by Len Melvin
The man shifted back and waited while she poured Simon a double scotch neat.
“Hey, I ain’t meaning no harm. I just wanted to talk to a real-life hero,” he said in a mocking tone, raising his fingers in quotes.
Christina leaned over the bar, pointing at the man with the bottle of scotch she still held in her hand. “He doesn’t want to talk to you,” she said accentuating every word. “Now get on back down there.”
The man ignored her. He towered over Simon, his features dark and menacing. “You know if you hadn’t save his life we might not be in all the shit we’re in right now.”
Simon sipped on the drink Christina had placed in front of him, his eyes fixed on a spot behind the bar.
“Maybe your little fucked-up heroics cost a lot of lives. You ever think of that, hero man?” The man leaned forward, his sneering face now close to Simon’s.
“It was my job, okay?”
“Fuck your job.” The man stared at Simon for a long moment and then whirled and threw his glass across the room at the wall. “You doing your job has probably got a lot of innocent people killed or put in jail.”
Simon began to rise from his chair. He turned and confronted the man. “You better settle down. And, I’d be careful talking like that in the District.”
Christina flicked a hand across the room where shards of glass lay on the floor. “You just broke one of my glasses, Mister.”
The man ignored her. “The country in flames, no rule of law, the rich in their yachts and estates and people starving in the street, the cities flooding, people dying right and left and you tell me to settle down? Fuck you.” He took a step closer to Simon.
An uncomfortable silence pervaded the room, the only noise the numbing hum of the announcers describing the action of the game. Simon was only five foot nine but broad shoulders and a fearless demeanor made him appear formidable. He stared up at the man, waiting expectantly, his hands balled into fists. He had been in many bar fights and knew that going on the offensive was usually the best tactic, but maybe that wouldn’t be necessary. Maybe he could throw him off and avoid a fight in Christina’s bar. “How was that Lamb Tagine you had at Joe and Mo’s two Saturday nights ago?”
“What?” The other man took a step back.
“Yeah, wasn’t that you at the third booth on the right as you come in the door? I think you were wearing some fucked-up orange sweater-vest.”
The man fell silent, mouth slightly agape. The bar quieted as the two squared-up, Simon’s chin jutting up toward the bigger man’s face. “Was that an escort you were with?”
“Why, you…”
“Cause you looked too stupid, ugly and old to be with a girl that young and pretty. Plus there was a pale spot around your ring finger.”
“You fucker. How do you know all that?” He took a quick step toward Simon.
Simon’s hand went to the SIG Sauer P365 concealed under his jacket. “Hey!” Christina barked. “Hey! Everybody cool off.” She spread her arms out wide between them.
“I think you should call the police on this guy.” The man took a step back, his face suddenly devoid of color. “He was gonna pull a gun on me. You can’t be carrying no weapon in the District.”
“He is the police, fucker.” Christina pointed at the door. “Now, I would advise you to get your ass out of here while you can and don’t come back.”
The man glowered at Christina, hesitated, and then turned and headed to the exit. He stopped with his hand on the door and started to say something but changed his mind. Instead, he swung it open so hard that it banged against the wall then strode out without looking back.
“Jesus, what’s wrong with you?” Christina planted her hands on her hips. “Almost, pulling a gun on some drunk? In a bar in the District? Jesus Christ. What is wrong with you?” she repeated, emphasizing each word clearly and loudly. “You letting some drunk in a bar get under your skin?”
Simon took a deep breath and sat down. “Sorry.”
Christina crossed her arms and took a step back. “You know, it wasn’t like he said anything that wasn’t true?”
“Maybe that’s the problem.” He picked up the glass of scotch, lifted it to his lips, and drained it in a single long swallow.
She threw her hands up and walked out from behind the bar. “I ought to make you clean this up,” she said as she grabbed a broom. She took one last, disgusted look, and then picked her way across the glass with care, wielding the broom in front of her, curse words sputtering from under her breath. “If I cut myself, I swear, I’m gonna…” She pushed the broom across the floor, the threat left unsaid.
