Face Blind

by Len Melvin

  Beaux nodded. “I heard about that.”

  Bobby muttered something under his breath. “Well, after the bombing he declared a national emergency and jailed the leaders of the opposite party, saying that they were trying to plot a coup. Then he dissolved the Congress and had new elections but you had to be approved by him before you could run. Then he did the same with the courts. Want me to go on?”

  Beaux nodded. “Yeah, go on.”

  “You know about the uprising in California?”

  “Yeah, my friends were talking about it.”

  “Well, there are lots of troops there now to try to keep order but it’s not working so well.”

  “I did hear some customers talking about demonstrations.”

  “There are lot more than demonstrations going on.” Bobby finished his drink and signaled to Mae Helen for another. “More like a full-blown war. And parts of the East Coast are not much better. There’s talk of secession everywhere and then Utah is trying to set up a Kingdom.”

  Across the restaurant, a chair fell back on the floors and a customer exclaimed loudly. “Just a minute.” Beaux strode quickly to a table on the far side of the restaurant, kneeling to pick an empty mug from the floor. She grabbed some napkins from an adjoining table and went to a man who was brushing liquid off his jacket. “Sorry, about that,” she said as handed him the clean napkins. She gave a sideways glance to Jones who was standing to the side, a look of fear on his face.

  “I didn’t mean to,” he began, I didn’t know that…”

  “Don’t worry.” Smiling, she pulled a pen from her pocket and wrote on a piece of paper she pulled from her pocket. She gave it to the customer who was now standing and pulling off his jacket. She began to talk to him and then extended her hand and almost forced the man to shake her hand. Beaux put an arm around Jones’ shoulder and escorted him slowly back to the kitchen as she whispered into his ear. She kissed him on the forehead and then went back to where Bobby sat. “Whew.” she said

  “Was he mad?”

  “At first, but I told him his tab was on the house and that we would be responsible for the cleaning bill.”

  “And Jones?”

  “He’s good. Just upset for a second. It’s funny how different the twins are. Nothing phases Jackson, but Jones, well, that’s another story.”

  Beaux put a foot on the rung of Bobby’s barstool. “So, now what?”

  “About the President?” Bobby leaned back on his stool and looked at Beaux.

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know. It’s more like he’s a King now than President.” Bobby shrugged his shoulders. “But some people say that’s good. That it’s what we needed.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I’m too old to make a difference either way. I’m just going to sit here every night, drink, play chess, read the obituaries and hope I don’t see my name.” Beaux put a hand to her mouth, muffling a laugh. “What about you? You’re young. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even remember him not being the President. I don’t remember what it was like before him. I’ll ask my uncle what he thinks. He might be coming here.”

  “Who?” Bobby asked.

  “My uncle. He’s a Secret Service agent.”

  Bobby grunted and stood up, moaning as he stretched. “If he’s supposed to be protecting the President, I imagine he has his hands full.” He turned and shuffled off toward the bathroom. “Watch my drink. If I’m not back soon,” he said over his shoulder, “send a search party.”

  Beaux stared at the television screen that was now reflecting the next week’s weather. The President coming here. “Hmm,” she said aloud.

  Long ago, the man who taught her to play chess used to say, Strategy requires thought, tactics require observation. She thought of what she had observed in the last weeks. A group of masked people were going underground and directly across the street from where the President of the United States with the rest of the leadership of the country were going to appear within the week.

  And then there were people with blue lines around their bodies following the people who were going underground. And the King, the Queen and the bishops were all going to be exposed on one stage at one time. Her train of thought was broken by a roar of engines from outside the restaurant. The roar became louder as engines revved, sputtered, then went silent.

  Choppers, she thought. That’s all we need.

  “What was that? Motorcycles?” Bobby asked, settling back onto his barstool.

  “Yeah,” Beaux said, an ominous dread in her voice. “And there’s no security tonight because it was so slow.”

