Geek Mafia: Mile Zero by Rick Dakan (best fiction novels to read .txt) 📕
"If you can spare it, it'd help. I've already doled out all my cash on hand to secure the place and get the liquor. But we still need..."
"I know, I know," said Paul, handing the money to Sandee. "Let's just try and make tonight kick ass so we can earn that back as quick as possible."
"We should be flush by dawn, my dear," Sandee assured him. "Just you wait."
"That's the plan anyway. But would you explain that to Chloe for me?"
"What is Chloe doing tonight, anyway?" Sandee asked. "I was hoping to get her to come out with me and check out the new help at the Hyatt."
"She's busy getting everything set up for our visitors. She's kind of freaking out about all the little details."
"Oh my, are they coming in tonight? I thought that was next week."
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“Why don’t we just run the video back so we can see if it was him when he walked in?”
“That was going to be my next step - I was assuming he’d come back out any sec, but he’s been in there a while,” said Bee, mousing over the controls.
“Who would’ve thought he’d actually find something in one of those dumps to occupy him this long,” said Chloe.
With a few quick clicks, Bee switched the adjacent monitor’s display to show the same shot as the live feed. Then she ran it backward at x16 speed for a few seconds before stopping it. “There.”
Chloe and Paul both leaned forward to look closer at the screen. It showed a couple walking down the alley from the direction of the marina. On the left was a broad built, attractive woman in her 30s who wore a nondescript sweatshirt and jeans with a backpack slung over one shoulder. Paul recognized her as someone who’d been introduced to him as Lily. Next to her stood an older man, long, stringy hair tied back in a ponytail, his potbelly protruding beneath a flower-print shirt. He smiled broadly and said something funny as the two walked past the Southernmost Wedding Chapel. It was, without a doubt, their old friend Winston.
“That’s him!” said Chloe, excited. “Did you see how he got here? Which boat he came in on?”
“Yeah, hold on, lemme switch over to those cameras.” A few clicks and keystrokes switched a third monitor away from its live feed of the marina to a moment in time twenty-seven minutes earlier. This camera, mounted in a plastic owl perched atop the Key Wharf Bar and Grille’s roof not only kept the seagulls at bay, it provided video coverage of the dinghy docks. Here the many locals who lived on sailboats offshore could rent small slips for their boats, allowing them a reserved place to tie off when they came back onto the island.
They watched a small Zodiac putt-putt up next to the dock. As it got closer, they saw Winston and Lily sitting in the boat, along with another, older woman Paul didn’t recognize. They clambered out of the small rubber boat and waved goodbye to the boat’s pilot. He reversed his outboard engine and pulled away from the dock, turning back out into the darkness. Lily and Winston looked around and stretched their backs and necks, as if they’d been sitting for quite a while. Or they might’ve been contorting themselves for show, giving them an excuse to look in every direction and take in their surroundings. Finally they started walking, heading toward Artist’s Alley.
“No sign of what boat they came in on?” asked Chloe.
“I can look around, but probably not,” said Bee. “They’re most likely anchored out there somewhere, beyond my cameras. Of course, if we installed on the channel markers like I said…”
“One thing at a time, Bee,” said Chloe. “Great catch though. Did you use your facial recognition software on that?”
“No,” said Bee “I’ve just been watching the waterside cameras while I do some other stuff. You said he was coming in by boat.”
“And so he has,” said Chloe. “We should go surprise him! Before he comes out of that place.”
“Good plan,” said Paul. “I wonder though, how would Winston like the idea that he was being watched by a network of hidden cameras, � la Big Brother?” Paul asked. Winston wasn’t his real name, of course. He’d taken the alias decades ago when he first went underground, naming himself after Winston Smith, the protagonist of George Orwell’s novel 1984.
Chloe stared at Paul for a moment, thinking about what he’d said. “Good point. Nobody mention the cameras.”
“Agreed,” said Paul. “Now let’s hurry. I know the old stoner who owns that place. If we leave those two old hippies alone, they’ll talk for the rest of the night.” He held out a hand and helped Chloe out of Bee’s cushion pile.
“We’ll be back in a while, Bee,” said Chloe. “You have the con.”
“Aye, aye, captain,” Bee said. “I’ll watch your back.”
And Paul knew that she would. Sadly, that’s almost the only thing that Bee did these days - watch.
OLD TOWN - the heart and soul of Key West and the place most visitors spend their time - is only one mile by two. The Crew’s house by the cemetery was less than half a mile from where they’d last seen Winston. Walking, it might’ve taken ten minutes to get there, but on Chloe’s Vespa it was a hair-raising three-minute ride away. When they got there, Paul saw no sign of either Winston or Lily, so he assumed they were still inside the rundown shack that passed for a gallery. They parked a block away and approached at a brisk walk, Paul almost jogging to keep up with Chloe’s excited strides.
Winston was Chloe’s mentor in what they referred to as “The Life,” this being a euphemism for a whole range of different activities, groups and lifestyles that fell under the general category of living underground and off the information grid. Paul, after defrauding his former partners and then running afoul of the law in a very public way, had been living The Life for almost a year and a half now. Chloe, as near as he could tell, had been doing it for almost a decade. Winston had started in the late ’60s as a 16-year-old member of the notorious Weather Underground. He not only led his own Crew, he was also in contact with dozens, maybe scores of other such groups all over the world, including Chloe and Paul’s little Crew of four. On top of all that, he’d once taken a couple bullets while helping Paul out, so, like Chloe, Paul had a soft spot in his heart for the old man.
