The Forging Page 9

  Mark Galos had gotten off scot-free, and I wanted, I needed, to know why! I have a not so sneaky suspicion it is my fault. Sneaky suspicion more like it is out in broad daylight wearing fluorescent clothes and waving semaphore flags. If it is the case, it is one more item in a long list of failures in my life. I had been a boy with such promise, but now I am a man of mounting disappointments. I have to get my thinking straight. Everything is riding on my shoulders, a whole world of worries. Well, this Atlas is not going to shrug.

  Mark Galos scares me. I fear he is not going to let it go. In my dreams, he has been coming after my family and me. The whole time I gave my testimony, I could feel his eyes on me. It felt like I was being sized up by a predator. His eyes held the cold reptilian quality of a Komodo Dragon getting ready to strike. If a Komodo’s prey manages to escape after the bite, it is still doomed. The Dragon follows and waits for the victim to slowly die of blood poisoning, a most painful death. A Komodo Dragon’s saliva is home to a virtual soup of nasty bacteria. The recipient of the love bite withers slowly and dies. I’m afraid this is what Mark Galos will do to me. Nip me in some way then back away and watch me burn up with fever. Thinking about the way he looked at me on the witness stand sends a shiver down my spine. It feels like somebody doing the hokey pokey on my grave.

  “You put your left foot in, you put your left foot out …” The song came in loud and clear as I pondered my sorry state.

  “Ok, Mr. K R A P, that is quite enough!” The sound from my internal iPod died down. As I made ready for the day, I plotted out a route to hit some of the best prospective employers in the area after my visit to the DA’s office. Time is a commodity I can’t afford to waste. I locked up the house and got into Jezebel. “The lady told me if I give you a little special attention once in a while, you’ll purr at my every touch. So, here goes.” Before I turned the key, I gave the dashboard a little pat. “Who’s my girl. You know I love you.” I turned the key, and she started right up. I pulled out of the driveway and made a beeline for Mr. Darryl Wayne’s office.

  The drive is pleasant enough, despite the rude drivers on the road. The building which houses the county offices is in the old downtown section of the city. It is an uninspired square monstrosity of eleven stories called “The Hall of Justice.” It looks like a seven-year-old made it out of a small and limited set of Legos.

  The saying “there’s no such thing as a free lunch” comes to mind every time I try to park here in the downtown of America’s Finest City. In San Diego, there’s no such thing as free parking. I’m sorry but public buildings should have free parking. Twelve bucks to park over an oil stain on a few square feet of concrete is plain nuts. Not even any cashews or macadamias, just plain nuts. They should do parking like in Las Vegas. You slip the valet a few Georges, and he parks your car. He brings your car out, and you slip him a few more almighty dollars. Yep, it’s how I’d run it. I think I’ll write to Congress and set them working right on it. Hell, it would be the most reasonable bit of joy out of Washington in over 200 years. They could tout it as a jobs bill. Maybe I should run for Congress.

  I doubt I could be elected with me being honest and all.

  I made my way into the building. I grabbed the elevator up to Wayne’s World. The elevator is empty except for a man in an average cut blue suit standing in a corner at the back. He must have missed his floor coming down because he didn’t exit the car. He looked bored to the extreme. The music playing is “One” by Three Dog Night, but it is the crappiest Muzak version I had ever heard.

  I exited the elevator onto a quiet floor filled with hallways and doors. I had been to Darryl Wayne’s office before when he wanted to go over my testimony for Mark Galos’ trial. I weaved my way through the labyrinth of corridors to his lair. I pulled open the door and entered the reception area. His secretary is seated behind a desk with a computer and a phone bank. This woman is attractive. She has jet black hair cut into an asymmetrical bob and sported some large gold hoop earrings which seem to spin like gyroscopes. Her outfit, what I could see of it, is as black as her hair and cut in a deep swoop which is a little too low for an office setting. From my position standing across the desk, I received a view a single man would have appreciated. This married man enjoyed it too.