  The front door opened and three burly men in jeans, boots, and leather vests over t-shirts wet with perspiration stepped into the open door frame. They wore bandoliers across their chests, cartridges poked into the rows of loops, and sawed-off shotguns on their backs. They all had facial hair, but the one in front had a long red beard that hung almost to his belt. They surveyed the room and then went to the bar and sat three seats down from Bobby, their bodies devouring the small barstools. A silence enveloped the room and Beaux sensed an uneasiness in the people sitting at the tables. “Three Buds and three shots of the best tequila you got,” the one with the red beard said, holding up three fingers to Mae Helen.

  She hesitated and then turned to the cooler. Red-Beard pulled his shotgun from his back and placed it on the bar next to him.

  Beaux rose, straightened her shoulders, and strode over to the men, their body odor becoming stronger as she approached. “We don’t allow shotguns in here,” she said.

  The man with the red beard turned slowly in his barstool, studied her with steady, dead eyes, then turned back around and took his beer from Mae Helen, dismissing Beaux as if she wasn’t there.

  “We don’t allow those in here,” Beaux said louder.

  The man turned again. “Who are you?”

  “The manager.”

  The man motioned to the pistol attached to Beaux’s waist. “What about that, manager?”

  “That’s not a shotgun,” Beaux said slowly, as if explaining something to a child. “This is a family restaurant, and those aren’t allowed.” The restaurant had become quiet as the customers turned to watch. Bobby cleared his throat and turned in his chair toward the man.

  The front door of the restaurant opened and five men entered. Malouf, in front, stopped, sensing something was wrong and the ones behind him almost piled into him as he stood in the doorway. He looked at Beaux and then at the men at the bar. He motioned to an empty booth near the door and then slipped into the outside seat after the men with him sat.

  Red Beard turned his attention back to Beaux. “So’s pistols are allowed but not shotguns?” Beaux nodded. “If I was to give this here shotgun up then I’d be unarmed. You ain’t trying to infringe on my Second Amendment rights, are you?”

  “No shotguns allowed, Mister.” Beaux refused to respond to the question. “Y’all can either give ‘em up or get out.”

  One of his friends rose from his seat but the red-bearded man put out a hand and waved him off. The man eased back on his stool. “What if I don’t do either one?”

  “I’ll call the police.” The three men burst out in laughter and the red-bearded man turned back toward the bar He picked up his beer and drained half of it in one swallow.

  Beaux motioned to Mae Helen and she grabbed her cell phone from the back counter. “I wouldn’t do that, Honey,” the dark-haired one said.

  Mae Helen stopped dialing and glanced at Beaux.

  “Now what, Missy?” the red-bearded man asked, his lips curled into a sneer.

  Beaux stared at the man. She could let this go and maybe the men would finish their drinks and leave. Behind her, the scrape of chairs and the scuffle of feet told her that a group of customers had just hurried for the door. If she didn’t get them out of here the whole restaurant might leave, also without paying. And she couldn’t blame them.
r />   The man in the red beard turned back to the bar “Can we get some menus?” he barked at Mae Helen.

  Mae Helen didn’t move, the phone still held in her hand.

  “No,” Beaux said firmly, her eyes narrowing.

  The man with the red beard rose in a deliberate manner from his chair. He pointed a fat finger at Beaux. “I’m hungry and I’m thirsty, Missy and I’m getting a little tired of you.”

  Bobby stood up. “Hey, if…”

  The man put a heavy hand on Bobby’s shoulder and pushed down. “Sit down, old man. This don’t concern you.”

  “You keep your hands off him, you fucker.” Beaux placed a hand on the grip of her pistol.

  The man in the red beard looked at Beaux with small black eyes and took his hand off Bobby. He took a step forward, “Missy, you just…”

  Beaux felt someone standing behind her. “Mister, I think she said you had to leave.”

  The red-bearded man looked at Malouf. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Just a customer,” Malouf said with no emotion.

  “Maybe, customer, you should mind your own fucking business.”

  “Having a nice meal in a safe setting is my business.”

