Holiday at Home
A POG Novel
by Tim Williams
Chapter 1
The Arizona sun was high in the afternoon sky, glinting off of every smooth surface in sight. From my seat on the balcony of the second floor sports bar, I had a good view of the courtyard below. By all appearances, it was supposed to look like I was watching a football game. Unfortunately, my Cardinals weren't playing until the Sunday Night game, for the second week in a row. I watched the other games that were on, but they were all looking pretty one-sided. The final NASCAR race of the season was on, but I never had the attention span for watching a whole race.
As my waitress left after bringing me another soda, I scanned the courtyard again. There was nothing out of the ordinary to see. Not yet, anyway. I pulled out my phone and took another look at the image sent to me by my employer, Reflex Engineering, Incorporated.
The contact I was looking for was a man named Edgar Winters. Sixty-three years old, he was tall, but on the portly side. What hair remained on his scalp was gray and unkempt, usually gathered into a half-assed ponytail. For my purposes, though, his hair was irrelevant. My instructions specified that he would be wearing a beige suit with a red Hawaiian shirt and a tan fedora.
As the Chargers celebrated a touchdown, I caught my first glimpse of Winters entering the courtyard. He was carrying a briefcase in his right hand, which was the signal that he believed he was being followed. Either that, or he hadn't paid attention to the instructions he had been given, and carried the briefcase in whichever hand he damn well pleased.
I hit ‘SEND’ on the phone number I had pulled up on speed dial when I arrived at the bar. Alicia Englestone, my administrator, answered on the first ring. I barely had time to get my Bluetooth headset in my ear.
“What's your status?” she asked.
“Visual contact only,” I said. “He's signaling a tail.”
“Are you certain?” she asked, a hint of concern in her voice.
“The briefcase is in his right hand,” I said. “You went over the signals with him, right?”
“Not my first mission, John,” she said.
“Not mine, either,” I reminded her.
It was actually more like my fourth or fifth, depending on whether my “audition” in North Carolina counted. Following that, I had eliminated a drug lab in Northern Ohio, under the alias of Jerrod Maloney, which was my first actual undercover mission for Reflex Engineering, Incorporated. In the weeks since then, I had been chosen to escort a senator's wife from D.C. to Houston, as she insisted on driving. I also carried a computer hard drive from Santa Fe to Portland, Oregon, under the assumed identity of a used car salesman.
There were no fake names this time, just an old man who tried to blackmail his way into a more comfortable retirement, and me. I was only chosen because I lived in Flagstaff, reasonably close to Phoenix. I was there to collect the leverage he was using to try to extort his old employer, and return it as a disinterested third party. His supposed “tail” threw a wildcard into the process.
Proximal Technology, the company Winters was trying to cheat, had given Reflex Engineering the weekend to try to resolve the situation peacefully. If we were unable to deliver, however, they assured us that they had an effective solution to insider espionage and extortion.
As per the plan, Winters crossed the courtyard and sat down on a bench, directly beneath the balcony where I sat. Either he had drank too much coffee that morning, or he really was convinced that there was someone after him. I watched him sit there, fidgeting with the combination locks on the briefcase and checking his watch.
“Call Proximal,” I said to Alicia. “Make sure they haven't changed their minds.”
“Already on it,” she said. “Wait one.”
I kept an eye on Winters, trying to find the tail he was concerned about. Nobody had followed him into the courtyard, but doing so would have been a good indication of an amateur. As confined of an area as the courtyard was, a simple circle path around it would expose a tail.
“Proximal says they're clear,” Alicia said. “They're honoring the deal until midnight.”
“I don't see anyone following him,” I said, scanning the area again. “But, it might not necessarily be Proximal. Do they have any competitors who would be interested in what he's carrying?”
“I'll have to work on that,” she said. “Let me call you back.”
The call clicked out, and I looked down at Winters again. He seemed to be growing agitated, judging by his body language. He probably thought this would be a simple hand-off process. As long as I couldn't see anyone following him, I didn't see the harm in bringing him upstairs to where I was. I just had to figure out how to do it.
The floor beneath the sports bar was a menswear store, which I figured would be good enough for what I had in mind. I looked up the phone number for the store and dialed it. A cheerful-sounding man answered it on the second ring.
“DeGrazio’s Fine Clothing, this is Matthew, how can I help you?” the man said.