“Say, how did you know all of that stuff about that guy? You some kinda spy or private eye?” a young guy sitting mid-way down the bar spoke for the first time.
Simon studied his glass without looking up. “Just good at remembering.”
Christina swept the glass from the floor, still muttering to herself, as Bart rose, picked up his drink, and made his way down the bar. A moment later he collapsed onto the stool next to Simon. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know he was gonna be an idiot. He seemed nice at the other end of the bar.”
“That’s alright.” Simon turned to Bart. “What are you in here all the time for lately?”
“Laid off.”
“I thought you’ve been working at the same auto shop for years.”
“Forty-one to be exact.” Bart stared at the television. “Started when I was 19. It’s all I’ve ever known.” He turned up his glass, emptying it, and then shook it back and forth, rattling the cubes of ice that were left. He hoisted the empty glass in a mock toast, “To the fucking internal combustion engine. May she rest in peace.”
“Sorry. Christina can I…?” Simon motioned to his drink and nodded at Bart.
Christina leaned the broom against the back of the bar and held the dust pan above the garbage can, depositing its contents. She raised her voice as she crossed the room. “Everybody be careful when you’re going through here. I might’a missed some.”
“Thanks.” Bart said as Christina pulled a glass from under the bar.
“So, is your auto shop closing?”
“No, just laying off a lot of people. Business has been bad.”
“Why is it losing business? Bad management?”
Bart shook his head. “Where I work is an independent repair shop. It’s a really well known, established repair shop with a good reputation, but still it’s independent.”
“So, what does that mean?”
“You ever hear of telematics?”
“No. What’s that?”
“Cars have basically become smart phones on wheels.” Christina slid a fresh drink across the bar and Bart picked it up, swirling the ice cubes against the glass. “They know everything about you. They know how much you weigh, do you buckle your seatbelt, how fast you go, where you live and even your financial information. And they are constantly sending vehicle performance and maintenance data to the manufacturer.”
“So? That’s a good thing isn’t it?”
“Well, the manufacturers control the data on the cars they manufacture. And they can control which repair shops the data gets sent to. It’s like when insurance companies get to pick the doctor you go to. So, the big dealerships who can afford it, send kickbacks in return for the manufacturers sending them the cars that need repairing and the data on what’s wrong with the cars. And they’re getting all of the business. So, despite my shop being able to do anything the big dealerships can, we’re not being sent the cars to work on.” Bart held up both hands, rough and gnarled, to Simon and Christina. “I can fix anything out there with these hands, but there are not enough cars to work on. And if some long term customer does bring in their car and I don’t have access to their car data, I’m working blindfolded.” He pointed toward Christina with his glass. “And then there are the EVs.”
“EVs?” asked a man in the middle of the bar as he turned toward the conversation.
&
nbsp; “Electric vehicles.” Simon said without turning.
“C’mon,” Christina propped an elbow on the bar, “there’s tons of regular cars still around.”
“Yeah, but every day, there are more EVs.”
“But there still has to be a lot of work, doesn’t there?” Simon asked.
“Nope. They don’t need oil changes, fuel filters, spark plug replacements or emission checks.” He ticked fingers off of his open hand as he spoke. “Timing belts, transmission fluids brake pad replacements, rotating tires. There’s just not enough maintenance work to go around. And for the EVs, they want the younger people. We already do more work now with a laptop than a wrench.”
“EVs still need maintenance and tire changes don’t they?” Christina asked.
“Yeah, but not as much. Now, tires need to be rotated every 7500 miles. Air filters need to be replaced every 22,000 miles and coolant flushed every 150,000 miles.” Bart set his glass on the bar. “You can see the problem.”
“I thought those changes were years away,” the man at the middle of the bar said.
