by James Morcan
Nine knew the monoatomic substance was all that stood between him and the loss of his freedom. If it was removed or dislodged, even for a second, resumption of the transmission signal from the microchip embedded in his forearm would reveal his whereabouts to Omega. The agency’s operatives would be onto him within the hour – no matter where he was in North America. Their tentacles were that far-reaching.
The fugitive orphan realized he would eventually need to find an alternative to the White Gold. It wasn’t practical to wear it wrapped around his arm every minute of every day. He knew to be truly free from his Omega enslavers, he’d eventually need to find a corruptible doctor to surgically remove the microchip. But it would take time to raise the cash required and locate such a doctor. Anyway, he had more important things on his mind right now – like Helen.
Nine glanced at Ace and saw he was still asleep. The Pedemont escapee jumped to his feet and walked barefoot on the beach to the water’s edge. The sun felt warm on his back. He looked north toward the Santa Monica Mountains and Pacific Palisades. They glowed in the early morning sun.
The beach was starting to come to life. Surfers paddled their boards out to catch the day’s first waves, and joggers ran by.
Nine couldn’t help thinking how good it was to be alive. He bent down and scooped up a handful of sand. As it escaped through his fingers, he promised himself he’d remain free until the day he died.
But how? How am I going to live day to day?
His thoughts turned to practical matters – like finding a place to live. He was aware no landlord would rent a property to a minor, and no boarding house would accept an under-age boarder. The boy was in no doubt he could manifest the funds to afford permanent residence in a hotel or motel, but that would also raise questions and draw undue attention.
Nine looked back at the palm trees and noticed Ace was now up and about. The Native American gave him a wave.
As the orphan slowly walked back up the beach, he saw Venice locals – some homeless, some not – calling out to Ace as though he was the heavyweight champion of the world, or the mayor perhaps, or at least someone of note. One, a doting, middle-aged woman, emerged from a nearby café and handed him a steaming hot breakfast on a tray; a group of street kids stopped to share a joke with him while a young man rode up on a scooter and handed him a large bag of tobacco.
The Native American greeted all with a smile and a charm that belied his status as a homeless person.
Nine had overheard some homeless refer to Ace as the Tsar of the Streets. He’d already figured that out for himself. It was evident the man had set up shop as some kind of moneylender.
The orphan didn’t know it yet, but Ace had created a lucrative niche for himself lending monies to other homeless and then charging high interest rates with exorbitant late fees built in. He got away with it because his clients accepted they represented such a high risk that not even the shadiest loan sharks would do business with them. That and because he was generally well liked. He could get away with things others couldn’t.
It sounded an unlikely business, but Ace made it work through knowing everybody and understanding how to use the grapevine to his advantage: the grapevine, or tom-tom drums as he preferred to call it, told him with unerring accuracy who among his associates and clients had suddenly had a financial windfall; if those same people owed him money, he’d come calling. As a result, he had his share of enemies. He also had their respect, so few ever tried it on with him. The one or two who did, only ever tried it on once. And word quickly spread – the Tsar of the Streets was not a man to cross.
As Nine caught up to Ace, he remembered a line he’d once read in an ancient text: In the kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. The local Tsar really was king of his humble community. At that moment he was delivering a lecture to an unkempt, homeless youth who had fallen behind in his monthly loan payments. The youth was visibly shaking as Ace berated him.
A thought occurred to Nine as he observed his newfound friend conduct his business dealings with all the confidence of a self-made billionaire.
36
Nine looked on as Ace shook hands with the landlord of the small, two bedroom unit the Native American had just signed a lease agreement for. The high-density apartment complex, whose third floor the unit occupied, was situated in one of Venice’s rundown backstreets. It was a good mile from the beach and surrounded by other properties that were in a state of miserable disrepair – properties that were frequented by junkies and other undesirables.
However, it was paradise compared to living on the streets, and Ace had a huge grin on his weathered face. He didn’t mind the threadbare carpet, the flecks of mold in the ceiling or that the landlord was grossly overcharging for a place that was barely livable. Especially as it wasn’t his money. It was Nine’s.
The rent was eight hundred dollars a month. Ace had just handed over the first month’s rent and an extra four hundred dollars for the bond deposit. That represented the last of the cash his young companion had acquired during his pickpocketing exploits at the farmers market in Mount Pleasant, Iowa.
Nine had organized the accommodation after scouring rental property listings in local papers. He had earlier purchased Ace a suit and schooled him up to advise prospective landlords that Nine was his nephew and was only visiting Los Angeles. Neither of them wanted any record of a young boy on some tenancy agreement.
Ace had scrubbed up remarkably well – so much so the landlord had no idea he was handing over the apartment to someone who had been living on the streets for almost a decade.
In fact, the Tsar of the Streets had a more impressive background than the average homeless person: he’d once managed a big city gas station, helped run a small town hunting and fishing retail outlet, and had completed a tour of duty in Vietnam. Having mixed with people on both sides of the tracks, Ace felt completely at home whether in the company of the haves or the have-nots. To this day he carried around a credit card – albeit an expired one – and he never hesitated to flash it when the occasion required.
