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Aboveground train. Heading toward Canary Wharf. The man with the broken nose had been turned around all morning. He had taken the tube to Embankment. But he was supposed to be at Bank to catch the DLR. Embankment had sounded like Bank. When he realized he was at the wrong location, Embankment not Bank, he looked for bank on the tube map again. That labyrinth of tubes was confusing. Didn’t look like it was that far. Hoping to have better luck, he had taken to the streets, got lost again, ended up at Covent Garden, then hurried back inside the tube, took the Piccadilly to the Central Line, finally made it to Bank and the DLR. Brits and their fucking accents. Felt like he was in a damn Harry Potter movie. For a moment, when he was lost at Covent Garden, it felt like he was being followed. But no one was there. No one had boarded the train with him. No one on the platform shadowed him The ride was shoulder to shoulder. People were forced to touch other people. His personal space no longer existed. He hated public transportation. One look and he could tell the tubes were a breeding ground for germs, people coughing and sneezing and blowing their noses all over, breathing the same germ ridden air stop after stop, nasty hands touching the same seats and holding the same contaminated rails, everyone forced to be right up on each other with a threat of Swine Flu in the air. Two hundred and seventy five tube stations. Two hundered and seventy-five places to get contaminated. Maybe a million people crammed on the tube each day. If Bin Laden dropped a virus at Victoria, London would be extinct in two days, the rest of the free world in less than a week. He understood why people in Tokyo wore those Michael Jackson style masks. The DLR was better view to see if he was being trailed. The WAG in London had become the talk of London. He had to make sure someone hadn’t targeted him for cleanup. That being-followed feeling he had at Covent Garden had stayed with him. Until now He let it go and took out his over the counter reading glasses, opened his self-help book He had his glasses on, adjusted over his bandaged nose, again reading pages in Divorce of Dummies. He didn’t look up. His contact would know him. Hard for him to not be recognized, with the broken nose and all. Still, for some reason, even with that, he was invisible to most people. No one ever noticed Clark Kent until he became Superman. That always worked in his favor. He put his book down and picked up a discarded London Lite. A sex-slave market was being operated out of Heathrow. Young Malaysian women were being tricked into coming to London, ending up working at brothels in Campden Hill Gardens, Notting hill, and Hyde Park, a few feet from Tony Blair’s swank Connaught Square property. He shook his head. Would kill them all if they even glanced at his little girl. The DLR stopped at West India Quary. A small crowd rushed on the train. Men. Women. Pushing strollers. Boys with backpacks. Four teenage girls boarded last. One took a can of Red bull out of her backpack. Another took out plastic cups. A third took out a bottle of Scotch and became the bartender. They made drinks and moved to the front of the car. Like it was no big deal. The fourth young girl was staring at him. He nodded. She stood up. Thin kid, five feet tall, if that. Black parachute pants with a thousand silver zippers. Black military shoes. Black hoodie with a white smiling face on the front. Red-and-Black fingerless gloves, fingernails the color of midnight. Her hoodie was pulled down over her head, only parts of her face showing. Her eyes as red as week-old ketchup that had been left out in the sun. She had a copy of the Voice in one hand and a green backpack in the other. The backpack had some weight. A black Ipod was on her narrow hip, headsets were on, hip-hop blasting. Sounded like British Rap. The girl looked him in the face, exchanged a slight nod, then sat next to him. The girl said, “Sam I am.” Her tongue ring showed. He nodded. “Green eggs and ham.” She looked Cherokee Indian. Her accent very London, like everyone’s. Her breath smelled like hard liquor, cigarettes, and beans. He moved to the back of the train. No one was there. She followed. They sat at the same time. She asked, “What’s happened to the nose, mate?” “Nothing I care to talk about.” “Looks like you got in a row and got your bloody ass kicked.” “You have my order?” The girl nodded. “Need anything let me know. I have a connection at Scotland Yard that’s pilfering a mad load of guns from the Operation Trident program. Guns they take from minorities. Right now I could supply Iraq. Revolvers, machine guns, MAC-10 if you want to do a spray-and-pray. Crack cocaine, cannabis, CS sprays. I can get anything you need.” “How old are