Reader's Block Ch. 02 - Next Gen by PumpajPumpajPumpaj on ImageFap.com

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	Reader's Block Ch. 02 - Next Gen
	"Hold me closer, tiny dancer," [Wha~at~ever, blah blah - - blahbah] I didn't actually sing that last part. Especially since I was getting paid to perform. But I said it in my head because I was... well - melancholy. I'm John Baker, by the way. Maybe you've heard about me. I work at a local watering hole, O'Shay's, and I play piano five nights per week. This is a fairly new career for me but I thoroughly enjoy it. I suppose, to understand my hum-drum mood, I'll need to explain a few things first. Three years ago, I was John Baker - an insurance salesman, father, husband - and about as normal a person as possible. That isn't right. I'm still trying to learn how to embrace that part of my life enough, to be honest about it. The truth is I was plain. Vanilla. Boring. At least my wife at the time thought so. That's why she ran around on me. I started to self-deprecate in booze and I became shackled in lust by porn. I had plenty of good reasons to love my two new-found friends and I told myself often, I deserved something - anything good in my life. By accident, chance, or consequence, I lost my job due to the latter. My self-respect went out the door due to the former. Fate found me one night at a local watering hole. I usually spent my time across town in a darkened dingy little joint but finding the advertisement under my windshield wiper that evening, I decided to change it up. And that's where I found Devon - or rather, he found me. Devon, or Triple F, to his readers, changed my life that night. When I called the number on the card he left me, two days later to thank him for giving me my man-card back, he told me I was wrong. He said he'd only given me encouragement and choices and that I'd made all the right ones. He was like a guardian angel but only because, it turned out, his ex-wife was cheating with the same man mine was. Still, his elaborate plan taught me that I'd only repressed some of my better qualities. They weren't absent, just dormant. I divorced the cheating bitch I'd been married to for fourteen years. She'd already turned my daughter against me, but three years later, things were starting to improve. At least we texted more often and that was a start. I found a new job in sales at a food distributor, and over that first year, I decided to go back to my love of music. The guitar was an instrument I'd always wanted to learn to play. The thing was, I figured out pretty quickly, I wouldn't be any good at it. What I was good at, however, since childhood was the piano. Something about those chords spoke to me. I found a part-time gig at O'Shays Irish pub, four nights a week. My confidence was soaring. That's when I decided to pay it forward - take up the torch for jilted husbands like my mentor had. Devon had told me I was his final project. He'd officially retired from helping husbands get their payback after that night. I wasn't sure I believed him. For the past two years, I'd been helping betrayed spouses, all men, and hoping I could get them feeling better about themselves. Restoration of self-confidence was my ultimate goal. I know - John at the bar is a friend of mine - I'd heard the joke and played the song a million times. I'd been fairly successful, too. Not always but mostly. A few weren't prepared to receive the help, and a few, I discovered, had treated their wives like shit leading to her actions. Only my investigation of them uncovered that. With my food job, I had extra time to research and often, follow a wayward wife. Preparation was important if I wanted the element of surprise in helping my targets. Mitch Baxter was on my mind that night. He'd suspected and I'd confirmed his wife, Gwen, was cheating. It wasn't a co-worker as Mitch had come to believe, though. The paramour's name was Mario Garcia. A co-worker had introduced the pair, but Mario operated an onsite paper shredding company that had been contracted by Gwen's employer. I suspected he had some ties to organized crime in our city, based on my surveillance of him. Due to that fact, I was at a loss as to the next step, in publicly outing and humiliating Mario and Gwen. The idea was to help Mitch, not get him hospitalized or killed. He'd be showing up a bit later and, when he did, I'd ask some more questions to help decide the next course of action. Mitch walked in just after nine and took a seat at the bar. Tonight's discussion was going to be our most serious one yet, so I wanted him to be more sober than usual. I'd asked my friend behind the bar to pour light. I was announcing a fifteen-minute break to the medium-sized crowd when I saw something unnerving. Mario Garcia walked into the bar, dressed casually, and scanned the room. His gaze stopped as it landed on Mitch. He found a dark corner booth where it would be hard to notice him. As I started towards Mitch, two other guys, vaguely familiar to me came in and sat two booths down from Mario. Something was definitely wrong. I said hello to Mitch and led him over to a booth on the opposite side of the bar, having him sit with his back to the other men, so I could keep my eye on them. "Keep your eyes on me," I told him with concern. "We have company. Any idea why Mario would have followed you here?" His impulse was to turn around but I kicked him in the shin, hard. "I said, eyes on me!" His face was a mixture of emotions. Shock and anger were directed towards me but some of that was because he knew Mario was in the room with us. He had murder on his mind. "Take a drink," I ordered him. "Then calm down." His demeanor lessened and he did as I instructed. Mitch's ragged breathing began to return to normal. "I don't know why he's here," he finally said. "Anything new between you and Gwen?" I asked. "Anything else new, in general?" "Just her attitude," he responded. "She's been more... loving, more... amorous... like she's having second thoughts. But when I ignore her, her feelings seem hurt and then she starts the verbal assault all over again. I may have mentioned that I know all about her 'new man.' She laughed bitterly and told me if I go for a divorce, I'd better be prepared to cough up everything I own." I'd told Mitch only two nights previous who was boinking his wife. My proof was a video on my phone of her walking into the guy's big house in a gated community. I'd also given him strict instructions not to spill the beans to his wife. "Mitch," I exhaled. "We're