  “Well, I don’t think you’re gonna get either one tonight.” In one, swift movement, the red-bearded man grabbed his beer bottle by its neck, slammed it against the bar, then held the jagged end out in front of him. The corners of his mouth turned slightly upward and then he lunged forward. Malouf jumped to the side as the bottle slashed through open space and crossed Beaux’s arm, gashing it down the length of her arm.

  Beaux screamed and bent over, clutching her arm as blood spilled out onto the wood floor. The heavily mustached man next to him bull-rushed Malouf and they fell back onto the floor, knocking a table over. People in the restaurant scrambled to their feet, arms held out in front of wives and children as chairs and tables full of food and drink were overturned.

  The last of the trio pulled his shotgun from his back and pointed it at the crowd. “Don’t nobody pull their weapon or I’ll kill all you motherfuckers.” He waved the shotgun back and forth. “Everybody get back and show me your hands.”

  Maddie and Inez burst through the kitchen door. “What was that?” Inez screamed.

  The man turned the shotgun in their direction. “Shut up.” He held it on them for another moment and then swung it back to the people in the restaurant.

  Malouf and his attacker rolled over on the floor before the man pinned Malouf against the base of a booth. He pulled a knife from a sheath attached to his belt and shoved it in Malouf’s face. “We told you this warn’t none of your business.”

  Beaux cast a quick glance at the man with the shotgun, whose attention was focused on the tussle on the floor. She raised her knee and jammed it with a quick thrust up between the red-bearded man’s legs with as much force as she could muster.

  He screamed and doubled over, his hand holding his crotch. Beaux stood over him, her clothing soaked in blood. He eased himself to the floor and sat with his hands between his legs, gasping for breath, his face contorted in pain.

  Malouf’s attacker pulled back, turning at the sound of red beard’s piercing scream. Malouf slipped his hand inside his pocket and pulled out a short, black baton. He gripped it tight, then touched the man who was on top of him. Instantly, the man went limp and Malouf pushed him off of and rolled him to the side.

  The man with the shotgun turned and pointed the shotgun at Malouf.

  Malouf grabbed his attacker’s limp body and pulled it back on top of him using the man for cover as he struggled to extend the baton.

  “What’d you do to him?” The man with the shotgun started toward Malouf, the shotgun, erratic in its movement as he struggled for a clear shot. “Come out from under there. You can’t hide under him forever.”

  He stopped abruptly as the cold, metallic barrel of a gun pressed firmly against the side of his head.

  “Put it down slowly or I’m gonna blow your head off.” He turned his head slightly to the side. A bloody hand held a pistol. “Now!” Beaux screamed.

  The man lowered the shotgun.

  “Put it on the counter.”

  He moved the shotgun toward the counter but then whirled, striking Beaux across the chin with the butt. She fell back against the bar and onto the floor. Her gun discharged and a bullet ripped through the Christmas lights before exiting through the ceiling. The man shoved his boot down onto Beaux’s chest and put the shotgun in her face. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “No!” Maddie screamed from the kitchen door.

  The man leered at Maddie. “And you’re next,” he said.

  A black blur shot across the room, striking the man’s torso. He dropped to the floor in a crumpled heap. Malouf crawled out from under the man on top of him, casting the limp body to the side. He pushed up from the floor, still holding the extended baton then hurried over to Beaux. The man with the red beard sat up, groaning, still with his hands between his legs. Malouf touched the baton to his body and he fell, unmoving to the floor.

  Malouf hit a button, then another and the baton shrunk down until it fit into the palm of his hand. He slipped it into his pocket and knelt beside Beaux, sliding an arm over her shoulder. “You okay?”

  Beaux moaned, swiped a hand across an ugly red mark on her chin, then bent over and spit out blood.

  Malouf ran his hand alongside and under Beaux’s bleeding arm, examining the gash the bottle had left behind. “We got to get that treated and soon.” He helped Beaux to her feet. “C’mon.” He put an arm under her good elbow and urged her toward the door.

  She held up a hand, stopped and bent over and spit out another mouthful of blood. She wiped a bloody sleeve across her mouth. “To where?”