you?” “Fourteen. If you need some Charlie, I can get you a deal.” He nodded. Wondered what his daughter would be like in four years. “I need clean barrels for the Eagle.” “How many?” “Half a dozen” “Have drops in Colindale and High Barnet, then I’ll get you what I can. Francois might have them. Tell Sam to tell me and I’ll get you what you need. Remember. Handguns. MAC-10. Cocaine. Crack. Cannabis. I’m the one you need to go to. Ask Sam. He’ll tell you.” The train slowed down. The next exit Mudchute. “Or if you know somebody chav or stoosh, I can get you gold, burberry, anything bling.” Cell up to her ear, the girl exited at the next stop. The girls who were drinking Red Bull and Scotch exited too. They handed her a cup of their mixed drink. They all walked away like nothing they were doing was a big deal. He wondered what Chav and stoosh meant. The green backpack was left behind. So was a newspaper. He looked at the front page. Article on the new trend sweeping across the nation, rich trailer trash going to third-world countries and buying black and brown babies like they were shopping at a pet store. The things rich trailer-park trash people did when they were bored. The newspaper had no messages, no significance. It was tossed. He pulled the backpack closer to him. Then he pulled out one of his cell phones. Dialed. A man answered, “Talk to me.” “What kind of shit was that?” “So you met Zankhana.” “What kind of name is that?” “Hindu.” “Shouldn’t she be in school playing tetherball?” “Guess you haven’t heard about the kids over here. They are the worst.” “This gunrunning teenage alcoholic know what she’s doing?” “Big shoot-outs in London over the last few weeks. Albanians’ card club in Park Royal, three dead. Guy shout up a McDonald’s in Brixton. Another man shot in the face at Harlesden.” “And London doesn’t have the death penalty.” “Abolished in the United Kingdom under the 1965 Murder Act.” “So you’re telling me that fourteen-year-old Zankhana supplied all the guns.” “Zankhana is a piece of work. All the gangsters know her. She supplied guns in both sides of a shoot-out in Colindale. Then supplied guns to the crews who went in for vindication.” “Fourteen years old.” “Will be lucky to see fifteen.” “What’s her connection with the Trident thing at Scotland Yard?” “Indirect connection. She works for somebody older. Druggie named Francois Bertin.” “Fucking Frenchman.” “You’ve got issues with the French?” “Just the Frenchman who spit out bullshit poetry.” The man with the broken nose thought about his soon-to-be ex-wife, took a breath. He asked, “What else you have for me?” “Still working on the second one. Contract is coming in from the States. The buyer has the funds but is having a problem moving the funds at this time. But the money is there.” “They’re being watched.” “Not sure. But if they are, not our problem.” “Don’t waste my time. I could be on a plane right now.” “Worst-case scenario. Would you be interested in bartering for a Benz?” “You shitting me?” “Client has a brand new CLK63 AMG Cabriolet.” Cabriolet. A convertible. “AMG” “An AMG?” “V-eight engine.” “Get out.” “Lovely car. Would look good in Texas.” “What year?” “This year’s model.” “What’s the cost on a piece of work like that?” “Off the showroom floor?” “What’s this one worth?” “Almost one hundred thousand.” “Uh-huh. And how would that get into my possession?” “Client would report it stolen. I’d arrange for the new paperwork and Ids.” “Oh yeah. Why don’t you just send me to jail? Just get me the money.” “Sean, the car is brand-new. Look it up on the Internet.” “They have brand-new prisons filled with dumb fucks too. Don’t waste my time.” “Just thought I’d ask. Promised the client I’d put that out there.” “This contract.” He took a breath, touched his nose. “You have the package?” “The information on Carmine is coming.” “Don’t bullshit me, Sam.” “I assure you it’s coming.” “Don’t fuck me around, Sam. You don’t want to fuck me around.” He hung up. He exited the DLR at Cutty Sark for Maritime Greenwich. Needed to get souvenirs for his daughter. And there was this other thing on his mind. As he walked he took out the other phone. Dialed. His call was transferred. She said, “Good. Afternoon.” “Sean, the guy from the coffee shop.” “I know who this is. How are you?” “Is this too soon to call? Was trying to wait, but I wanted to call you.” “Did you?” “Is this too soon? I mean, I can call you back if this is too soon.” He heard the smile in her voice, “Not at all. I wanted to chat with you as well.” Butterflies in his belly, he stood to the side talking to her. He asked, “Are you available to get together later? Only here a couple of days and I -” “I love the cinema.” “Cinema?” “Movies. We call them the cinema here.” “Oh, movies. Nice. We could do that. I like the cinema too.” “Well, the Prince Charles Cinema