supposed to be a team here. I want to help you but you've got to stay on script. This guy... you're in way over your head. Now you've led him straight back to me. Rule one: never reveal the troops' positions. I get that you're barely holding it together but you've got to be smart about this." "Sorry," he said. He looked sorry. "Stay here," I ordered. "Don't you dare look over toward him. I'm going to the head." As I walked by the booth with the two thugs and past Mario's booth, I looked them all up and down but not any more or less than I'd do with any patron. I couldn't tell if they were carrying or not but best to assume they were. While pissing, I thought about who I could call for a favor. I'd need someone to get Mitch out of the bar, and home. Maybe I'd need to get someone to provide Mitch with a bed and a place to stay for a few days. Then, based on what Mario and his boys did afterward, I'd figure my way out of the mess. If Mitch was being followed by the people I'd seen, then they may have watched our previous conversations here. I took a few minutes to thoroughly dry my hands. It made me think, "What would Devon do?" Returning to the bar, I only had a few minutes before my break ended. Coming out of the restroom, put me at Mario's back. He hadn't moved and neither had his posse. "Miquel Aguilar," I said gleefully, as I put my hand on his left shoulder and gripped tight. "God, it's, been what? Six or seven years?" See, dry hands? Very important. He jumped a little. I guessed even gangsters get a little jittery. His face showed a range of emotions as he turned only his head and looked up at me. It took a minute for his response. "Sorry," he said evenly. "You've got me confused with someone else." I apologized and walked back to join Mitch. At least now, I knew what I was dealing with. They were here to spy. The goons were probably to assist Mario in case Mitch knew him by face. Two birds, one stone, and all that. I also knew that Mitch's financials weren't all that stellar. What his wife would get in a divorce wasn't anything Mario would be interested in. My best guess was that Mario liked Gwen, at least a little, but would likely turn her out, once he'd tired of her. Then she'd belong to the mob. "Mitch," I began. "I have to go back to work. Listen to me and listen closely. I'm calling a friend of mine, Robert. He's going to pick you up in thirty minutes, give or take. You'll stay at his home for a few days until we can decide on a course of action. I don't want you talking to your wife. Turn your phone off if you can't control yourself. You've got bigger problems than an unfaithful wife here. Don't go anywhere unless it's totally necessary. Understand?" Mitch nodded, somewhat dumbfounded. Pulling out my phone, I took a few steps away from the booth. I called Robert Evans. He didn't have anything to do with sausage or food factories. He was, however, an expert at getting into locked cars. If he'd known anything about surveillance cameras, he'd have never done time upstate for his expertise. I'd helped him last year with his own cheating wife problem. I explained the situation and Robert agreed to be there as soon as he could. I'd kept tabs on him and knew he wasn't yet in a relationship. I told him to wait in the alley, outside the emergency exit behind the restrooms, and then text me when he got there. "Okay, buddy," I told Mitch. "I'm going back to my piano. When I play "Brown-eyed Girl" that's your cue to go to the restroom. Don't stop there. Walk straight out the back door and get in his black Silverado." It worked like a charm. I saw my phone's screen light up on the piano ledge. I abruptly brought the song to a finish. Mitch gave me a knowing look as I began the Van Morrison song. At about the two-minute mark, Mario and his friends glanced at each other. They were getting antsy. "Slipping and sliding all along the waterfall with you, My brown," blah - blah - blah. Of course, I sang the right words however, my mind went to the three problems. They'd risen from their seats and Mario tossed a few bills on the booth. For the second song in a row, I cut verses. "Hey, you three!" I said with a slight urgency into my mic. "One drink and you don't even tip the entertainment?" They didn't even look at me. The bartender did, though. About a minute later, they reentered through the back door. They scanned the bar and then focused their gaze on me. So much for the element of surprise. I had a hard time finishing my set that night. My brain was swirling with thoughts and fears. I had no idea how I'd help Mitch get even, now that Mario and his wife, Gwen appeared to be a step ahead of us. I feared for Mitch and myself. Dealing with cheating wives and helping jilted husbands was amateur shit. These guys who came looking for trouble were professionals. The Bartender, also John, walked me out that night. I checked the rearview mirror often on the way to my apartment. All the doors and windows were locked and checked, and I slept with my Sig nine loaded and on the nightstand. Checking in with Mitch the next morning, we compared notes and I asked lots of questions. He knew less about what was happening than I did and it was hard to avoid his questions with any detail. I told him repeatedly that these were bad men and that he needed to stay low for a bit until we could figure out a plan. "How many calls did you receive after you left?" I asked. "And from whom?" He said he had five missed calls from Gwen's phone and three text messages, asking 'where the fuck he was.' "Do you have a tracker app on your phone?" was my next question. He said he didn't, and then I asked him to check all his apps in settings to make sure neither Gwen nor someone else put one on there in the last week. He didn't find one, and neither did Robert who was right there. I told him I'd call back once I figured out our next step. I was going down a rabbit hole. Usually, my new-found self-confidence was roaring. I was doing something real and helpful to men who'd suffered like me. Now I was worried about protecting myself and very suddenly wishing I wasn't in the middle of this. I did some background checking on Mario Garcia. He was a Mexican national who'd immigrated eleven years previously. That made things difficult as there was no record of him in his former country. The company website only had an ominous home page, with no partners or management listed. It looked like a front for the mob. I guessed they'd graduated from linen services and seafood companies. Every clever angle I thought