3rd World Products, Inc. Book 7

by Ed Howdershelt

  Eyeing the map again, he asked, “Show me home?"

  I tapped the middle of Florida and made the screen zoom in a few times, giving Tiger time to study each adjustment, until the few blocks of our neighborhood were displayed.

  Pointing at our house, I said, “We live here."

  Don't expect amazement from a cat. He looked like any scholar studying an odd artifact as he leaned left, then right, and finally sat upright again.

  Sniffing the part of the display that showed Maggie Lake, he asked, “That is our lake?"

  For lack of a better answer, I replied, “Yes, it is. Very good."

  Looking up, he said, “Thank you. I'm hungry now,” and hopped off the table to head for the kitchen.

  Letting the map screen dissolve, I looked at Elkor and said, “That's how cats work, y'know. Whatever it is; when it's over, it's over."

  "It would appear so. I have calculated a sixty-eight-point-three percent probability that Alissa will return to Florida. Do you concur?"

  I pretended to give the matter some thought, then nodded and said, “Yeah, that sounds close enough."

  Chapter Fifty-five

  My bedside clock read nine-ten when the phone wakened me on Monday morning. Alissa? Donna? I decided to answer the call instead of letting my machine get it.

  I said, “Hi, there, you got me,” and some guy greeted me effusively with an accent that sounded as if he might be calling from India. After mispronouncing my name, he introduced himself as a sales rep for an insurance company.

  I hung up. It doesn't matter a fat damn to me what it is; if they cold-call me, the answer's an automatic and final ‘no'. They can put the offer in writing and in the mail or forget it.

  After spiffing up a bit and loading my mug with fresh coffee, I took Alissa's signed title to the DMV and put the bike in my name. When I got home with the new license plate, Tiger and I went to the screen porch for a daylight look at my new motorcycle. I pulled the tarp off it and Tiger hopped onto my workbench, where he leaned to sniff the left rearview mirror and handlebar, then sat down to watch me install the plate.

  I said, “You can sit on it if you keep your claws in."

  "Okay,” he replied, but he made no move to jump across the small gap to the bike. After some moments of silence, he said, “I like the board better. This is too noisy and the board flies."

  "Those are good reasons,” I said. “But I'll have to ride this now and then, Tiger. If I don't, it'll spoil."

  Taking his eyes off the bike, he asked, “Like food?"

  "Sort of. Remember what I told Alissa about cracking tires and rust? Some things will go bad if you don't use them often."

  He studied me for a moment, then asked, “How is this not like the car? You don't use the car for many days, but it doesn't spoil."

  Uh, huh. Sharp little bugger. How to answer that? Go with simplicity, I guess.

  "Well, it is much like the car, Tiger, but the car is a lot bigger and it can wait longer to be used."

  That answer seemed good enough for him; he stood up and went back into the house. Through the porch window, I saw him visit his food dish.

  Alissa's helmet still hung on the sissy bar. It was too small for me, so I set it on the workbench. After checking fluid levels, I opened the porch door and backed the bike out onto the concrete walkway that led around the side of the house, then opened the yard gate.

  Leaving the bike on the walkway, I guzzled some coffee and closed the porch door, then went into the house for my sunglasses and my field jacket.

  "Tiger, I'm going to a motorcycle store. Want to come?"

  He barely looked up from stuffing his face. “No."

  A Florida winter isn't really much of a winter at all, but when it's only sixty-five degrees or so, it can get kind of chilly at highway speeds. I could have relied on my p-field for protection from the wind, but I considered how that would look and the questions it would invite. Besides, eye protection is required by law, so without my sunglasses, I'd have likely been stopped shortly after takeoff.

  The Vulcan started readily enough with a bit of choke. I steered it through the yard gate, sent a field tendril to push the gate shut and flip the latch down, and let the bike roll downhill to the sidewalk.

  By then the engine was coughing a bit. I flipped the choke lever up and it smoothed out immediately, settling into a rumbling idle. A quick test showed the lights all worked, so I gave the bike some throttle and took some time getting used to being on a bike again on some nearby back streets.