  “Back to my room. We need to treat that and quick.”

  “I’ve got some bandages and ointment in here until the paramedics get here.” Maddie said from the kitchen door, a phone in hand and a hand held aloft indicating for them to wait.

  “I’ve got something better,” Malouf said. “C’mon.” He pulled on Beaux’s elbow again. Beaux looked from Malouf to her mother and back to Malouf. “Trust me. I’ve got something better.”

  “Okay,” Beaux nodded. “Mom, it’s gonna be okay.” She moved with Malouf toward the door. She stopped and turned back for a moment. “Just a minute.”

  “What?” asked Malouf.

  Beaux dislodged her elbow from his grip and stepped over to the man who had struck her with the shotgun. She glared down at him, then pulled her foot back and kicked him in the ribs.

  Malouf shook his head and grinned as he heard a cracking sound.” He turned to Mae Helen. “Call the police.” He motioned to the men on the floor. “They’re going to be coming to in about twenty minutes.”

  Mae Helen began dialing on the phone as Malouf signaled to his companions. They rose from their table and followed him.

  “You violated the rules,” one of them said.

  “Just put everything on erase. And thanks for the help.”

  “You know we’re not to get involved.”

  “Do you know where I might get one of those black sticks?” Bobby asked.

  “Wait around a while.” Malouf put an arm around Beaux and helped her out the door.

  ◆◆◆

  “She’s going to need stitches.”

  Beaux held her arm over the table as one of Malouf’s men dabbed at the blood that still seeped from the gash.

  Malouf sat on the bed, his back propped against the frame, eating an orange. “How many?”

  “Twenty or so.”

  “Scan her with the iFlexhub.”

  The man stopped attending the wounded and turned to Malouf. “You know, I don’t think we’re supposed to…”

  “Just do it.” Malouf interrupted. “If there’s a problem later, I’ll be responsible.”

  “I think I should go to a hospital,” Beaux moaned.

  “Scan her.”<
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  The man stared at Malouf for a moment and then grabbed his backpack and pulled out a small, black object. He unfolded it, then looked over at Malouf again.

  “Do it,” Malouf ordered.

  The man let out a frustrated sigh, then hit a button and an orange light appeared. “Yes?” a female voice inquired.

  “Scan for tendon or ligament damage,” the man said. He held the object over Beaux’s arm and moved it from her shoulder to her wrist.

  “Negative for tendon or ligament damage,” the female voice said. “There is a twelve-inch wound that needs immediate attention. Eighteen stitches to the underside of the arm running from the carpus to the hinge joint of the elbow are advised.”

  “She’s lucky,” the man said.

  “Carpus?” Beaux asked.

  “You need stitches from the wrist to the elbow.” Malouf answered.

  From across the room, one of the other men spoke up. “We are using resources that might be needed later on something that has nothing to do with our mission,” he said. “Additionally, we are violating procedure. We are not to get involved. Only observe.”

  Malouf nodded. “I know the rules the procedure and the mission. Did you want me to stand back and let a lot of people get hurt?”

  “It is not our responsibility. We cannot get involved. It might change things.”

  “I know, I know.” Malouf held up a hand dismissively and turned to the man who was treating Beaux. “Do it.”

  The man exchanged a meaningful glance with the others. “Yes, Sir.” he said in a low voice.

  Beaux looked from Malouf to the men in the room. “What’s an iFlexhub?” She rose from the chair. “I really think I should just go to a hospital.”

  Malouf waved his palms downward and Beaux sat back down. “Give her a greenie.”

  The man took a step back, clearly startled. “What?”

  “Just do it.” Malouf rose from the bed and sat at the table next to Beaux. “We’re going to give you a pill that will alleviate any pain you might have and then we’re going to stitch you up. It’s going to be painless and hygienic. I promise you. Then I’m going to put some magic cream on the wound, and you’ll be good as new.” Beaux looked from Malouf to the man who was treating her and then to her arm. Malouf reached out and put a hand under her chin and lifted it so that their eyes met. “Trust me.”