of, unfortunately, also left room for Mitch and me to get killed. It did cross my mind that Mario's intent was only to scare the living shit out of Mitch, and by association, me. No, that could be a grave miscalculation, and I needed to be prepared for worst-case scenarios. I thought about calling my mentor, Devon. Picking up the phone a few times that afternoon, I almost did too. But my pride overtook me. I'd been at this for quite some time now. I wanted him to be proud of me, not to see me as I had been that night three years ago. He'd brought all of my confidence back in a span of twelve hours. The bonus sex with the escorts he arranged was just icing on top of my rejuvenated masculinity. The very best part was watching my soon-to-be ex-wife sitting across the bar staring at me with her mouth open while her idiot boyfriend attended to his vehicle being towed. Later that week, I arrived at my temporary apartment to find a large envelope under the door. In it were photos - good quality photos - of her new boyfriend entering our home just after nine at night. More pics showed Jack leaving by the light of a new day. That both shocked and alarmed me. The only small victory my cheap attorney had won for me was to ensure that Tracy's boyfriend Jack, didn't spend the night at our home. At the meeting, Tracy had instantly agreed, citing our fourteen-year-old daughter, and saying that any 'adult time' could occur at his condo, until the divorce was final. Along with the photos, there was an unsigned, hand-written note that said: John, I hope you'll remember our talk, and fondly. I can tell you love your daughter immensely and I hope all the best for you and her. A life well lived, and all that. Call the number on the enclosed card and make an appointment. He's one hell of an attorney, and he owes me. Take these photos with you. They will go a long way in helping you secure full custody of your little girl. Don't be spiteful about visitation. Remember, Tracy decided to do this to you. Your daughter still needs both parents. The girls gave me an update on your night together. They said you needed a little tender loving care, but once they got you back on your horse, you gave them exactly what they expected from a cowboy. I think they nicknamed you, "John Wayne." Glad to see you back in the human race, stud. Devon, AKA Triple F P.S. - Remember what I told you, John. The next time around, make sure you both feel the same way about each other and then treat every day with her like it was your last. Second chances don't often come around. Make the most of it. Lastly, be prepared to pay it forward. When the day comes that I call on you - and I will - be ready to help. The new attorney did help me get custody. He was also right about my daughter. She was elated that she got to live with me but also looked forward to seeing her mom a few days per week and every other weekend. The divorce went through without any additional drama. I found a new job, too. Ironically, it was in food service. Since I was working for one of Jack's competitors, I went after all of his accounts. Seven months in, I'd taken fifty percent of his business. He'd left Tracy two weeks after the night he disrespected me in my former home, and Tracy didn't say much about it, but I got the sense she didn't care all that much. One of our mutual customers told me Jack moved to Northern Michigan. I won "Rookie of the Year," that first one, having built up a good book of business. The award wasn't particularly special to me, but how I earned it was. Being on a high that wasn't waning, I decided to take things a step further than Devon had suggested. I gave up trying to learn guitar and worked out a deal at O'Shay's to work three nights per week. The pure-blood Irish owner was closed all of the major holidays except New Year's Eve and New Year's Day but always paid a full band for that event. I started watching patrons and was surprised at how easy it was to spot a guy who was down on his luck. Not all but many of them had marital problems. I never bothered with guys who'd cheated on their wives - either first or as revenge. I wanted to be like Devon, sure, but I had a soft spot for guys who found themselves in my predicament. I'd had a fair amount of success, which only bolstered my confidence. This Mario fucker was something else altogether. I decided I didn't have the connections Devon had, which made any attempts at revenge difficult at best. I was about to call Mitch with some bad news when my phone rang. "John, he's gone, man," It was Robert's voice. "What do you mean he's gone?" I asked as if expecting Robert to be his jailor. "We had a few drinks," he said. "He started getting all worked up and I couldn't calm him down. He was pissed, John. I came out of the bathroom and he was gone. I'm worried he's going to do something stupid." "Shit," I exclaimed. "Gotta go. Thanks for the call." I think he told me to be careful as I was disconnecting the call. That was sound advice. I drove frantically to Mitch and Gwen's home. Mitch's car wasn't there and the house was dark. That could either be a good or bad thing. Without much thought, I headed to Mario's house. I knew where he lived and I was hoping against hope that Mitch didn't. My worst fears were realized when I pulled into the cul de sac with the million-dollar homes. There were police and other emergency vehicles, with a flurry of activity. A cop directing traffic in and out of the neighborhood stood in front of my car and motioned for me to roll down my window. "You can't be here," he said sternly. "Turn around in this driveway and go back the way you came." "I know someone in that house," I told him, half-lying. "What's happened?" "There was a shooting," he answered. "It's an active investigation and crime scene." Pulling into the driveway he'd directed me to, I scanned the street looking for Mitch's car. With all the flashing lights illuminating the scene in front of Mario's home, it was easy to see the car wasn't there. That was somewhat of a relief. As I turned the corner, onto the road that would run parallel to Mario's backyard, my heart almost stopped. There, parked on the darkest part of the road, was Mitch's vehicle. I went to Robert's house. I don't know why. I guess I needed validation about Mitch's words and frame of mind as if I didn't already know. I guessed I needed to be somewhere that I couldn't be found. "Coward," I said to myself as I pulled into his driveway. Robert had a beer waiting for me at the door. "What did you find out?" He