  The Vulcan seemed happy to be outside and running around. When I opened it up in a brief sprint on Northcliffe, it surged to fifty in third gear and its pipes rang a bit.

  Funny; I hadn't heard them ring when Alissa put the spurs to it on I-75. My weight difference seemed to be making it work a little harder, but only very little.

  Stephanie's presence manifested itself to my left as I cruised west on Northcliffe, but she didn't appear.

  I grinned in her direction and asked, “Wanna ride on my spiffy new bike, sweetie? Just hop on the back."

  She replied, “I have my own transportation, thanks. Elkor told me about your new toy."

  Was there an unspoken ‘Why didn't you tell me?’ in her tone? Hard to tell for sure, but somehow it seemed likely.

  Moving to my right side, Steph said, “Your p-field won't provide much protection at higher speeds, Ed. A helmet would be a reasonable precaution."

  "As it happens, I'm on my way to a bike shop, milady."

  I turned onto US-19 as she said, “Good. At least your will is up to date. Later, Ed,” and her presence evaporated.

  Hm. Apparently she disapproved. I took the bike up to sixty; five miles over the speed limit, but unlikely to get me busted.

  As if to underscore Steph's opinions, a new-looking white Cadillac pulled onto US-19 in my lane less than half a block ahead and plodded forward at about twenty, slowly gaining speed. It looked as if the two people in the front seat were having a rather animated argument.

  When I was a hundred feet or so away from the Caddy, it suddenly braked hard and stopped in the middle of the lane. There were cars in both lanes on my left, of course. Nowhere to go but around the Caddy on the right.

  'Welcome back to biking,’ I thought, adjusting course toward the shoulder of the road. The Caddy's surprisingly huge passenger door swung open ahead of me. I heard a woman shriekingly curse as I headed onto the grassy slope and let the engine slow the bike to avoid skidding.

  As I flashed around the Caddy door, a wad of keys flew out of the car. They glanced off the bald head of the very startled older man who was getting out of the Caddy before they hit my chest and fell to the ground. The guy yelled something that sounded particularly nasty. At me or her? Both? The world in general?

  Avoiding a couple of road signs and a foot-long chunk of concrete, I slowed the bike down enough to turn it around and headed back toward the car.

  The old man was cramming himself back into the car and pulling the door shut, but he failed to get one of his legs inside soon enough and the door closed on his shin.

  Other cars were having to slow or stop behind the Caddy and wait for breaks in traffic to go around it. A grey sedan skidded to a halt behind the Caddy. Drivers yelled and horns honked.

  The old woman in the Caddy appeared to be trying to give the finger in all directions at once as the man glared at me, rubbed his shin, and hissed in pain.

  Dragging his foot inside, the guy pulled the door shut as I parked the bike on the concrete shoulder of the road behind the car and got off it. As I approached the car's door, I saw a glint of metal and the guy briefly let me see a shiny snub-nosed revolver in his hand above the window frame.

  Speaking loudly enough to be heard over the irate woman's rantings and through the closed car window, I asked, “What's wrong with the car?"

  The woman yelled something else at the guy and he put his gun hand inside his overcoat—while making sure I could still see the gun
—as he pressed the window's control button to slide the window down a few inches.

  "There nothing wrong with it, asshole! What's it to ya?"

  Picking up the keys that had hit me, I said, “Then you need to get it moving. You're blocking traffic."

  The guy seemed to go ballistic as he yelled, “Who the fuck are you?!” His voice rose an octave as he screamed, “Drop those goddamned keys and get the fuck out of here!"

  Uh, huh. I met his gaze for a moment, then raised a hand in preparation to shove the wad of keys through the window opening. The guy frantically tried to yank the gun free of his coat and aim it at me, but his hand and the revolver slammed flat against the window glass and the gun went off a few inches in front of his face, blowing out the door window and cracking the windshield. I didn't see where the bullet went.

  The guy dropped the revolver and hunched over as he grabbed at his right ear with both hands, then seemed to remember me and quickly reached with his left hand to try to locate the gun on the floorboards.

