by Brian Shea
Laughter erupted at a table near the exit. Five people wearing brightly colored Lycra form-fitting shirts and tight-fitting bike shorts were chuckling loudly at what one of the bikers had said. A pale skinned red-haired cyclist with a neatly groomed beard of similar color continued whatever story had lit the group afire. They were brightly colored, gregarious people calling attention to themselves in the small quiet setting the cafe was supposed to be. They were the toucans. As a pigeon, he felt nothing but disgust.
The red head told his story with more fervor now that he had engaged the group. He was now telling it as if everyone in the cafe wanted to hear. His story revolved around somebody named Chris who had apparently ridden full speed into the open door of a box truck. Chris's lack of awareness and subsequent crash was a thing of pure comedy for these men.
As the man sipped his lukewarm burnt coffee and watched, scanning the group, he wondered if this Chris was among the brightly colored men. But on second thought, he realized he didn't care. None of their stories mattered. None of their lives mattered.
The clock in his head began to tick.
The door opened and a cool breeze accompanied a well-dressed businessman as he entered the shop.
It was early May, and even though spring was officially here, the mornings were still cold. Cold enough that people typically donned a windbreaker and joggers were still wearing long-sleeved shirts for their morning runs.
The man that just walked in was in a three-piece suit and carried a worn leather briefcase with him. He looked at his watch as he approached the counter. He had an air of importance.
If the others were toucans, this man was a peacock. Aside from the fancy suit, he wore an item of unique interest to man who valued the power of time above all else, a Rolex Submariner watch. Did the businessman appreciate the value of the well-crafted timepiece? Probably not.
Everything about the businessman exuded confidence. He wanted the world to know he was an important man, a powerful man. He moved through the small cafe with a purpose, his eyes never looking down or over at the other patrons. They were beneath him.
His presence commanded the others in the café to take notice. Even the laughter at the table of cyclists lowered in volume at his entrance.
At the counter, he ordered his drink. While the barista was serving him, he asked him if there was anything else he'd like. The man took out his phone, answering it and ignoring the question, inserted the credit card into the machine in front of him. Leaving no tip, he took the coffee in hand and turned without a thank you. He then took a seat on the opposite side of the cafe.
The businessman was alone, but unlike the man with the newspaper, he was anything but invisible. Even the mother looked up from her phone to give him a once over.
But for all the things he hated about the businessman, there was one aspect he appreciated. At least he was punctual.
Setting the lukewarm, burnt coffee down on the table, he looked at his watch. 9:47 AM. The businessman was three minutes later than he'd been yesterday when he'd come into the café. Two minutes later than the day before. In the law of calculatable averages, taking the last three weeks in which the man had come here for his morning jolt, he was one minute and thirty-seven seconds in standard deviation off the established time.
Time was everything. Time mattered. It was the one constant. Everybody moving around in this world was on an indeterminate timeline. Some were cut short, some extended into long life, but nobody had control. Well, almost nobody. He folded the paper and didn't take another sip from the coffee. He watched as the businessman was busy berating the person on the other end of the phone. In the past three weeks, the majority of conversations he’d overheard, the suit had never once spoken a word of kindness. He’d never once said thank you.
He knew men of power felt things like that were beneath them. To offer an apology, to show another human being common decency was a sign of weakness. He'd known this because he'd been on the other end of it for the better part of his life. But right now, here, sitting in front of the lukewarm coffee, he held the power.
Nobody in this room noticed him. He was a pigeon. He was invisible, but he wouldn't be for long.
He stood without even a glance from the other patrons. On his way out, he returned the newspaper back to its place in the rack. He dropped the nearly full cup of coffee into the circular trash hole at the sugar and cream station.
He left, walking out into the brisk morning breeze as the city began to come to life. Nobody had noticed that he had left his backpack under the table. Nobody had cared. They were busy in their own worlds.
Time was ticking, but none of them knew it.
The businessman would stay for roughly ten minutes, as he did every day before heading back to his office.
He looked at his watch. It was 9:54.
The seconds ticked by as he watched the second-hand spin on the face of his Citizens watch, the one thing he’d taken from his father. It was the only piece of his past he carried with him.
He was a block away when the second hand made its way around to the 12.
The explosion rocked the street in front of the café, sending a ball of fire out towards the park. Screams filled the air and pigeons took flight as he disappeared into the crowd of panicked bystanders.
Time was the truest source of power. And for the six people on his list, he controlled it completely.
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SIGN OF THE MAKER, Boston Crime Thriller Book #4
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About the Author
Brian Shea has spent most of his adult life in service to his country and local community. He honorably served as an officer in the U.S. Navy. In his civilian life, he reached the rank of Detective and accrued over eleven years of law enforcement experience between Texas and Connecticut. Somewhere in the mix he spent five years as a fifth-grade school teacher. Brian’s myriad of life experience is woven into the tapestry of each character’s design. He resides in New England and is blessed with an amazing wife and three beautiful daughters.