was worried. I explained what I saw in Mario's neighborhood. Tense doesn't begin to cover how we felt. After forty minutes or so of talking things through, I couldn't take it anymore. "I'm going to the hospital," I announced. "I have to see if I can get any information." "We know Mitch was there," He replied. "And if he's gravely injured but alive, then time is of the essence." Although I could have used the company, I implored Robert to stay home. If any of Mario's goons were hanging around the hospital, keeping his face and identity a secret was paramount. The woman at the desk directed me to a set of windows. The woman there asked all kinds of questions about who I was when I inquired about the two men. Another woman who overheard our conversation came over to the window and asked me to step over near the double wood doors at the end of the hallway, so she could buzz me in. That sent a shiver up my spine. What if the police were looking for answers - or worse, suspects? When I turned to my left, there was a scared and frayed-looking woman standing in a doorway of a separate waiting room of some kind. It was Gwen. She just stared at me but said nothing. I met her gaze as I walked to the door. The nurse buzzed me in and I was directed to a small meeting room. I waited. Five minutes felt like an hour. I needed to talk to Gwen. Peeking around the open door frame, I could see no one taking any interest in me so, I went out the way I came. Gwen was no longer in the little waiting room. She was talking to someone near reception at the emergency room entrance. It was one of Mario's guys. She caught my eye just briefly and then turned toward the door, the large man at her side. As she got to the automatic door, Gwen dropped a crumbled piece of paper. I kept a keen eye on it but gave them time to fully exit so I wouldn't be seen. 'Thousand-nineteen, thousand-twenty.' Trying to be inconspicuous I reached down to grab the paper. What it said left no doubt. "He's gone. I don't know what I'm ever going to do. It's not what you think, you must believe me. I need help! No cops." The eleven o'clock news confirmed the note. A local businessman's home was broken into. He'd killed the assailant but had suffered a non-lethal gunshot wound to his right leg. The police were investigating. Sure they were. By then, they must have known the 'assailant' was Gwen's husband. I thought I should call and ask to speak to the lead detective, but I quickly dispelled that notion. Mobsters often had local law enforcement on the payroll and could manipulate who caught cases. Robert had become a good friend. It was easy to see that he hurt because I did but he was also concerned for my safety. I refused to 'borrow' the unregistered sidearm he had taken out of a small tabletop gun safe. We talked well into the night about the cryptic message that she left for me. We both determined we should discount the idea that she was trying to set me up for Mario's thugs. He had plenty of opportunity to get me without making her write a bogus note. The only other option was scarier. If she knew I was a friend to her husband, then how much did Mario know? I wandered through the rest of the week in a daze, constantly looking over my shoulder. It must have looked paranoid to others as I scanned the entire parking lot at the grocery before getting in my car. It felt paranoid to me, as I zig-zagged through my neighborhood side streets watching the rearview mirror, trying to spot a tail. I waited for the obituary and got the details of the funeral. I wanted to drink but I was worried that if someone busted down my front door, my reaction time would be impaired. It wasn't just the feeling of failure that had me in its grasp - I felt responsible. That's a dark rabbit hole, and I found myself questioning everything from the past three years. Wasn't I just a worthless piece of shit, pretending to be Superman? Couldn't I do anything right? The night before the funeral, a light knock on my door brought me out of my self-pity. Well, this was going to be it. Looking through the peephole, I saw a familiar face. "Well, don't you look like shit," Devon, my mentor said as I opened the door. He wasn't going for humor, and the downplayed chuckle his throat produced told me his comment was more intended as a wake-up call. I invited him in, and he set a six-pack on the kitchen counter. Then he did the unexpected. He opened his arms in the universal sign for a hug. Tentatively, I stepped into him. He wrapped me up tight but for the appropriate amount of time for a man hug. "Beer?" he asked as we separated. I nodded. Once we'd taken a seat in my living room, Devon squared his shoulder and looked intently at me. "What's the plan?" he asked plainly. "Do you have one?" "Nothing," I shook my head. "I don't think I'm... I mean, this is all too much. I killed someone. I caused someone's death." "Nonsense," he corrected me. "You gave Mitch everything he needed to lay low. You did everything right. Don't you dare doubt that. If you have any small part in this, maybe... that's maybe, you misinterpreted Mitch's pain or his personality. But I don't think so." Devon took a long swig of his IPA. "Listen, John," he chastened, "Anger and rage are always the variables in this game we play. From what I saw, you did everything you could to keep Mitch safe. He chose to go to that fucker's house." "From what you saw?" I asked trying to understand. "What do you know of this?" That made Triple F laugh. "John, I know what you've been doing for the past few years. I keep an eye on you. Well, from time to time. I had a bad feeling when I saw those two apes coming out of your bar, looking around the lot, and then going in the back door. That made me do some checking around. I followed them when they left that night. They led me to Mario's office. Well, junkyard is a better description, as you already know." "Fuck, Devon," I screamed. "If you knew, why didn't you stop Mitch? Or tell me?" "I had no idea he'd fly off the handle," he said sternly. "Neither did you. There was no way you or anyone else could have gotten to him on time. Stop blaming yourself." We sat reflectively for a time. I got up to grab another brew. "Only three for you," he warned. "We've got a lot of work to do." Devon laid out what he knew about Mario, which admittedly was way more than me. The man truly was connected to organized crime. He'd been indicted five years previously on racketeering charges. Because it was all interstate, the feds weren't involved in that case and Devon