  Heh. Whatta putz. People who are prone to temper tantrums and paranoia shouldn't have guns or cars. Glancing at the keys still in my hand, I tossed them into the boggy drainage ditch beside the car and headed back to the bike, flicking open my knife and stabbing the very tip of the blade into the sidewall of the Caddy's rear passenger tire as I passed it.

  That would give those two nutcases time to cool down a bit. It would also keep them from chasing me through traffic, and I had no good reason to think they wouldn't try to do that.

  Starting the bike, I slipped it into gear and accelerated fast around the Caddy. In my rearview mirror I saw the guy hurriedly get out of the car. He was trying to aim the revolver at me while trying to hold his right ear with his left hand. I changed lanes to put a truck between us on general principles, but heard no gunshots.

  At the gas station on the corner at the next light, I used a paper towel hanky to avoid leaving prints when I picked up the receiver of a pay phone and dialed 911 with an inkpen.

  I told the dispatcher that a white Caddy had stopped dead in the slow lane on US-19, that an old man in the Caddy had waved a gun at me, and that the gun had gone off inside the car and blown out a window. After telling her where to find it, I hung up and headed back along US-19 to the bike shop.

  Chapter Fifty-six

  The bike shop is located in a strip mall on a low hill on the east side of US-19. From that vantage point, I could see the white Caddy perhaps a quarter of a mile distant. The passenger door was open and the man was slogging around in the ditch as the woman gestured at him, apparently still giving him hell.

  A Sheriff's car appeared, did a quick U-turn, and pulled in behind the Caddy with all its warning lights on. After a moment, a deputy got out and waved at them as he appeared to issue instructions.

  The guy left the ditch and joined the woman on the shoulder of the road beside the Caddy as another Sheriff's car arrived and parked some distance in front of the Caddy.

  Yet another Sheriff's car arrived and parked on the grass as the deputy who'd been looking around in the car raised an arm, apparently holding something. Even at that distance, I could see by postures and motions that were more brisk than before that the cops’ general attitude had changed rather abruptly.

  A young guy came out of the bike shop and walked toward me asking, “Can I help you?", then he saw the activity around the Caddy and asked, “What's going on?"

  I shrugged and headed into the store to look at helmets. A plain white one with a full face shield was on sale. It reeked of Lysol spray, so I decided to try it on. It fit, so I carried it with me as I looked around the shop.

  Nothing else seemed absolutely necessary at the moment and they didn't have any mug holders I liked, so I paid for the helmet and went back outside.

  Down the hill, only one cop car remained and the cop was inside it. I hung my new helmet on the Vulcan's sissy bar, walked behind a nearby van, and said, “Board on, three suit on."

  Soaring down to the Caddy, I sent some field tendrils to winnow the muck in the ditch in search of the Caddy's keys. It only took a minute to find them. I shook them in the thin layer of water above the muck to clean them a bit, then fielded them to the hood of the cop car and let them drop about three inches to get the deputy's attention.

  He startled hard at the sound and looked up sharply, spotted the keys, and looked around. Seeing nobody near his car, he focused on the keys again and got out to reach for them, then stopped the motion and looked around again.

  I looked around, too, although I did it more circumspectly. A sudden presence other than the cop's had become barely noticeable, but it didn't belong to Steph, Sue, or Elkor.

  Zipping back up the hill, I found the store guy was no longer out front and the van was gone, so I landed to one side of the store's front window, turned off my board and three suit, and walked over to the Vulcan, still feeling that presence.

  Taking a moment to wipe my sunglasses with my t-shirt, I scanned the sky's reflection in them. Sure enough, there was a speck in the reflection that didn't rub away.

  Turning to face the store, I looked up and waved, then swung a leg over the bike and inserted the key. Donna swooped down and stopped beside me as I thumbed the starter button.

  Peering over the tops of my sunglasses at her, I grinned and tossed her a small, two-finger salute as I said, “Hi, there, Cap'n Donna. Like my new toy?"

  She didn't step off her board as she eyed me and asked, “How the hell did you know I was up there?"

  Shrugging, I replied, “Just did. What brings you to a bike shop? A sudden interest in motorcycles?"

  Glancing around the new and used bikes on display, she shook her head and said, “Tiger told me where you'd gone."

