Concrete Underground by Moxie Mezcal (most important books of all time txt) 📕

claiming to have information about the e-mails I had been given - which caught my attention because at that point no one knew about them but me and my source. So I agreed to meet her, even though she wouldn't tell me her name or how she was connected to my story.

"Anyways, I showed up at the café where she said she'd be, but she never showed. I waited for a little over an hour before I finally gave up, but when I got up to leave, I noticed someone had slipped this envelope into my computer bag."

"Weird," Columbine replied as her eyes grew bigger, clearly enjoying the cloak-and-dagger elements of my story.

I reached into my coat again and pulled out a second matching blue envelope and passed it across the table for her inspection.

"This one showed up at my office Friday morning. The article it references had to do with a dead woman being found in a ditch on the side of the highway," I explained. "In my dream, the dead woman in Max's airplane was holding a ruby necklace with this same crown-and-globe symbol etched on it. That's how I knew it had to be the same woman; it was too much of a coincidence otherwise."

I could tell from Columbine's expression that the wheels were turning. "So does that mean the Highwater Society was responsible for killing her? Then again, she could also have been a member. But then why would they leave the necklace in her hand?" she asked excitedly, her mind racing through the implications.

"Those are all possibilities," I agreed. "But whatever the case, one thing's for sure - both the necklace and the body itself were left deliberately for Max to find. Someone was sending him a message. Which is the second thing I wanted to ask you about - and I know he's your friend, so this is going to be sensitive, but do you know of any enemies Max might have?"

Columbine stared silently at me in wide-eyed amazement for a moment, and then erupted into laughter.

"Yeah, you need a list? There's a phone book over by the bathrooms that'd give you a good start."

I rolled my eyes to let her know I was not amused.

"Look, you don't get as rich and successful as Max without stepping on more than your fair share of toes. And to be honest, he's involved in a lot things that aren't exactly on the up-and-up. The better question isn't who are his enemies, it's who'd be dumb enough to actually try and take him on?"

"Is he really that dangerous?" I asked.

"He's rich, brilliant, and completely sociopathic. It doesn't get any more dangerous than that."

"I thought he was your friend."

"He is, and I love him like brother," Columbine insisted. "But there are certain things I know enough not to ask about."

"Some friendship," I scoffed, then immediately regretted saying it.

"There you go being judgmental again," she said while waving her syrup-smeared knife at me. "Not everyone can be as cool and virtuous as you, Mr. Punk-as-Fuck Journalist, Crusader for Truth and Justice."

I shook my head. "I never claimed to be virtuous. I'm not a good man."

She didn't respond to this, and instead just shoveled the last forkful of pancake into her mouth.

I shook my head in astonishment. "How did a little thing like you manage to eat all that?"

"Don't let my petite stature fool you, there's a lot more to me than meets the eye." She winked. "Judge me by my size, do you?"

"You're such a dork," I said.

She got up to use the restroom while I scooped up the two blue envelopes and stuffed them back into my jacket. Then I took out my notebook and jotted down a few snippets from our conversation along with a couple things that stood out in my memory from last night:

Crown & Globe = Highwater, "how they find each other"

Max doesn't trust Lily, thinks she is my source

Saint Anthony: at flophouse looking for "Cobb"

I underlined the last word twice, then stashed the notebook and went up to the counter to settle the bill. As I paid, I noticed the waiter looking disappointedly at something behind me. I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see the redhead walking out the front door.

I smirked smugly to myself and started looking over the flyers laid out on the counter to pass the time while I waited for Columbine. It was the usual punk show half-sheets, cheap black-and-white zines, and political leaflets. Thumbing through them, I came across a small stack of half-sheets that I recognized as the same one that the bum handed me on the Light Rail: You Are Being Lied To... Trust Us.

When Columbine returned, I could tell she had something on her mind.

"There's something I just thought of, it might be relevant or it might not be," she said as we stepped outside.

"What is it?"

"Your list, it said that Max is the 'Fool' - do you know what that means?"

I shook my head.

"The Fool is the games master," she explained. "He organizes the entertainment. And not everyone in the group is happy with the way Max is running the games. He has a tendency to raise the stakes, push the boundaries. He likes watching how people react when they're backed into a corner."

"Yeah, I noticed," I said.

"I was just thinking that because of the necklace with the symbol, maybe the dead woman had something to do with Max's games."

"Yeah, that's really good," I said and fished out my notebook to write that down.

