Slack: A Day in the Life of Ford Aston
Page 7
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“Yeah, well, we’ll see. Head east on 16th when we get into Cheyenne. The pick-up is in one of those antique malls.”
I shoot him a look.
“What? It’s perfect.”
“Did the senator sanction the weapons too?” He doesn’t answer right away and this is my first real clue that he’s not as comfortable with this job as he’s making it out. “What?” I ask. “What’s the deal, Merc?”
He shakes his head a little, like he’s thinking about lying or holding it in. But we’ve been friends too long, so the words come out anyway. “It’s just strange. All of a sudden I start getting a string of high priority jobs from people with position, ya know? This senator. The last job was collecting a debt owed to a millionaire from Miami. Had to go to Columbia for that one. And the one before that was stealing some data from a small European government.”
“Virtually, I hope?” I have insane hacking skills, like Merc here, but unlike him, I’m no soldier. I can shoot and I can fight. And if I do either of those two things you can be sure someone will end up dead by the time it’s over. But I am not a soldier.
“Nah, real time dude. Boots on the ground.”
“Hmmm…. maybe it was that mercenary ad you ran in Soldier of Fortune?”
He puffs out some smoke with his chuckle. “Hey, I was twelve.”
“As if that makes it any less ridiculous.” We both laugh. Fucking Merc. “Well, your name’s on a list somewhere. And you seem pretty popular and the shit’s sanctioned, so enjoy it I guess.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Cheyenne comes into view after that and Merc takes out his notes and studies them again. I don’t blame him for being paranoid. I do this shit as a side thing. This is his life. This is his day job. He has nothing else but this. So knowing that people with power have a list with your name on it is not comforting in the least. Because one of these days, the target and the gun might switch places.
I get off the freeway and had east on 16th like he said. This town looks like it got stuck in 1940 and nothing has changed. There’s a rail yard on one side of the street and a shitload of old fashioned shops on the other. I park in front of one of the brick buildings and look up at the sign. Roundhouse Antique Mall.
“Why is this place even open, it’s f**king Christmas Eve. Isn’t everyone home with their families doing family shit and eating crap by the handfuls, wishing that everyone’s kids would just shut the f**k up and fall into a post-sugar coma?”
“Jesus Christ, you really are a Scrooge. Last minute shopping, Ford. You’d know that if you ever bought a Christmas present in your life. Let’s go.”
I sigh as his door slams. But I give in and get out. I’ve got nine hours until my pet date, so what the f**k. I’ll stick around for an illegal arms deal. Why not?
Chapter Four
I’ve never been in an antique mall. I know they exist, there’s one on the west side of Denver on the side of the freeway, and the sign is huge and gaudy. But I can say with one hundred percent certainty, that entering that building has never crossed my mind. I’m not a snob about old things. I don’t mind old things when they’re mine. But as I walk down the many, many, many aisles in this huge-ass f**king building filled with crap—the first thing I think of is how many hands have touched these items.
The second thing I think is, why? Why would you come here to shop for Christmas presents?
I can only shake my head.
I follow Merc though an endless maze of booths filled with the oddest things—books, fabric, postcards, furniture, art, photographs, frames. The list goes on and on. But Merc stops in the way-way-back of the place and we end up at what appears to be a mini Cabala’s store. If said store was contained within a fifteen by fifteen foot booth, and it only had scratch-n-dent items.
I sigh and try my best to appear professional.
“Wait here,” Merc says as he enters the booth. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Right.” With Merc, be back in a minute can mean anything from five minutes to half an hour. I pick up a knife in a basket on the counter and check it out. It’s just a folding knife, but I have nothing better to do, so I flip it open and inspect the blade.
“That knife sucks,” a girl’s voice says from behind me.
I turn towards the voice. The child is sitting in a chair in the corner of the booth across the aisle, reading Little House in the Big Woods. She’s about twelve, she’s smiling so I can see a full mouth of braces, and her hair is up in long, blonde pigtails. She’s wearing a camo hoodie and some black tactical pants. “I wouldn’t buy that one,” she says.
I check the knife for a brand. None. Then check the blade. Dull. “Yeah, this is crap.” I put it back in the basket.
“Wanna see the good ones?”
I turn again, but she’s right up next to me now. “Good ones?”
“Yeah, the Emersons. We have a few left. They’re a very popular Christmas present.” She slides past me and opens a case, then removes a box and sets it on the counter.
“Are you allowed to open that?” I ask.
She never looks up at me, just picks up the thin black box. “This is my dad’s booth.” She nods over to the booth she came from. “That one over there is mine.” And then she looks up at me with her pre-teen eyes and pouts. “I always get left out of the back-room deals too. So I know how you feel.”