  Hand over heart, I drawled, “You were looking for lil’ ol me? Oh, lordy, I may haveta blush or something. What do you think'd be appropriate?"

  Snorting a chuckle, Donna said, “Oh, shut up and meet me at Denny's. I'll spring for coffee."

  Patting the Vulcan's gas tank, I answered, “Well, gee, ma'am, offering to chat over coffee is awful nice of you and all, but I kind of had other plans."

  With a narrow gaze, Donna leaned close and whispered, “Look, you ... I've been thinking, okay? I've changed my mind about a few things, but I could change it again."

  She'd actually changed her mind? So quickly? Cap'n Donna? Very unlikely. But she did seem to have something specific on her mind. I tried to look dubiously thoughtful.

  "Oh. Well, then, I guess I should probably try to cooperate. Which Denny's did you have in mind?"

  Straightening, she said, “The one south of here."

  Hm. It was considerably closer to her house than mine. Did she really just want to talk, or had she just decided to nail me there so she could write me off with the house and everything else to do with recent events?

  She interrupted my thoughts with a rather tense, “Well? Is a cup of coffee that big a decision? Are you coming or not?"

  I reached for my helmet and answered, “Okay. Meet you there in a few."

  "Why not leave the bike here for now?"

  Meeting her gaze as I buckled the helmet, I reiterated, “I'll meet you there."

  Donna eyed the bike for a moment, then nodded and nosed her board skyward. I started the bike and left the parking lot, well aware that she was hovering some distance above me.

  Seven miles and as many stoplights later, I pulled in at the Denny's and Donna landed beside the bike. Once we'd been seated and had our coffees, she seemed to turn pensive, tapping on her cup with a fingernail for a time.

  "The Army called this morning,” she said, “They want me back badly enough to promote me and pay a fat bonus."

  "Some recruiter's trying to make a re-up quota?"

  Shaking her head, she replied, “No. My old unit. My CO pulled a couple of strings and called me with the results."

  "A bonus, huh? Doesn't he know you're rich now?"

  Sitting back and stirr
ing stuff into her coffee, she said, “He knows. He went to the limit, Ed. It's all he can offer. They need me or there'd already be someone else in my office."

  "Ah. Well, then, the question is; do you need them?"

  Donna sighed, “I have ninety days to think about that."

  I laughed, “What happens after ninety days? Will they make you retake some training ‘cuz they think you'll let yourself get fat and sloppy while you're gone?"

  Smiling, Donna said, “Yeah, something like that."

  Sipping coffee, I regarded her for a moment, then asked, “Am I supposed to listen quietly or offer an opinion?"

  "Do you have an opinion?"

  "Sure. 3rd World can get by without you. So can the Army, whether your old CO thinks so or not. All you have to decide is which service can get by without you best. Or whether you can get by without either of them."

  Snorting a chuckle, she said, “You're a lot of help."

  Grinning, I said, “Just doin’ my job, ma'am."

  "Think so, huh? What job is that?"

  "Stating the obvious.” Sipping my own coffee, I said, “As a captain, your unit CO would have been a light colonel. Maybe a bird. But even a bird couldn't spit up major's leaves for you, so you were on the Army's list to make major before you left. At most, your CO could only ask someone to keep your name on that list while he tried to bring you back into the fold."

  Donna's gaze narrowed slightly. “Where are you going with all this?"

  "Maybe nowhere. Since you don't seem too surprised, you've probably already considered all that yourself. Has Linda pitched you a specific job with 3rd World yet?"

  Rather cautiously, she admitted, “No, not yet."

  "Then her potential uses for you may not be too critical. You'd have to ask her about that, but it seems to me that you'd be happier in a job where you felt essential."

  She put her cup down and said softly, “You're assuming I'd rather go back into the Army than start my own business."

  "Yup. If the idea didn't appeal to you, this chat would have been about something else. If it had happened at all."

  Shrugging, I added, “Besides, you can start your own biz while you're in the Army if it doesn't interfere with your GI job. Or you could just give some more thought to what your biz ought to be and how to go about setting things up. You now have time and money at your disposal, Donna. Most people have to start their businesses with one or the other, but they hardly ever have both."