has some nice movies. Or if you like theater and want to know more about South Africa, there is a wonderful play about South Africa at Stratford.” “Haven’t been to a play in a while. What’s it called?” “Township Stories.” “Is that like Lion King?” “Not at all. But it’s a good crime thriller that shows the gritty reality of South African life. They say Zenzo Ngqobe is excellent. Think he plays a cold-blooded assassin in the play.” “A cold-blooded assassin.” He smiled. “Let’s go see that.” “That would be lovely.” “I have to tell you one thing. More like two.” “Yes” “I’m going through a divorce. It’s not over, hasn’t been finalized, but that’s weeks away. And I have two kids back in the States. A son and a daughter. Just wanted you to know that.” “Sean” “Yes.” “I’m divorced. And I have two children. Their father does not send a dime to help them. Two boys. Back in Botswana.” There was a long pause. Sean said, “Really?” “Really.” “Well, I’m on my second marriage. My first wife died. Breast cancer.” Another pause The silence on the other end of the line told him that he had said the wrong thing. He said too much too soon The past should be given in measured doses, not all at once. “Should I meet you at the theater? Or would you prefer to not to be seen with a divorced woman who has two children? “ He hadn’t blown it. He smiled. “What theater and what time?” She laughed. He laughed too Tension dissipated She told him where to meet her, then said, “I will meet you there, Sean.” “Okay. Would you like to go for dinner before the play?” “After would be better. That way we don’t have to rush before the theater.” “Okay. Dinner after the play.” “I love your voice, Sean. Love the way you sound so…American.” “Love your accent too.” “Have to get some things sorted out here at work.” “Have a good day.” “Cheers, Sean.” She hung up. His smile refused to end. While he walked by all the shops that led to the Cutty Sark, he felt free. He didn’t think about his divorce Or the IRS Or his kids He only thought about her. He was happy He was a sucker for love. Classic Sean Galen story… - [ * * * ] - The question on everyone’s mind…Which version of King Galen will we see this week? Is it the one that dominated here in the past or the one who shows up enough to collect a pay check. Ill tell you it doesn’t really matter. Because even when he put out a solid effort, the kid couldn’t beat me. He understood this feat because not only did he get us both counted out, he also withdrew his name from the Championship three-way that was to follow. Sean other then comparing me to yourself you really don’t have anything on me. You can talk a big game but as we’ve seen numerous times that doesn’t matter against me. You can bark the biggest bark but you’re going to be the bitch in this match. Go ask Enigma, he’ll vouch for this fact. You’re going to be the one I can bend in ways a human isn’t supposed to bend. You’re going to feel pain like you’ve never felt it and you’ll thank me after it’s over. I’ll help you realize your potential. What is your potential? Your current potential is being a card filler. Up until now, no one cared about you. Your name has been forgotten. Now you want to step up to the one they call the best and try and take what he has worked so hard to keep? You’re going to try and take his status here in NLCW? Sorry, try some other time. Tell me what advantage you have over me in this match. Experience? You don’t have any experience over me because I’ve been in this ring week in and week out, how many matches have you wrestled in 09 Sean? Two? Maybe three. I’ve been going every week since the dawn of the new year! Versatility? I’ve seen aerial, submission, technical, power, and everything in between and they have all fallen in a broken mess. They have all realized that the only thing they could do is become a broken heap of mess for someone to clean up after the match. You can’t replace me as much as you might want to. I may been what you were back when, but you have to realize Sean, I’ve become ten folds better then you’ve ever been Bring all the talk you want. Or don’t I could really give two shits to be honest. You can bring speculation and you can bring stories that are going to try and intimidate me. Spare them, please. I’ve heard them all eight times over. You can tell me that I’ve been saying the same things over and over again. I love that one. I do because people don’t listen. I’m sure you won’t either. This match isn’t going to be fun for you. This match is going to be proverbial rape. There is nothing you can do to stop it so you’re just going to take it. I’ve done this too many times so I know what I’m doing. Hell, to change things up on this memorial day weekend, I might throw an American flag over you, and fuck you for old glory’s sake. Later Dick… -- That’s a Wrap! -- |