  I tried not to look at the adequate deep cleavage which is exposed. The only problem is my eyes kept being pulled down from her face by some magical force beyond my comprehension. Char has always touted window shopping is harmless, “But don’t buy anything.” Sure, like I believe her. I could swear Char’s nose got a wee bit larger after she said it.

  The secretary was diligently typing away at the computer without a look in my direction. I coughed to no avail. All I heard was a guttural, “huh,” out of her while she continued to type. She stopped typing, clicked the mouse a couple of times, and turned to face me.

  “Who do you have an appointment with?”

  “I don’t have an …,” but before I could finish the phone rang. The secretary put up her hand in the universal gesture for this phone call is far more important than you. She picked up the phone and began ignoring me. “Ms. I was here before the phone rang. Please Ms.,” she continued with the phone call while I stewed. After a short epoch, she finished with the call. “As I was saying I …,” but before I could finish the door I had come through opened. A messenger walked in. Without an “Excuse me,” he nudged me aside and handed a large manila envelope and clipboard to the secretary.

  “Anything going out?” he asked as he is looked at his watch and made a note on the clipboard the secretary handed back. When the secretary didn’t immediately answer, he looked up and gave me a nod then was out the door he came in. With the foolishness done, I could finally tell her I needed to talk with Mr. Wayne.

  As I was about to open my mouth, a buzzer went off, and a man’s voice came on. This is like some bit in a bad sitcom. My blood pressure is going up, and my heart began beating faster. I’m sure the little vein on my temple started dancing to a Latin rhythm. The voice on the intercom sounded like Mr. Wayne’s, “I need you to call Detective Jun and have him come in today to go over his testimony for the Abram’s case.”

  She replied, “Yes, sir.” The office is finally quiet. I waited for a beat to make sure nothing else is going to knock, or ring, or buzz.

  Nothing. Victory is mine. I took a breath to begin.

  The door leading to the private offices and meeting rooms opened. Daryl Wayne leaned into the room, “Can you place these in the Bruter file?” Darryl told his receptionist as he placed the paperwork on her desk. He turned to go back through the door. I jumped around the desk and stretched to grab the door to keep it from closing.

  “Mr. Wayne, if I could have a moment of your time?” I tried to keep my voice level but based on how I feel. it came out a little harsher than I meant. “Take a breath. Get yourself under control.”

  His secretary chimed in with, “I was about to tell this gentleman time in this office is valuable, and he needs to make an appointment.”

  Mr. Wayne took a quick look at his watch, “I can give you five minutes, but no more.” I followed him back to his office. The room is as I remembered it. His desk is neat with no papers out. Everything on it is arranged just so. Pictures of the family were placed in the corner of the desk. A large blotter covered the work area. A fancy pen and pencil set made of exotic wood, teak I think, is in its place right behind a nameplate reading Daryl Wayne. A Newton’s cradle and other office toys are arranged on another corner of the desk. There is no clutter whatsoever. It is the sign of a sick and twisted mind. “So, what can I do you for Mr. Embers? Oh, please have a seat,” he leaned back against the front edge of his desk as he gestured for me to take a seat.

  I sat in the chair. I looked up at Mr. Wayne. My neck hurt from the odd angle, and I exploded, “What the Hell happened in the Mark Galos trial?” I sat there unblinking waiting for an answer, “Well?”

  He opened his mouth for a second, then change his mind
. He walked around his desk and took a seat. He sat there a second taking a moment to compose his words. He played with the Newton’s cradle. The sound of its click-clack began to annoy me. He put on what I considered a false smile and gave his canned speech, “Well, nothing is guaranteed in a trial, Mr. Embers. We fought the good fight, but this time it wasn’t in the cards.” Two clichés in one sentence. I am not impressed. A hat-trick would have earned him at least a chuckle.

  “Come on, Darryl, spare me the canned speech. I need to know. Was it my fault?”