I shoot him a look.
“What? It’s perfect.”
“Did the senator sanction the weapons too?” He doesn’t answer right away and this is my first real clue that he’s not as comfortable with this job as he’s making it out. “What?” I ask. “What’s the deal, Merc?”
He shakes his head a little, like he’s thinking about lying or holding it in. But we’ve been friends too long, so the words come out anyway. “It’s just strange. All of a sudden I start getting a string of high priority jobs from people with position, ya know? This senator. The last job was collecting a debt owed to a millionaire from Miami. Had to go to Columbia for that one. And the one before that was stealing some data from a small European government.”
“Virtually, I hope?” I have insane hacking skills, like Merc here, but unlike him, I’m no soldier. I can shoot and I can fight. And if I do either of those two things you can be sure someone will end up dead by the time it’s over. But I am not a soldier.
“Nah, real time dude. Boots on the ground.”
“Hmmm…. maybe it was that mercenary ad you ran in Soldier of Fortune?”
He puffs out some smoke with his chuckle. “Hey, I was twelve.”
“As if that makes it any less ridiculous.” We both laugh. Fucking Merc. “Well, your name’s on a list somewhere. And you seem pretty popular and the shit’s sanctioned, so enjoy it I guess.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Cheyenne comes into view after that and Merc takes out his notes and studies them again. I don’t blame him for being paranoid. I do this shit as a side thing. This is his life. This is his day job. He has nothing else but this. So knowing that people with power have a list with your name on it is not comforting in the least. Because one of these days, the target and the gun might switch places.
I get off the freeway and had east on 16th like he said. This town looks like it got stuck in 1940 and nothing has changed. There’s a rail yard on one side of the street and a shitload of old fashioned shops on the other. I park in front of one of the brick buildings and look up at the sign. Roundhouse Antique Mall.
“Why is this place even open, it’s f**king Christmas Eve. Isn’t everyone home with their families doing family shit and eating crap by the handfuls, wishing that everyone’s kids would just shut the f**k up and fall into a post-sugar coma?”
“Jesus Christ, you really are a Scrooge. Last minute shopping, Ford. You’d know that if you ever bought a Christmas present in your life. Let’s go.”
I sigh as his door slams. But I give in and get out. I’ve got nine hours until my pet date, so what the f**k. I’ll stick around for an illegal arms deal. Why not?
Chapter Four
I’ve never been in an antique mall. I know they exist, there’s one on the west side of Denver on the side of the freeway, and the sign is huge and gaudy. But I can say with one hundred percent certainty, that entering that building has never crossed my mind. I’m not a snob about old things. I don’t mind old things when they’re mine. But as I walk down the many, many, many aisles in this huge-ass f**king building filled with crap—the first thing I think of is how many hands have touched these items.
The second thing I think is, why? Why would you come here to shop for Christmas presents?
I can only shake my head.
I follow Merc though an endless maze of booths filled with the oddest things—books, fabric, postcards, furniture, art, photographs, frames. The list goes on and on. But Merc stops in the way-way-back of the place and we end up at what appears to be a mini Cabala’s store. If said store was contained within a fifteen by fifteen foot booth, and it only had scratch-n-dent items.
I sigh and try my best to appear professional.
“Wait here,” Merc says as he enters the booth. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Right.” With Merc, be back in a minute can mean anything from five minutes to half an hour. I pick up a knife in a basket on the counter and check it out. It’s just a folding knife, but I have nothing better to do, so I flip it open and inspect the blade.
“That knife sucks,” a girl’s voice says from behind me.
I turn towards the voice. The child is sitting in a chair in the corner of the booth across the aisle, reading Little House in the Big Woods. She’s about twelve, she’s smiling so I can see a full mouth of braces, and her hair is up in long, blonde pigtails. She’s wearing a camo hoodie and some black tactical pants. “I wouldn’t buy that one,” she says.
I check the knife for a brand. None. Then check the blade. Dull. “Yeah, this is crap.” I put it back in the basket.
“Wanna see the good ones?”
I turn again, but she’s right up next to me now. “Good ones?”
“Yeah, the Emersons. We have a few left. They’re a very popular Christmas present.” She slides past me and opens a case, then removes a box and sets it on the counter.
“Are you allowed to open that?” I ask.
She never looks up at me, just picks up the thin black box. “This is my dad’s booth.” She nods over to the booth she came from. “That one over there is mine.” And then she looks up at me with her pre-teen eyes and pouts. “I always get left out of the back-room deals too. So I know how you feel.”