suspected that someone had gotten to the DA because the charges were dropped shortly after the arraignment. His business was a front and for the sole purpose of money laundering. Mario, though, liked to get his fix on. He'd also been arrested for possession three times in the last seven years. Our state did not have a three-strike law and two of those cases were dropped so it didn't matter. "I helped a guy who got out of prison two years ago, right after the night we met," he said. "He told me earlier this week that Mario is on a short leash with his bosses. I think if we can set him up and he's arrested, the mob will probably step in and take over his business. I'd rather they take care of Mario their own way, than for us to do it, or worse get fingered by his bosses. We developed a specific short-term plan. At the funeral, there would be Devon and I, along with Robert doing some surveillance. We'd also be sure that Gwen could see me there. "We need to find out what her note meant," Devon told me. "What does your gut tell you about her?" "I don't know," I answered honestly. "I don't know her. But from what Mitch told me about her, they were happily married for eleven years and he said she was the last person on earth that he'd ever suspect of cheating." "That's what they all say," Devon smiled. "As I recall, you said it, or at least alluded to it. Still, I think she might be in real trouble, so it's worth it to hear her out. Especially if we can save a life." "Even if she sees me tomorrow, how am I supposed to set up a meet if Mario or his goons are there." "Mario was released from the hospital this morning," he replied. "He took a bullet in the right leg three inches above the knee, but no artery or major damage. I doubt he'll be there, but I would expect his goons for sure. Let me take care of reaching out to her. Your job will be to make a show out of embracing me as soon as you get there, so she can see you're my friend and by association Mitch's. That way, when I contact her, she'll have at least a little trust. Enough, if she's really in desperate trouble." We sat for a bit, finished the six-pack, and talked about mundane things. Finally, I had to ask. "Why did you stop writing?" I was straightforward. "I didn't," he said right away. "I'm working on a novel but it's slow going." He took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. "That night... when we first met. I'd promised my friend - the guy who lifted Jack's keys - that I was done. No more. Authors often write for personal reasons. Sometimes to clear our minds, others to unburden ourselves. What I discovered was that I enjoy helping people far more than I do writing." I raised an eyebrow. "Oh, don't get me wrong" he clarified. "I still love to write and I do. But I still find myself in that little bar where we first met, trying to pick out lost souls. I've even helped a few women get out of an abusive relationship. It's pretty clear to me that you do, too." Devon stood up. "Get a good night's sleep," he said. "you're gonna need it." I felt a lot better as my head hit the pillow. Devon was sharp and he had more experience. His ideas had cleared my mind. I slept well for the first time since Mitch's death. The rain and the fog made the funeral all the more ominous and sadder. Mitch was a good guy and the attendance proved that. I was surprised to see about fifty relatives and, I guessed, co-workers and friends. I saw Gwen immediately and she gave me a quick glance. One of Mario's guys was standing right behind her trying to blend in. I spotted another man, different from the sidekick that night at O'Shay's standing off to one side. He was a spotter. I walked up to Devon and gave him a conciliatory hug. "You see both of them, right?" he asked into my ear. I nodded, broke the hug and we walked over to the crowd together to pay our last respects. A few times when I looked over at Gwen, I saw thug number one staring right at me. It was discomforting to know I was so 'on their radar.' After the service, Devon walked with me back to our cars. "I have three guys trailing those assholes from here," he told me. "They'll be on them continuously until tomorrow night. I'll be bringing, well, leading Gwen to O'Shay's at about eight. Be ready to take a longer break so we can sit down with her. If my hunch is right, we'll need to act quickly. Have Robert there when you arrive. Have him move your car to right outside the back exit. We're gonna need him to get into a car - those fuckers' car," he nodded towards Mario's guys. "When they leave the bar to follow Gwen and me," Devon laid it out, "head for the back door, get in your car, and meet me at the Circle K - the one about eight blocks down Main Street." I didn't need it written down. We'd discussed the plan in detail the previous night and Devon was simply checking all the boxes. Devon would call me in the early afternoon to let me know if we were a go with Gwen. He'd arrive in her driveway, prearranged, and toot the horn. Then when she came out, Devon would lead her to the bar. The thugs would be following her and some of Devon's 'people' would be following them. Gwen was dressed plainly. She looked sad and distraught. I was already on a break when she arrived and I motioned to a booth almost behind the little stage area. Before we even sat down, the two goons walked in and spotted us. Almost immediately, one got on his phone, presumably to call Mario. The other guy stayed rooted near the entrance. "Alright," I said in a disgusted tone, with a similar look on my face. "Spill it. Why should I be talking to you? Your lover killed my friend and I'm sure you're involved up to your pretty little neck." Gwen held back a sob and kept her head up as she squared her shoulders. I had no idea what dignity had to do with anything at that point. "You're right," she said. "I'm the one who got us all into this mess and I'll have to live with it the rest of my life." "Spare me the righteous indignation," I said harshly. Devon had coached me on how to go at her. "What kind of help could you possibly need?" Just then I heard a ruckus. These were familiar surroundings but I was on high alert. Some drunk guy by the door had run smack into the burly assholes, who'd by then been standing together trying to figure out where in the bar to plant themselves. "Watch where you're going, asshole," one said loud enough for all to hear. The guy ignored him and headed for the exit. I looked back to Gwen. "It's a long story," she said with a deep exhale. "How much do you want