“Yeah, hey, I'm looking for a guy named Edgar Winters,” I said, trying to sound distracted.
“I'm sorry, sir, I don't recognize that name,” Matthew said. “I think you have the wrong number.”
“No, no, hear me out,” I said. “He told me he was gonna be over that way, in case I needed anything from him, and now I do. Can you just look around the store for me, and maybe right outside?”
“I'm not sure if I'm allowed to do that, sir,” he said. “This phone isn't for public use.”
“Matthew, you'll be doing me such a big favor, I can't even describe it,” I said.
“OK, look,” he said. “Tell me what he looks like, and I'll take a quick look around for him.”
“Alright, thank you, Matthew,” I said, looking at Winters. “Just picture Santa Claus without the beard.”
“In a beige suit that's older than I am?” he said. “I think it's your lucky day.”
“That's gotta be him,” I said, watching a very frail-looking younger guy walk out to the bench and hand the phone to Winters, gesturing complete confusion.
Matthew looked like he went out of his way to look sickly. He was wearing a cardigan over a button-down shirt, when I was doing my best not to sweat through my T-shirt. He had his dark hair shellacked against his skull, except for the upswept bangs at the front. My truck's exhaust pipe was larger than his legs looked in the skinny jeans he was wearing.
“H-Hello?” Winters said, cautiously.
“Where's the tail?” I asked, scanning the windows of the buildings ringing the courtyard.
“The, the tail?” he stammered.
“You walked into the courtyard, holding the briefcase in your right hand,” I said. “That's the signal for someone following you.”
“Oh, right, right,” he said. “I couldn't be certain, but a guy got into a minivan behind my taxi at the hotel, and I think he got out behind me here.”
“Description,” I said. “I need to know what he looks like.”
“Well, this guy, he had a shaved head,” he said. “Not bald, you know, but just buzz-cut all over.”
“What about his clothes?” I asked. “What was he wearing?”
“Um, just regular clothes, I think,” he said. “Nothing fancy; slacks and a polo shirt, real plain jacket.”
“Light colors, or dark?” I asked.
“Dark, I think,” he said.
“Was he carrying anything? Briefcase, backpack, duffel bag?” I asked, taking another look around.
A guy across the courtyard was a possible match. Buzz-cut hair, sunglasses, dark clothes, standing completely alone in a coffee shop. He clutched a messenger bag in his left hand, and he was wearing leather driving gloves. He looked exactly like my employer had taught me not to look. He looked like a hitman in the movies.
“I think he had one of those, my son calls it a, a man purse?” he said, almost as if he was ashamed for not knowing the specific name for it.
“Never mind,” I said. “I see him. I need to confirm that it's you that he's after. Most likely is, but I need to be certain.”
“How are you gonna do that?” Winters asked.
“You are,” I said. “You're gonna get up, and walk toward the gift shop straight in front of you, then stop short and turn left and go until you get close to the bathrooms, then turn left again and go into the clothing store where you got this phone from. Understand?”
“What good is that gonna do?” he asked, skeptically.
“Two-fold,” I said. “It'll tell me if he's really watching you, and it'll tell him that he's been made.”
“You're not supposed to do anything to endanger me,” he said. “This sounds pretty dangerous, to me.”
“You endangered yourself when you tried to blackmail Proximal,” I said. “I'm just telling you to go for a walk. And for your own good, don't act like you know you're being watched.”
“OK,” he said. “What do I do with this phone?”
“Give it back to that stick figure that handed it to you,” I said, hanging up.
Keeping my phone up to my ear in case Buzz-cut was watching me, I walked over to the other side of the bar and pretended to bullshit with another guy. In reality, I was asking to borrow the ketchup from his table.
Through the mirror above the bar, I could see Winters stand up and hand the phone back to Matthew. He stretched his arms, then picked up the briefcase in his left hand and started walking. Buzz-cut subtly shifted his position to keep Winters in his line of sight. It wasn't until Winters made his first abrupt left turn that he could tell something was up. After Winters turned left at the bathrooms and headed into the clothing store, Buzz-cut dropped his coffee in the trash can and started walking briskly toward the clothing store. Then I saw him reach inside his jacket, toward his armpit.
Shit.