“Nope. They’re here now.” Bart twisted his glass slowly in thought. “A very smart man told me ten years ago that this was coming but I never thought it would happen in my lifetime. He told me, ‘Technology compresses time.’ I didn’t think much about it then, but I thought of those words right when I saw the pink slip. Technology compresses time,” he repeated under his breath.
“I guess so.” Simon said more to himself than the others. “Speaking of compressed time, I need to go. I got a lot to do tomorrow.” He rose, patted Bart on the back and leaned in toward him. “Sorry,” he said, his voice low so that only Bart could hear.
“Thanks.”
Christina came around the bar, grabbed Simon’s coat, and held it while Simon slipped his arms into the sleeves. “You coming over tonight?”
“I thought you were mad.”
“I am.”
“The Boss will be up early.” He straightened his jacket and reached for his glass of scotch. He turned it up and then placed it on the bar. “And I think we’re going to Oklahoma soon so I may have to go there and do some preliminary work.”
“You know, you’re working way too hard.”
“Someone’s got to do it.”
“No, they don’t.” She put two fingers across his mouth as he began to speak. “I know, I know. You took an oath.”
“That’s right. I did.”
“But not to him.” Christina pointed a finger at the window where the Capitol Dome shone in the distance. “To that.”
Simon put an arm around Christina’s waist and kissed her on the forehead. “These days, it’s one and the same.”
Chapter Three
“Beaux, what’s a bastard?”
Beaux’s head whipped around, leaving the chicken that was baking in the stove unattended. “What?”
Jones peered at her over the top of his laptop. “It’s in the lesson plan we have today.”
Jackson leaned over and studied the screen. “It’s a really bad word.” He looked up at Beaux. “When is dinner ready?”
“Soon.” Beaux checked the timer on the stove. “About ten minutes.”
“If Mom was here, it’d already be ready.”
“Well, she’s not here.”
“Yeah,” Jones motioned to the small machine that sat on the counter, “Mom would just throw a packet of mac and cheese into the Nymble, hit the recipe button and number of portions and it’d be ready.”
“She’s not here so we are going to have a good, old-fashioned, healthy meal.”
“Where is she?” Jackson asked.
Good question. Beaux had long since given up trying to keep up with their mother. “Who knows?”
“When will she get back?”
“Don’t know but we need to hurry and eat. I’ve got to meet the supply drones at the restaurant at four and you guys are going to have to go with me.”
“Why?” They both asked at the same time.
“Because, we’re short-handed tonight and I’m not letting you walk there alone.”
“We can walk there by ourselves. We’ve got food bags.” Jones pointed to the group of brown sacks that sat folded on the counter. Beaux folded her arms and lowered her head as she gave a stern look. “Mom lets us.”
“I’m not Mom and you’re both going with me at four.”
“That means,” Jackson reminded her, “we’ll have to be there two hours before opening with nothing to do.”
“Oh, I’ll find you something to do. Or you can just bring some more lessons to work on.”
The twins groaned out loud. “I thought home schooling was over for the summer,” Jones said.
“Almost. I saw that Mom let you skip some lessons. Were you going to tell me about that?”
The twins fell silent. Beaux turned back to the stove.
“So what’s a bastard?” Jones asked.
“Where are you seeing that word?” Beaux picked up a spatula. What are these boys reading?
“We’re studying the Battle of Hastings.”
“In 1066?” Beaux said knowingly. “William the Conqueror?”
“Yeah, but it says that before he was William the Conqueror, everyone called him William the Bastard. So what’s a bastard?”
Beaux leaned down and checked on the progress of the chicken. “It’s someone who’s born to parents who aren’t married,” she said and instantly regretted it. She raised up. Both boys were staring at her with identical uncertain expressions.
“Like us?” Jones asked in a slight voice, pointing at Jackson with his finger and then to himself.
“We’re bastards?” asked Jackson.
“No. No. It’s different.”
“How?” Jones asked.