to hear?" "Summarize," I replied. "I met Mario at work. His company..." "I know all that," I interrupted. "Get to the good stuff." "He drugged me at an after-work happy hour," she seemed to melt away at the revelation of sharing that. "He was always hitting on me. Someone invited him, I guess. I didn't like him being there. I decided to have one drink, then leave. I woke up late that night in a motel, naked, in bed with that prick." "Woke up?" I snarled. "You trying to tell me he carried you out of the bar?" "No," she answered, looking away. "I remember feeling light-headed and decided to leave. He followed me to my car and that's the last I remember before waking up in that room." "And you didn't tell Mitch, why?" I spat, "Or the cops for that matter." "He took pictures," she was starting to lose it. "He told me he'd tell my husband and others at work. He could prove it. Then he told me that if my husband was a vengeful type, he'd make sure I never saw him again." Gwen broke down then. Devon had been sitting at a booth just in front of us, watching the two apes. He stood and came over to sit next to me where he could face her. "They say the show must go on," Devon said looking at me, "No one ever gave me a good reason why it should, but it does." I looked at him like he had two heads. "Mike Hammer," he said as if I should know what he meant. "You know? Mickey Spillane. Your break is over. I'll take it from here." I figured since I'd be bailing and cutting my night short, I might as well get the bar excited and the drinks flowing. Maybe even a few people on the dance floor. After my normal introduction, I went straight to the well. "Well we're all in the mood for a melody, and you've got us feeling alright!" A few couples got up. Some loudmouth was toasting me from the main bar and spilling his beer all over himself as he held his glass high. One of the goons made their way directly for me. This was it, I was sure. "Sing us a song, you're the" blah-blah blah. Without a word or a look, the man dumped my tip jar upside down, emptying the contents of two one-dollar bills, and replaced it with a tightly rolled hundy. Something was wrapped up in it. Then the man smirked at me and went back to sit with his buddy. Somehow, I didn't shit my pants. The man walked slowly by Gwen and Devon. My mentor met his evil smirk with one of his own. I finished my set while Devon continued talking to Gwen. The men sat just across the dance floor watching them closely. They were definitely trying to intimidate, but they were not lightweights. They weren't shy to let all of us get an occasional glimpse of their holstered Glocks. When I stood up from behind my piano, I tipped my jar to retrieve what had been put there. "I think we've got the whole story, John," Devon said as soon as I sat down. "Sadly, for your friend, he will never get it. But I do believe Gwen is in serious danger and was manipulated by that bastard Mario. What do you say we avenge Mitch by keeping his wife alive?" I did a lot of nodding around Devon. He kept it short and sweet. "Hopefully, our friends have some disabled vehicles in the lot by now," he stated. "For those two over there, it will be a long time before they figure out what happened. That means they will have to get a ride, so our only variable is how long it takes their boss to figure out his troubles. My best guess is that we'll be ahead of them by forty minutes to an hour... tops." Devon was going out the front door with Gwen. He had some of his people in the parking lot, and I had Robert. If a gun battle ensued, all of our plans would go up in smoke. The best plan we had was a distraction created by me. It was one of the most dangerous things I'd ever done. The typed note wrapped inside the hundred-dollar bill said: "Sorry to hear about your friend. The patrons seem to like your playing skills. If I were you, I'd definitely 'tell no lies and keep your hands to yourself.' Fingers and pianos go hand in hand if you know what I mean." So it was a threat and hardly veiled at that. Thinking about what had happened to Mitch, and being warned by that asshole, brought my courage to the forefront. I'd need to take a couple of deep breaths before I started in on these two. Gwen was led to the door by Devon, with me right behind them, but in my case, I was drifting towards the two fuck wads, with a look of murder on my face. They both stood and seemed unsure of what to do, given the unexpected circumstances. As they made their choice to try and ignore me, to follow their mark, I erupted. "Hey," I yelled. Others looked our way. "Yeah, you two fuck-tards. You threatening me? Huh? Tell your piece of shit boss..." That was all I got out as I went right up into the biggest guy's face. He grabbed me by the throat. Not my shirt or lapel, my damned throat, and literally carried me into the front of the hallway. I couldn't breathe as I tried to separate his wrists with my hands. Luckily, John the bartender had been briefed. We all heard the gun click as a bullet was chambered. Big Goon One turned to see John's gun pointed at Goon Two's temple. "Let him go," John said evenly. "Now." Goon One set me down as I gagged for air. I could hear John as I went to my knees. "Needless to say, you two ass wipes aren't welcome here... ever." John stepped back two paces and let them leave, the gun trained on botof them. They quickly headed for the parking lot. A few customers helped me to my feet. I glanced at the bartender and gave a quick nod of thanks, then headed for the back exit. I pulled out onto the road right behind Devon. At the Circle K, the three of us met up with Devon's friend the pickpocket. "Gwen's going with him," Devon stated. "We've got things to do, and the clock is ticking." Devon looked at his friend, "If we're not back in three hours max, you know what to do for her." On the drive to Mario's office, which was really a converted junkyard, I grilled Devon about Gwen's story. "She was raped and blackmailed," he said when I finally shut up. "Mario - the scum - threatened her and Mitch. Made her keep at it. She was too afraid to say anything. She knew her husband's temper. He's been laughing about it to her face. Told her Mitch got into his home unnoticed and was still too much of a wimp to take the shot until Mario pulled his gun. He's been taunting her in the worst way." The rage had been building in me. At that revelation, I could no longer hold it. "I killed him!" I snarled. Then I screamed. "That motherfucker!" "You did no such thing," Devon soothed. "You..." "Shut