I threw a ten-dollar bill onto the bar, next to the cash register and headed for the stairs. Coming out of the staircase, I rounded the corner into DeGrazio’s just in time to see Matthew duck behind the counter as Buzz-cut pulled his pistol out of its holster. He held it close to his chest, muzzle pointed up, looking for Edgar Winters among the rows of shelves. I saw Winters first, cowering in the back corner. Taking off at a full sprint, I tackled Buzz-cut into a necktie rack. The dowels splintered as his upper body– and mine, with it– crashed through the rack.
I was the first one to try to get up, pushing off of his torso and driving my knee into his kidney. After grabbing the pistol out of his hand and smashing him in the back of the head with it, I picked up the closest necktie and bound his hands behind his back with it. Checking the safety on the pistol, I stuck it in the back of my waistband and rolled him over. The broken wood had done a number on his face, and his nose appeared to be beside its assigned location.
“Alright, asshole, you know where this is going,” I said, grabbing both sides of his collar. “Just go ahead and tell me who sent you.”
“Kiss my ass,” he said, trying to spit blood at me, but neglecting to account for gravity. He winced as it landed back in his eye.
I picked up a length of broken dowel and shifted my position to where I could hold it against his crotch.
“Done being a tough guy yet?” I asked, applying a little bit of pressure.
The cops were most likely on their way. I was running out of time.
“Oh, Jesus Christ, you're serious!” he said, panicking.
“Do you really deal with that many guys in this life who are just fucking around?” I asked, doubling the pressure on the dowel.
“Ascendant!” he said. “Ascendant Scientific Research. In Rialto. Winters had contacted them to sell the project he stole from Proximal Technology, in the event that they wouldn't pay up. They contracted me to obtain it for a quarter of what he wanted to sell it for.”
“I hope you got paid up front,” I said, dropping the dowel as I heard the police approaching. “And for your sake, I hope you're the best muscle they could hire. I'm sure they don't appreciate incompetence.”
I stood up and stepped back as the cops entered the store. They weren't exactly gentle as they searched me, but I didn't expect them to be. The back of my right hand had been cut by the broken wood in the scuffle, but that was the worst I had suffered.
“Is this your gun?” the officer performing the search asked.
“It's his,” I said, nodding toward Buzz-cut. “I disarmed him while he was trying to kill the fat guy.”
Winters stood by the cash register, next to Matthew, who was clutching Winters’ beige blazer around his shoulders. The police asked each of them a few questions, then released them. Winters left the store and returned to the bench outside. After relaying information back and forth over their radios, the police finally let me go.
“Thank you,” Winters said, standing up as I left the store.
“Don't thank me,” I said. “Just give me what that asshole was ready to kill you over.”
“Of course,” he said, reaching inside his floral-print shirt and pulling out what appeared to be a shoelace tied around his neck with a small toy car tied onto it.
He handed me the whole thing. The toy car was a thumb drive, which I pulled off of the shoelace and put in my pocket.
“Ordinarily, I would try to think of some words of wisdom to tell you,” I said. “Shit, even a good pun would work right now, but I'm trying to wrap this shit up and get home in time for the Cardinals to whoop Cincinnati’s ass. So, how about, you just quit trying to break the damn law, OK?”
Without waiting for a response, I headed for the parking lot to get into my truck. As soon as I was in the parking lot, my phone rang, showing Alicia's number.
“Yeah,” I said.
“So, we came up empty,” she said. “No paper trail points to anyone who might have a use for the information he stole.”
“Ascendant,” I said. “Ascendant Scientific Research. They sent the hitman. He's in custody; I have the thumb drive. Just tell me where to take it. Kickoff’s in two hours.”
“Did Winters tell you that?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “The hitman did. You'd be surprised what a man will tell you when you have a wooden stake an inch from his genetic future.”
“I'll keep that in mind, in case I ever need any information out of you,” she said. “You're meeting the guy from Proximal at the In N’ Out in Deer Valley. Order three Double Doubles, Protein-Style, to-go, under the name ‘Galahad.’ Their guy will be waiting.”
“You just love to fuck with me, don't you?” I said. “Do you know how much three Double Doubles cost?”
“You'll get reimbursed,” she said, sighing.
“Protein-Style,” I scoffed, getting in my truck and starting the engine. “What kind of hippie bullshit is that, anyway?”