I noticed a cab coming up the street, so I waved it over and told Columbine it was for her.

"You're not coming?" she asked.

I gave her an apologetic half-smile. "It's been a long night, and I need to get home and get some rest."

"Well, I could go with you," she offered hopefully. "I don't really have anything to do this afternoon anyways. I could just hang out while you nap, and then we could go out to dinner when you wake up."

I opened my mouth to answer, but she cut me off before I had a chance. "No, I get it. It's okay."

Her cab drove off, and I started walking down the street to find another one. About a block away, I came across the redhead from the diner sitting on a bus bench, waving her hands slowly back and forth in front of her face and staring at them as if mesmerized.

I sat next to her. She looked up and smiled, but didn't say a thing.

"You look like you could use some help," I said.

She smiled widely and nodded. I was sure the smile was meant to be a sheepish grin, but she fucked it up and spread it ear-to-ear the way people do when they're stoned.

Just then, I spotted another taxi and flagged it down. As it pulled up in front of us, I got up and held the door open for her.

"Come on, I'll help you get home," I told her.

She beamed appreciatively and got in. I watched with satisfaction as her ass made a perfect heart shape when she bent over, then followed her in and gave the cabbie my address.

I never claimed to be a good man.

10. Cautionary Tale

I was late coming into work Monday morning and ran into Sharon in the front lobby. She was escorting out two women I didn't recognize, well dressed middle-aged professional-types in pants suits.

She reached a hand out to grab my shoulder and stop me as I tried to slink past. "Ms. Singh, Ms. Palmer, this is Dedalus Quetzal. He's the man you have to thank for the small fortune in legal fees your firm is charging this newspaper."

"You're still letting him work here?" one of the women asked incredulously.

"Work's maybe too strong a term when you're talking about D," Sharon replied.

"He smells like he's been drinking," the other woman added.

"He does indeed," Sharon nodded.

I broke free of Sharon's grip. "Really, ladies, I'd love to stay here and take part in whatever menopause-apalooza you have going on, but I have important journalisty-type things to get to."

I headed inside, made straight for my desk, and started searching through my files for a mention of anyone named Cobb in connection with Abrasax or the other companies related to my article.

Nothing was coming up. None of the top brass were named Cobb, nor was anyone who might have reason to hold a grudge, like recent layoffs.

"Fucking insubordinate bastard," I grumbled as I tapped angrily on my laptop. "Why don't you ever tell me anything useful?"

"Funny, I was just about to say the same thing." I looked up to find Sharon leaning against my desk. "Please tell me you did something productive over the weekend."

"As a matter of fact I did," I replied without looking up from my laptop. "I had a nice little chat with Dylan Maxwell himself. Swell guy, excellent diction, you'd like him."

"And...?"

"We made a deal," I answered. "I help him look into something, and in return he'll back up the story."

I decided that maybe Cobb was someone connected to Max from the past, so I logged onto the Morning-Star online archives to see if the name popped up in any old articles about Abrasax.

"Doesn't seem entirely ethical," Sharon mused.

"Do you actually give a shit?" I shot back, keeping my eyes locked on the screen.

"Not really," she replied. "As long as you're sure he'll hold up his end of the deal."

"Holy fucking shit," I said, my jaw dropping.

My search of the archives returned dozens on articles. But the name Cobb wasn't showing up in the articles themselves, it was in the by-line.

"Have you ever heard of a reporter named Patrick Cobb who worked for the Morning-Star back in the nineties?" I asked, looking up from the screen.

She folded her arms over her chest and sighed. "Are you serious? You've never heard of Patrick Cobb?"

I shook my head.

"And you claim to be journalist," she muttered. "He's a cautionary tale. If you'd ever actually shown up to any of your journalism classes at college, you'd have heard all about him."

I shrugged. "I never really saw the point, so can you just give me the Cliffs Notes version?"

"He was one of the best, most fearless investigative reporters I've ever met, back when the Morning-Star used to be a real newspaper instead of a sad corporate lap dog. He was also a good friend," she explained.

"So what happened? Why's he a cautionary tale?"

"About ten or eleven years ago, he wrote an article alleging that the US military was selling arms to right wing paramilitary groups in Columbia. In it, he quoted an unnamed source, a commissioned army officer, who claimed to have been ordered by his superiors to distribute the weapons to the death squads through his soldiers. They were supposed to be there training the legitimate Columbian army. After the article was published, it came out that the quotes were bogus and the officer never existed."

"Oh, I do remember hearing about that," I