up!" I cut him off. "He thought his wife was having an affair. I went along. Even got proof. How could I miss that? If I'd done my due diligence, he'd be alive. The cops could have been involved. Some fucking amateur sleuth, slash piano player in some dive bar. Look what it got me!" "Enough!" Devon was pissed. I'd never heard him raise his voice. "Fuck the self-pity, John. Self-loathing bullshit. You're helping others, sure. Commendable shit. But what have you learned? You telling me you're still that same guy I met three years ago? Lose your cape and your hammer and what? Right back to square one? "Fuck that," he scolded me like a kid. "We're walking into a fucked-up situation, John. I need you to get your head out of your ass. I need someone I can trust by my side. If you can't do that, then get the fuck out and walk home." He slammed on the brakes and pulled over. "Well?" I looked at him with angst, and a certain hatred reserved for the man who'd wronged me. But he hadn't wronged me. He'd killed Mitch, and probably plenty of other people. He took what he wanted, including people's dignity. He thought himself untouchable, but here we were, and we had a chance to do just that. I steeled my resolve and grabbed Devon's shoulder. "I'm fine," I said stoically. "Let's finish this." Devon pointed at the glovebox. "Open that." In the compartment, was a Walther PDP nine. I looked at him. "You know how to use that?" Devon asked. "Yeah," I told him. "Not my style, but I've been going to the range for years." "Don't hesitate then," he warned. "We're going to see what we can dig up on this clown, but if we run into Mario or his muscle, do not hesitate. They won't." The office of Mario's paper shredding business was a relatively small building, being on nearly a square block of land. We parked on the West side of the property, opposite the building. Another man got out of his car when we did. "All set, Devon," he said, as all three of them approached the cyclone fence. "Wait," I warned. "He's got dogs." Devon's friend pointed his flashlight at the fence in front of us. Two Dobermans were lying there motionless, with something white and shredded. "You killed his dogs?" I asked incredulously. "Nah," the friend replied. "I narc-ed them up on a fat T-bone. They'll be asleep for an hour, maybe two." Devon's friend already had a small cut made at the bottom of the fence, near a post, where we could crawl through. Devon told his friend to take off and we moved into the yard. The dogs didn't move a muscle. "What are we looking for?" I asked. "I'll let you know when we find it," he said. It didn't sound like much of a plan to me. Mario had a safe in his office, but he wasn't as stupid as I thought. Arrogant, yes but not stupid. The password wasn't anywhere, Devon or I looked. His desk yielded no results either. We made our way to the second floor. Two-thirds of the East side of the building was like a warehouse or pull barn. There was no second floor there. Upstairs there were three doors. One was a closet or storage area. The second had file boxes filled with what appeared to be older files. Devon asked me to check the third door as he started going through the boxes. One side of the small room had mops, brooms, and other cleaning paraphernalia plus some chemicals that looked industrial. Shining the flashlight around the room, it caught my eye that a few of the checkered white and black tiles looked discolored. At first, I thought it may have been caused by some of the chemicals. Upon further inspection though, the difference was only on four specific tiles, which made about a thirty-two-inch square. I found that odd. Kneeling, I used my pocket knife to see if the tiles were loose in any way. That's when I heard it. "Don't move asshole," I heard a man's voice command from downstairs. "Hands on your fucking head. Slowly, 'cause I will shoot your ass." I knew it was either Mario or one of his men. Standing up carefully, I moved quickly but quietly toward the stairs. They were metal so I took off my shoes and made my way down. "Turn around, slow like," he said. It sounded like Mario but I had no idea if anyone was with him. I'd killed my light at the top of the stairs, so now I made my way the fifteen or so feet to the office door with my gun out and the safety off. "Who the fuck are you?" he asked, "and why are you in my office?" I had a feeling he knew why. At the door frame, I saw him. Mario was favoring his left leg, his right one was bandaged heavily and his pants were cut up to mid-thigh. Devon was on his knees, hands interlocked on top of his head. I made a quick judgment. Mario was about six or seven feet from me. The odds of hitting your target grow exponentially beyond five feet. I'd need to get a bit closer to defend Devon properly, without being heard or felt. That would be easier said than done. I decided to close the gap after alerting him to my presence. "Keep looking straight ahead," I said sternly. "and lower your weapon - slowly." Mario wasn't new to this. He was a very cool customer. "Ah, let me guess," he maniacally replied. "The piano boy. Let me ask you, John Baker, of 1259, South Ridge Road, apartment 14E, are you ready to meet your maker tonight?" It took me a moment to answer. I wasn't going to match his evil cruelness or lack of morality. Honesty would be the best way to convey my message. "I am," I said matter-of-factly. "Every day. Before that happens though, your face and your brains will be running down that wall in front of you. Lower. Your. Fucking. Gun!" Mario lowered his gun. I couldn't see his face yet, and Devon was giving no tells at all. But Mario turned to face me, while his pistol was pointing at the floor. "What's your game here?" Mario still played it icily. "You know who I am, right? You know what I did to that twerp Gwen called a husband. Hell, you probably know what I did to her." He chuckled, hoping to get under my skin and give himself an opportunity. Then the smile disappeared in an instant. "That's it, isn't it?" he said. "You're trying to help her. You've got a soft spot for the broad, huh, piano boy? It's always the woman." "Shut up, and drop that gun," I ordered. "Kick it over to me." "No can do," he responded, his voice now crazier than before. It seemed to me, he got off on what was happening. "What'd you find up there?" Devon broke the silence. The question was smart and might help me regain my balance. I wasn't sure I could take a life, and I was now only about four feet in front of Mario. The bad news was his