  “Okay, Mr. Embers, I’ll give it to you straight,” he stood and leaned across the desk. He braced himself on his fingertips. The gloss of the table reflected his fingers, reminding me of the old joke about a spider doing push-ups on a mirror. With a heated voice, he replied, “Yes, it was your fault, Mr. Embers, you blew the case. You were the case. You and your so-called perfect memory. We had him. A relative low-level crime his attorney should have pleaded out, but we had him. Until you claimed to have seen a dead man. You talked to Detective Ralph Davies, a fine cop. You smeared his memory. Tell me, did Mark’s parents offer you a little incentive to blow the case? Tell me off the record. I won’t hold it against you. You wouldn’t be the first to let a scumbag slip away for a few pieces of silver. My solid record took a hit all for a minor robbery from a no-name two-bit punk.” The click-clack of the desk toy is echoing in my skull.

  His words hit me hard. As his barrage battered at my rage over what had happened, the headache I had subdued after the trial began pounding to be released from its confines. I should have taken care of it before today, but I had hoped, in vain, it would not reappear. But they always come back. By the time Mr. Assistant DA had finished his little tirade, the giant of a migraine had escaped. It had grown. What was once a giant, has become a titan.

  Where’s Zeus when I need him?

  “Can I see your trashcan?” Darryl hesitated, so I repeated myself with a low toned command which sounded more like a growl. “Let me have your trashcan.” He reached to the side of his desk and picked up the can and handed it to me. I poured its contents out on the floor beside me. Mr. Wayne started to make a fuss. I leaned my head into the can and threw-up my breakfast. Darryl stopped his protest in mid-sentence. I guess he is a bit shocked.

  Over the years of headaches and the vomiting which follows, I have learned how to predict the time of hurling with uncanny accuracy. After the giant broke out of its confines, I knew I had only moments before the spewing began. I had no time to make it to the restroom and stick my head into a porcelain altar. I had to act quickly, or I am going to need new dress shoes.

  The headache had subsided somewhat after I tossed my cookies. For a few brief moments, it would give me a break long enough to function for a time. I stood and looked around the office for a tissue. I grabbed one and wiped my mouth. I threw the soiled tissue in the waste can and received an oh so lovely look at, and a whiff of the contents of my stomach. Strange, I don’t remember eating that.

  “Well, has the truth of the matter caused you to be sick with yourself?” asked the idiot.

  I looked him in the eye. The fury of my emotions fully evident on my face. I replied, “I’ll be back,” to the room as I turned around and walked into the hallway. I took the wastebasket with me. I must have looked like a zombie walking the hallway towards the men’s room. No one is using the facilities as I entered. Lucky them. I washed my face and took a breath. I am minimally better. I proceeded to empty, rinse out, and dry the trashcan. I returned to Mr. Wayne’s office with the trashcan in hand. My five minutes must have been up because some guy in a suit is in the office with Darryl. I started to pick up the trash I had set on his floor.

  “What are you doing? Oh please, Mr. Embers, you can leave it. I’ll have someone clean it up. Why don’t you go home and get some rest?” Can this man flip-flop or what? He must be practicing for a run at an elected office.

  I continued with my efforts ignoring both him and the other suit. After I picked up the trash, I declared, “I always clean up my messes.” I handed him back his trashcan and made my exit.

  I walked to the elevator and when the doors opened, the same fellow who rode up with me is still there with the same bored look. The Muzak version of “You Oughta Know” by Alanis Morissette played while we rode down. My head is beginning to pound again. It is all I could do to keep from heaving inside the elevator car. I put my hand out to lean against the wall. The bell chimed, and the door opened. I staggered out. I forced my way to a drinking fountain where I downed some aspirin I always carry for such occasions. I know it’s rude, but I splashed some water on my face right there at the fountain.

  I made it back to my car. I am in no condition to drive, so I reclined the seat as far as it would go and tried to take forty winks. Sometimes sleeping, even a short nap, can relieve my brain bombs. I requested a soothing song from K R A P. The sound of Kenny G playing “Songbird” came over me and I drifted off.

  I slept, but it was a restless sleep. While I could still perceive the migraine, it is no longer an unbearable throb. I dreamed disjointed bits of horror and past nightmares. Mark Galos reigned supreme in most of those torments. Finally, I had some peace in my fitful slumber. The dreams stopped. I slept the sleep of the dead.

