Can you track him?"
"When you find him, bring him to me alive if you can."
"More? How many is more?"
"That would complicate things."
"Well, if you can get to him before he finds others, I suppose you can go ahead and kill him."
"Wait, on the other hand, if he leads us to others, it may be a great help to discover their identities before they discover ours."
"Of course they would be stronger when together. I don't want us to take them on as a group. I want their identities so that we can eliminate them one at a time."
"Right. Do what you think is best, but if the opportunity arises, I would like to take one of them alive. It would make a pleasing offering to our master."
"Yes, yes of course. You can do what you want with the others. Have fun, as long as you don't leave a trail of evidence."
Cecilia heard no more of the conversation after that, as she was tip-toeing down the hallway away from the director's office as fast as her horror-stricken toes could carry her.
Scene 4
"[He] had noticed that events were cowards: they didn't occur singly, but instead they would run in packs and leap out at him all at once."
— Neil Gaiman, Neverwhere
Brisco Smith's week was slowly moving from bad to worse, and beyond. A lost cell phone, nightmares, a lack of sleep, consistently grouchy clients, an employee (ex-employee, now) skimming off the till at the auto shop, a splitting headache… and now the Chicago cops were standing at his door asking questions.
Yes, I was here at my apartment on Tuesday night. Yes, I'm sure: I watched Laws and Order. I can tell you the plot. No, I don't have a VCR, or a TiVo. No, I don't know anything about the fire on South Mason Avenue. I didn't even know any street called South Mason existed. A cell phone? I just lost the one I had. When? Monday. Where? Somewhere during my lunch break. Why, did you find my cell phone? Oh. No, I didn't report it missing, it's just a cell phone, and an older, cheap one at that. Of course it has my fingerprints on it, it was my phone until I lost it.
And so it was by the recovery of Brisco's cell phone near the arson scene on South Mason Tuesday night that the police had added Brisco to their short list of suspects. It was proposed that the person who set fire to the building was the same person as had dropped the cell phone by the building. The trouble was, that Brisco agreed with their assessment, but he was having a devil of a time convincing them that his phone had actually been lost since Monday. He had complained about losing the phone to one of his employees on Monday afternoon, he remembered, but that was the employee he had fired Wednesday for skimming cash from the till. Not good.
The detective didn't have a warrant that night, and decided against asking Brisco to come to the district 15 department for questioning. At this time. He left his card with Brisco, and rattled off the routine about "call us if you remember any more details that will help the investigation." Remember? Brisco didn't know anything more than the detective himself had hinted at during the questioning.
Brisco looked at the card: Chicago Police Department, Detective James Cantor, Bureau of Investigative Services, Detective Division, yada yada yada. He tossed the card onto the cluttered table, turned off the lights and went to bed early.
Scene 5
"It is never 'only a dream'... Here less than other places..."
— Dream, in SANDMAN #3: "Dream a Little Dream of Me" (Neil Gaiman)
It was dark. Christine could see the shadows move where the animal was, waiting for her to make the first move. She was scared, but knew better than to run, or even turn her back. The streetlight was blocked by a tree that overhung the sidewalk running along the border of the park. She slowly side-stepped toward the road, where the light was better, but the pool of light seemed to get no closer. Against all logic, there were children playing on the merry-go-round, unaware of the late hour or the predator in the shadows nearby. Christine stopped moving. The animal switched its attention from her to the children, and began creeping in their direction. Her feet wouldn't move. She tried to yell a warning, to scream, but no sound came out. As the animal closed the distance between itself and the children, it turned and looked directly at Christine. Its eyes glowed softly in a deep red color, but she knew there was no external light source for them to reflect. She tried to step toward the children, and this time the dream cooperated. As she edged closer, the beast looked at the children, back to her, and then faded away into the shadows. She was relieved, but the dream wasn't finished yet. Anything could happen. She continued to step toward the merry-go-round, scanning the shadows for the animal. Confident that it had left, she turned to the children, but they were just lying there, pale and lifeless on the slowly rotating merry-go-round.
Scene 6
"When one's character begins to fall under suspicion and disfavor, how swift, then, is the work of disintegration and destruction."
— Mark Twain, quoted in My Father Mark Twain, Clara Clemens
Brisco Smith was officially, although falsely, considered to be the arsonist for the South Mason Avenue fire, but because of a lack of evidence, no warrant for his arrest had been issued. Yet. The detective plainly thought that Brisco was his man, which meant that they had probably ceased to chase any other leads. The Tribune had printed his name and photo for all to see, as a suspect.
This would be bad enough for any normal person with nothing to hide, but Brisco wasn't one of those normal people. In addition to owning an auto-repair shop in the Austin neighborhood area, he did a little moonlighting out of a non-descript building not far away. It was in the "barn", as Brisco called it, that stolen vehicles were brought to him, and either disassembled for parts or altered and made ready for... non-traditional uses. Losing the cell phone had put a dent into that hobby, and having the police put the heat on him had put him "on vacation", as far as his non-traditional clients were concerned. He was too much of a risk right now. And the newspaper publicity had put a dent into his legitimate business, as people began to avoid being associated with him. Here he was, one minute a successful businessman, doing very well for himself, and then suddenly he was shunned by clients and colleagues, having problems keeping up with his bills, and sitting at home in the dark watching TV every night. He hadn't even reached his 25th birthday, and he was already on the verge of being "washed up".
Brisco attributed the odd nightmares he kept having to stress and watching too much TV. His dreams were like surfing bad cable channels. Zombies. Car-jackings. Murders. Carnivals. Underground tunnels. Flames, but not like the arson kind; more like the spontaneous-human-combustion type. Some dreams were like a strange mix of Law and Order, X-Files and The Twilight Zone. And that was without alcohol or drugs.
:: End Canto 5 ::
7th Seal Image: Pat Loboyko. ©2005 Scott Mitchell.