proximity to me was of equal distance, so in a draw, he might come out the victor. "Drugs," I said never taking my eyes off Mario. "In the floor." "Then that's enough," he added. "With what I found here. Mario's future doesn't look too bright. He's probably better off if you shoot him now." "Settle up with whatever God you choose - you son-of-a-bitch." I warned as I shifted my feet a bit. As Mario went to raise his weapon, Devon was up like a shot. I hadn't seen the paperweight in his hand. He must've picked it up when Mario turned towards me. Mario never got off the shot, as Devon smashed him in the temple area. He went down instantly. Devon checked his pulse and took the gun. He'd been so focused on drawing on me, that he probably never heard Devon behind him. "Did you really find drugs?" he asked as he dragged Mario over to his desk, tipped the desk over on its side, and leaned the unconscious gangster against it. "No," I told him. "But the tiles on the floor are hiding something." "Alright," he said, "you stay here. Take up a position directly behind him and facing the door. Make sure he's between you and the doorway. Take those files lying on the left of that pile. Seems Mario has been skimming off the top. I'll go see what I can find upstairs. We're going to have company any minute." He turned to leave and stopped. "Oh, and John, put one in the chamber. We might need it." It dawned on me as Devon left the room, that he had the presence of mind to realize he hadn't heard me rack the slide. I did so right then and got behind the unresponsive Mario. Four minutes later, the now infamous goons came bolting through the doorway. They froze as they took in the scene. Their weapons were out and ready but I had the bead on them. "He's alive," I told them. "Barely. You won't be if you don't put those on the floor, slowly." They looked at each other. The bigger one, who'd grabbed me by the throat said, "You're not going to get us both before we kill you." Devon's voice filled the room. "Yes, we will." The second goon turned slowly. They seemed reluctant. "If it's a gunfight you want," Devon said, "that's fine. Your boss is in deep shit. He's been stealing from the big boss. You can die or be a couple of heroes here. I've got evidence for you to take with you. Plus, a stockpile of heroin that shouldn't be here." The men seemed to consider their choices. Devon sweetened the pot. "You take the papers and the drugs. Roll on Mario and maybe get a nice reward. Otherwise, I blow out one of your brains right now. No witnesses and the other is in the crossfire, so it's up to you boys." Both men holstered their pistols at the same time. Devon tossed a brown bag wrapped and taped at their feet. I slid the two file folders in their direction. "Drive for five minutes," Devon instructed. "Then call the cops, saying there's been a break-in at this address. I've kept a little something for us to hold over your heads, and if something bad happens to me or my friend here, the police will have enough to take down a few important people. Make sure nothing bad happens to us." >>>> "Just a small-town girl, livin' in her lonely world. She took the midnight..." I saw Devon walk in and sit at the bar. He was the only person in the place not singing along. I was back to being my acute and alert self. No more 'blah-blahs' for me. "A singer in a smokey room, the smell of wine and..." The crowd was really into it then. The place was packed with more people than we'd seen there in quite some time. Devon got a drink served him right away and held it up high in a toast. "Workin' hard to get my fill, everybody wants..." Robert was sitting across from the bar, with his new lady, and a group of friends. He saw Devon's gesture and mimicked it. I was flying high. "Some'll win, some will lose, some are born to sing the blues. Whoa, the movie never ends..." The song was the last of my second to last set. I thanked the crowd who were in thunderous applause. I took my drink and walked over to Robert's table. The women were very flirty that night. I wouldn't be going home alone, that was for sure. I felt a dry hand on my shoulder. Of course, it was Devon's. "What's up, Elton?" he asked with a grand smile. He looked proud, and I felt it deep down. I did my salutations to all of Robert's friends and then let Devon guide me over into a dark corner of the dance floor. "Mario's hiding out in LA," he said triumphantly. "I guess Vegas got a little too hot for him. It won't be long for that sad sack. His days are numbered. If my guys can find, well..." he left it there. "What about Gwen?" I asked, not sure I wanted the answer. "She's back in Seattle, living with her family," he told me, as his demeanor changed slightly. "Second thoughts?" I asked him. "Did we do the right thing here Devon?" "I've wrestled with it, believe me," his voice strained. "It always takes two to tango. On the surface, it seems she did everything wrong, and got caught in a web she couldn't escape. But we don't know if she flirted before the happy hour, or even if she came on to him. I guess in this case, we'll just have to move forward on faith, John." And that was the crux of it. Gwen could learn from her mistake, or she could be the cold-hearted bitch I'd originally pegged her as. Mitch was gone; he had no more choices. After returning to the table, and sucking up several compliments, I returned to my piano for the final set. There was an envelope on my stool with my name on the front. I froze and took in a sharp breath. I looked over at Devon, but he was no longer standing with my friends. Inside the small envelope was a folded hand-written note. John, Thank you for everything you tried to do for Mitch. Never a day goes by that I don't feel responsible for his death. Many days I struggle, constantly telling myself I don't deserve to live, but I know Mitch wouldn't want that. I know wherever he is now, he knows the truth. Thank you for helping me. I know for sure I would be exactly where Mitch is now if you and your friends hadn't intervened. I'm in counseling four days a week, and that will probably go on for quite some time. In my free time, I volunteer at the women's shelter. It's the very least I can do. You were my guardian angel, and I'm sure it must have hurt for you to assume that role. I'll be eternally grateful to you, and I'll try my best to pay it forward for others in need. Best, Gwen My mood improved significantly so I played "Sweet Caroline."

	Posted on : Mar 31, 2025

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