“Well,” Beaux stopped, swallowed, then bent over to check the chicken one more time. She set down the spatula, took off her apron and lay it across a chair, then walked over to the twins and knelt beside them.
She put an arm around each of their shoulders and brought them close to her. “Listen to me carefully and I’ll tell you the difference.” Beaux held her attention on one and then the other. She took a deep breath. “Okay, this is the difference,” she repeated, playing for time and silently cursing William the Bastard. “A bastard is someone born out of wedlock that’s like a one time thing and an accident. That wasn’t the case with Mom and your Dad. They were both in love and together for a long time. In their minds, they were married, they just didn’t get it formally acknowledged by getting a license.” The twins stared at her and then looked at each other. “So,” Beaux hesitated, “that’s the difference.”
“So, we’re not bastards?” Jones asked.
“No, you’re not.” Beaux kissed Jones on his forehead and then turned to Jackson and did the same. She squeezed them tight. “No, you certainly are not,” she said in a louder tone.
Jones squirmed in her grip and she loosened her hold on him. “And what about you? Mom wasn’t married when you were born. Are you a bastard?”
Beaux rolled her head back and laughed. Yes, that and a liar, she thought. “Oh, yeah. I’m a bastard. And a mean one. So finish up those lessons and let’s eat.” Beaux stood, went back to the oven and pulled the baked chicken from inside. She opened the dishwasher to retrieve two plates, then piled a breast of baked chicken and even portions of black-eyed peas and butter beans on each. She placed a square piece of yellow corn bread in the middle. “Here.” She put the plates in front of them as they pushed the laptops to the side. “Healthy food, for a change.”
“Wow, this is good.” Jackson was already biting into the chicken.
“I tell you what, you guys relax and eat and work some more on your lessons. I’m going to go meet the supply drones. I’ll come back around a quarter to six and get you. And be ready.” Beaux headed to the front door. “There’s more on the stove. Be ready when I get back.”
◆◆◆
“Toss him a food bag
.”
Jones took one of the food bags that he held under an elbow and lobbed the bag underarm to a man sitting against a tree next to a tent. The man caught it in silence and nodded his thanks.
“How come he can’t get his own food?” Jones asked Beaux.
“He’s not as fortunate as we are.”
“Why not?” asked Jackson.
“Who knows?” Beaux pushed Jackson’s hair from his eyes. “Could be he had too many medical bills or someone stole everything from him or maybe just bad luck.”
“Or a drug problem?” asked Jones.
“Or that.” Beaux said. “It could be a lot of things.” Beaux stopped in mid-step. Across the street, moving down the sidewalk, were the blue men. Even though it was late afternoon, the blue lines outlining their figures stood out. They moved in an almost business-like fashion. Malouf led the group, a backpack slung over one shoulder, seemingly unconcerned with the rest. Beaux stood transfixed as the figures became distant.
It was Friday night and the restaurant would be busy. She placed a hand on each of the boy’s backs and nudged them forward, stopping after a moment to look back over her shoulder at the blue outlines, now receding into the dusk.
“What are you looking at?” Jones asked.
“Nothing.”
Who are those guys and where were they going? And why are they blue? Beaux turned back to the twins. “Guys, you think you can make it by yourself to the restaurant from here?”
“Yeah,” they both said.
“Okay, I just remembered something I left at the house. You sure you’ll be alright?”
“It’s only around the corner,” Jones said.
“And you’ve got the food bags,” she said more to herself than the twins. “Okay be careful.” The blue-lined men rounded the corner and Beaux whirled and followed them, pulling her phone out as she went. She texted an excuse to her mother, placed the phone on silent and returned it in her pocket.
They trudged in front of a wide field that fronted the local university and then turned and headed down a small street. Malouf stopped a couple of times, looked around, then gathered the others around him, pointing to the phone in his hand. They all started off again, slowly, as if searching for something. Beaux moved along the edge of the street attempting to keep to the shadows.