They hadn’t seen him since that bloody night, but Chloe had been in communication with him off and on over the last sixteen months. Winston and his Crew were old school and didn’t trust much in the way of electronic communications. Mostly it had been encoded, hand-delivered letters and arcane classified ads in various newspapers. Chloe found this particular breed of paranoia on Winston’s part annoying, but Paul admired it. It reminded him of old John le Carr� novels. Winston had sent them a particularly detailed and yet cryptic message just five days ago, telling them that he was coming to Key West and asking them to arrange a secure place for him and some of his Crewmembers to stay.
The gallery door stood wide open, and Paul could see walls covered with pastel colors - watercolor and oil paintings of sunsets, palm trees, dolphins and more sunsets. Winston stood there talking to the owner, a worn, deeply tanned local who ran the gallery and sold paintings on behalf of a dozen different island artists. The two were deep in conversation about something. Beyond them he saw Lily, staring with bored eyes at a particularly pink painting of a dolphin splashing in the waves during a sunset.
Paul glanced to his side at Chloe, who wore a mischievous grin. “You ready?” she asked.
“Ready for…” But Chloe was already through the door, striding in with her chest puffed out, her right hand raised.
“Everybody freeze! This is a raid!” she shouted across the small room. Lily reacted first, her head snapping toward the door and her hand darting into the pocket of her sweatshirt. Winston and the gallery owner turned as well, surprise on both their faces.
“What the fuck…” said the owner, who didn’t seem to believe Chloe was a cop at all. But then he noticed that Winston was laughing and started to relax. So did Lily. Winston stepped forward and swept Chloe up into a bear hug, lifting her off her feet.
“Ha HA!” cried Winston. “You little vixen! Are you trying to give this old man a heart attack?”
“Always,” she said as he set her back down.
Winston turned his attention to Paul then, embracing him in a hug as well. Paul was thankful the old man didn’t try and lift him off the ground. “Good to see you again, brother. Good to see you.”
“Same here,” replied Paul. “Welcome to Key West.” Looking over he saw Chloe and Lily hugging as well. He waved with a smile to Winston’s right-hand woman. “Hey Lily, good to see you too.”
“Thanks, Paul,” said Lily. “It’s nice to be back on solid ground.”
“I’ll bet,” agreed Paul. He noticed the gallery owner had retreated a few paces and was watching the love fest that had suddenly taken over his shop.
“Come on,” said Chloe, linking arms with Lily and Winston. “We’ve got you a great place all lined up.”
But Winston wasn’t ready to leave yet. “One moment, Chloe. I still have to buy a painting from this man.” The gallery owner, who might have been worried about losing a sale, was visibly relieved.
“Do you need me to wrap it up for you?” he asked Winston. “I’ve got today’s paper around here somewhere.”
“Not necessary, friend. I’d like to admire it as it is,” Winston said as he dug into his pocket and pulled out a worn leather wallet. “We agreed on $700?”
“Sure…yeah, that sounds great, man,” The gallery owner said, surprise in his voice. Paul guessed that this was more than he’d expected, but Paul knew that Winston had a generous heart, especially when it came to artists and musicians.
The owner reached behind him to a large piece of plywood that was leaning against the wall. He flipped it around and displayed it to the room. The artist had used the same spectrum of sunset reds and oranges on display elsewhere in the room, but in this piece they came together to form a rather striking portrait of Hunter S. Thompson. Paul was actually a little jealous that Winston had snagged this piece - he wouldn’t mind owning it himself.
“Very nice,” said Paul.
Winston handed the owner seven wrinkled $100 bills and took possession of his new prize. “Quite good, isn’t it?” he said to no one in particular. Then, to the owner, “Thank you again, brother. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
The two older men shook hands. “Yeah, man. Great meeting you. Enjoy that painting, and, uh … thanks, man.”
“Be well,” said Winston. “And try and spend that cash on something equally wonderful.”
Outside, the four of them walked in a line down the alley, Winston still admiring Hunter’s portrait.
“I can’t believe you paid $700 for that,” said Lily, although it was clear she was just teasing her friend.
“I knew him you know,” said Winston.
“You did not!” protested Chloe.
“I did indeed,” Winston assured her. “I met him several times in the early ’80s. And once more in ‘92 or ‘93. I even sold him herb once.”
“What was he like?” Paul asked. He’d been a huge Thompson fan since he read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas while in high school.
“Much like you’d imagine I suppose. I don’t think I ever met the real Hunter - just the persona he showed the world. Or maybe that was the real Hunter. Maybe he did live a life without artifice. I’d like to think that’s true. Certainly he was a great inspiration to me when I was getting started.”
“How so?” asked Chloe. “You never struck me as much for journalism. Even gonzo journalism.”
“Oh, I’m not. I’m not,” said Winston, looking at the painting again. “But I loved his fearlessness in the face of convention. No, that’s not right. Not his fearlessness - his eagerness. His eagerness to defy convention and just be outrageous, even as he did one
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