#
That evening, the two unlikeliest of buddies drank Coke together in companionable silence in their newly acquired unit. They had no furniture yet, so Nine and Ace sat on wooden boxes.
The fugitive orphan congratulated himself on securing a home for himself. He wasn’t sure exactly how he would come up the money for furniture, not to mention the monthly rent and other living expenses, but was confident his unique skills would enable him to manifest the funds acquired.
As if reading his thoughts, Ace asked, “So tell me again how we gonna pay for this palace?” He looked around at the interior of the rundown unit without a hint of irony on his face.
“I don’t think I ever mentioned that.”
“Oh, that’s right. You didn’t,” Ace chuckled. When he realized Nine wasn’t intending to divulge his moneymaking plans, he changed tack. “So, Luke, why don’t you tell me why you left home?”
Nine thought back to the previous night. He had told Ace he’d run away from his parents who lived in Arizona. “Dad beat me and my mother didn’t care.”
Ace pondered that for a moment. “Well, I can be your guardian now.”
“Thank you, but let’s keep it on the lowdown. Nobody must know about me. Officially speaking you’ve never met me, okay?”
“Well, okay son, but why all the secrecy?”
“That’s the way it has to be if I’m gonna keep paying the bills around here.” Nine put down his Coke bottle and extended his hand. “Do we have a deal?”
“Yessir.” Ace spat on the palm of his right hand in the time-honored custom.
Nine followed suit and the two shook hands solemnly. The boy felt satisfied he had found a worthy guardian; the man was pleased to have met the boy, but was starting to wonder just who was the guardian here.
37
Wearing the baggy jeans and long-sleeved shirt he’d acquired during a shoplifting visit to a trendy fashion st
ore earlier that morning, Nine was feeling decidedly cool as he strolled along Santa Monica’s vibrant Third Street Promenade. A glance at his reflection in a shop window confirmed he looked as cool as he felt. He was especially pleased his new outfit complemented the Reeboks he’d acquired in Chicago.
The fugitive orphan decided life had never been so good. For the first time, he could do what he wanted, when he wanted. And the deep-seated fear and resentment he’d always felt as a manufactured product of Omega were beginning to fade, too.
Now that he was establishing himself as a Los Angeles resident, albeit an unofficial one, Nine was feeling more and more confident. In fact, he felt ten foot tall and bulletproof, and reveled in being a rebel. He congratulated himself on achieving what none of his fellow orphans had achieved or even dared to achieve.
I’ve broken the mold. The world is mine now.
He strutted like the cowboys he’d seen in Western movies.
Those bastards thought I was their robot. They underestimated me.
As he took in the shops, cafes, bookstores and street performers on the Promenade, L.A. pulsed through his veins like a drug. He was already addicted to the City of Angels, though he hadn’t yet seen much of it. It was so noisy and colorful he couldn’t think of a more appropriate city in which to experience a normal existence for the first time.
Nine stopped for a moment to watch a talented young busker, an Asian boy who looked slightly younger than himself, singing a Sixties song while playing an electric guitar. Hovering nearby was an Asian man whom Nine assumed was the boy’s father. The man was smiling to himself as he counted all the coins and notes passersby had dropped into the boy’s guitar case.
There was something about the man that reminded Nine of Kentbridge. Perhaps it was the way he watched over the boy. Non-interfering, but ever-present.
Tommy, you fool. You think coz you’re a secret elite hotshot you had me sussed. Well here I am, free!
Nine defiantly raised his hands skyward for a moment as he resumed walking.
I proved you all wrong, you sons of bitches.
Heading away from Third Street Promenade, Nine thought of the orphans he’d left behind in Riverdale.
I am a beacon of light to them.
He hoped his escape would inspire them to at least try to flee from their Omega masters.
I did it. I did the impossible, so kiss my ass, Tommy.
The shrill howl of a police motorcycle siren jarred Nine out of his thoughts. He froze when a uniformed cop pulled up alongside him. The cop, a huge bear of a man, removed his helmet and stared hard at him.
Nine feared the worst. He assumed the cop was either working for the Omega Agency or at least had been sent by them. His mind raced at a million miles an hour as he tried to figure out how they could have traced him.
“You were jaywalking back there, son,” the cop growled.
Nine breathed a sigh of relief. His former confidence returned and he met the big cop’s gaze without flinching. This wasn’t lost on the cop who was beginning to find the boy’s attitude and general demeanor irritating.
The cop pulled out a notebook from his top pocket. “I’m going to need to see some ID, and you or your parents will have a fine to pay.”
“No problem, sir.”
As Nine deliberately fumbled for his wallet, he saw the cop was otherwise occupied, filling out a form in his notebook. The orphan bolted. Sprinting into an adjoining street, he rounded a corner and disappeared from sight.
The surprised cop kick-started his motorcycle and sped off after the boy.
Nine sprinted across a tree-lined park toward an underground car park he’d noticed earlier that morning. It was beneath an office building, and he’d earmarked it as a good hiding place should he ever need one. Behind him, and closing fast, the cop’s revving motorcycle could be heard, its siren blaring.