  I woke with a start. What time is it? My cell phone read it is close to starting time for my afternoon shift guarding the crossing at my daughter’s school. Damn, I slept most of the day away. What a waste. The migraine is there in the back of my head waiting for me to hear a loud noise, have an angry thought, or become frustrated to return to the forefront of my perception.

  I had to beat feet to make it on time to my daughter’s school. I made it home with no time to spare. I grabbed my stuff and took-off. Normally I would park the car at home and walk to my station, but I had no time today. I parked the car on the street near the crossing. I donned my mantle and whistle. I could hear the school bell go off as I walked up to the corner. All went well until about halfway through my shift.

  The hair on the back of my neck started to stand up, and I feel like I am being watched. My head began to pound slowly as the headache reared its ugly head. As I turned around, I spoke words which chilled my blood.

  “Mr. Galos, I have been expecting you.”

  Chapter Seven

  He stood there in front of me about an arm’s length away. He had the look of death about him. He appears to be sick or at least recently up from a sickbed. His hair is unkempt, and the pallor of his face is ghostly. The whites of his eyes had a yellow cast to them. He is wearing a heavy dark wool peacoat, and his hands are in his pockets. The slight smirk on his face betrayed his intention. He is here to murder me. He is going to commit this horror in front of these innocent children, and I couldn’t do a thing to stop it.

  “Don’t do this,” I calmly asked. “Not here. Not in front of the kids. I’ll go with you wherever you want. I won’t put up a fight. Please spare the children.” My head began to throb with the migraine again. It is coming back with a vengeance.

  “What, no begging?” Mark said with a blank face.

  “Would it convince you to do this somewhere else?” I said, looking straight in the monster’s eyes.

  “No, it wouldn’t,” he said casually. “But I so wanted to see you beg, Nathan. You don’t mind me calling you Nathan, do you? At times, it seems like we are old friends. You pissed me off as only an old friend can,” his strange accent is back.

  If I keep him talking long enough, maybe one of the parents will think it’s fishy and call the cops. The longer I delay him; the fewer children will be around to witness my death. “Sure Mark, in fact, you can call me Nate. Amazing job with the accent by the way. Nice trick getting rid of it for the trial. Could you answer a question for me? Who had the voice I kept hearing? Did you have a partner with a radio?” I tried willing the children to leave, but there are always some who hang around for a while waiting for parents or siblings.

  Pound.

>   “Some things are going to remain a mystery, my old friend. If you had only minded your own business, I would have left you alone to your pathetic empty life, but you had to be a hero in the courtroom. Well, you know what they say about heroes, don’t you?” Mark paused and waited for my answer.

  “Will Rogers said, ‘Being a hero is about the shortest-lived profession there is.’”

  “I had never heard it before, but so true in your case. I had plans requiring precise timing. I could have ended their suffering. They have paid too high a price for this world already. Now, they will have to ante up a little more. They will get their just due eventually, but I can do one thing for them. I can eliminate the thorn who kept me from freeing them.” Mark Galos said with righteousness in his voice.

  Pound. Pound.

  “Who are you talking about?” I asked, trying to stall for more time. I had to keep him talking. Something is nagging at me from the back of my mind, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. “Who needs freeing? Maybe I can help.”

  Pound. Pound. Pound.

  “Isn’t that rich. You helping me? You can’t help me. Why you can’t even help yourself, Mr. Clerk Guy. Wait, you got fired, so you aren’t Mr. Clerk Guy anymore. You are a nobody, Nate,” he said my name in a mocking tone. “I thought it fitting taking away what little you had. Like a deadly silent knife out of nowhere. Yes, it was me who dropped a dime on you to your employer. I had Marcy, the bitch, fired too. A pleasant twist of the knife.”

  A parent spoke out to the world at large “People should watch their language around children.”

  Like a viper, Mark Galos pulled a revolver out of his coat pocket and pointed it at the lady. “Keep your mouth shut, or you’ll buy one of these in the head, BITCH!” The mother gasped in shock. Some of the children started crying. Other parents started grabbing their children. Everyone started running in all directions. “Make a move, Nate, and I’ll end her and as many of these brats as I have bullets for except the last two. Those have a previous engagement with your head.”