Fortunately, the line of trees screened Nine from the cop’s sight. The orphan ran through the car park’s unmanned entrance and slowed to a walk when he heard the motorcycle roar past the building. He relaxed as the siren gradually faded in the distance.
Erring on the side of caution, Nine hurried over to a utility vehicle parked at the far end of the car park. He unclipped its plastic cover, climbed beneath it onto the vehicle’s tray and pulled the cover back over him so he was completely concealed. He’d give it an hour before venturing outside – just in case. Coming to the attention of LAPD was the last thing he needed right now.
38
The fugitive orphan filled in time wandering Santa Monica’s back streets. Not wanting to bump into the same cop who had tried to ticket him earlier for jaywalking, he gave the main streets a wide berth.
Nine reviewed his current situation as he negotiated a zebra crossing. The Venice apartment he shared with Ace meant he now had a base and so could finally turn his attention to Helen, the reason he’d come to California. That morning, he’d trailed the young Greek immigrant from her home to her school, discovering she was enrolled at Santa Monica High School, on Pico Boulevard. He hated the fact it was a co-ed institution. Knowing she was sharing classes with teenage males added to his sense of urgency.
The orphan was becoming increasingly nervous as he considered what he was about to do. He checked his watch.
School’s out soon.
He strode out in the direction of the school.
#
Nine arrived outside Santa Monica High’s campus just as the bell rang, signifying the end of the school day. He sat under a tree opposite the school and waited for Helen to emerge.
His nerves were starting to jangle.
What the hell am I going to say to her?
He mentally rehearsed a variety of opening lines, but stopped when he realized how hollow they sounded.
Nine came fully alert as hundreds of students started flooding through the school gates. They came toward him like a tidal wave. Trying to identify Helen was a bit like looking for a needle in a haystack.
There she is!
Despite the odds, he spotted her. She was with two female students. They were both older and taller than her – no surprise given she was one of the youngest students enrolled at the Santa Monica High. Though she was only thirteen-and-a-half, Helen had been accepted as a freshman at the school and was in Grade Nine, having skipped a year of junior high as a result of her above-average grades in Chicago.
Like most of the other students, the three girls carried backpacks that bulged with textbooks, homework and other school items. Helen was also weighed down with additional textbooks, which she needed both hands to carry. The three girls were evidently good friends. They chatted and giggled as they traipsed homewards.
Nine followed some distance behind, hoping Helen’s friends would go their own way before she reached her house. His wish was granted almost immediately when the two girls bade Helen farewell and headed off in a different direction.
If he was nervous before, now he felt so nervous he thought he might be sick. He could feel his heart thumping as he increased his pace and moved to within a few yards of the girl he considered the most beautiful creature in the world. His greedy eyes took in her long hair cascading over her backpack, her smooth, olive skin, her shapely legs and the contours of her slender body.
You are such a goddess.
Every step carried him closer to the girl whose pace was noticeably slowing with every step. She was clearly finding it hard going having to carry all her textbooks.
Soon, he was only a few feet behind her. His nerves were jangling so loudly now he was surprised Helen hadn’t heard them. Nine was convinced he was having a panic attack. Any second he’d have to introduce himself to her, and he still had no idea what he was going to say.
Omega’s training never prepared me for this.
He was running out of time. They’d already entered the street Helen lived in; in two minutes they’d be at her front gate.
The solution to Nine’s dilemma came in an instant. One of He
len’s shoelaces came undone. The orphan spotted it and was about to draw the wayward shoelace to her attention when she tripped on it and was sent sprawling, her textbooks flying in all directions. She fell heavily, grazing her knee on the sidewalk.
Concerned, Nine knelt down beside her and touched her shoulder. “Are you okay?” Her shoulder felt hot to his touch.
Surprised by the boy’s sudden appearance and shaken by the fall, Helen slowly looked up at him.
Nine pretended not to know those big dark brown eyes of hers, but it was hard to hide the familiarity he felt, having viewed them close up through the binoculars so many times. For a moment he got lost in them.
Still slightly dazed, the young beauty looked at him strangely for a moment. “Yes, I am fine,” she replied matter-of-factly.
Nine noticed she spoke with a strong Greek accent yet in perfectly eloquent English. Her voice, which sounded surprisingly mature, was like music to his ears.
The orphan stretched out his hand. “Here, let me help you.”
She put her hand in his and he pulled her to her feet. He had the strength of a grown man, but if Helen noticed anything unusual she never let on.
Nine pulled a McDonalds serviette from his pocket and gave it to Helen, pointing at her grazed knee. “You’re bleeding.”
“Oh, thank you. I hadn’t noticed.” She gratefully accepted the serviette and dabbed at her knee. As she did her eyes were drawn to the Big Mac logo on the serviette.
While Helen attended to her graze, Nine picked up her scattered textbooks. That done, he stood before her. “I better walk you home.”
“There’s really no need for you to do that.”
He started walking anyway, hoping she’d follow. After a few seconds, she did. They walked onwards in an awkward silence. Nine led the way. Helen followed a step behind.
The orphan automatically stopped when they reached the Katsarakis home.
