J. Gonzalez - They

“I’m here to meet someone,” Vince said, stepping inside.

He walked slowly to the rear of the establishment, looking for a corner booth. There were no booths back there save for one along the side against the wall. The booths had those high-backed seats that made it difficult to tell if a patron was actually seated there.

He reached the corner booth toward the rear of the restaurant.

Empty.

He let out a sigh and turned toward the front of the restaurant. He was scanning the tables, trying to make eye contact to see if somebody would meet his gaze and rise to meet him. None did. He glanced at his watch. It had taken him ten minutes to drive over here, and he supposed that from the time of the call and the time it took him to leave and get out of the building, close to twenty minutes had passed. So where was he?

He felt the presence of somebody behind him and he turned just as he heard his name being spoken aloud. “Vince Walters.”

The man had come from the short hallway in the back, which led to the kitchen and the restrooms. He was big, six foot two and muscular. Mean looking. Wearing faded blue jeans and cowboy boots, his white T-shirt sported the logo from the band White Zombie. A denim sleeveless jacket was draped over his large frame. The man had shoulder length black hair swept back over his face. Both arms were very heavily tattooed and he wore leather biker gloves. His mirror shades made it impossible for Vince to see his eyes.

“You called me here?” Vince asked, staring up at the big man’s impressive form, feeling himself tense up.

“Yes,” the man said. When Vince first laid eyes on him, the man’s features were intense. Now they softened a little bit as the man appraised him through the mirror shades. He cocked a thumb at the window, motioning outside. “Why don’t we go somewhere else and we’ll talk.”

Vince gritted his teeth. “No,” he said. “Whatever you want to say to me, say it now. You wanted me to come here, here I am.”

“Not here,” the man said. “I have my reasons.”

“And I have mine,” Vince snapped. “I’m not going anywhere with you. Now tell me what the fuck you want and—”

The man reached into his pocket. At first Vince thought he was reaching for a gun, but then relaxed as he extracted his wallet. The man flipped it open and rummaged through it. He pulled out a photograph. He held it up for Vince to see.

Vince gasped. There were two children in the photograph, both of them boys. They were sitting on a bench, mugging gap-toothed at the camera. They appeared to be between the ages of six and eight years old. The older boy had short black hair and wore blue cord jeans and a striped shirt. But the most recognizable boy in the photo was the younger one.

It was Vince. At the age of six.

Upon realizing that he was in the photo, Vince immediately placed the older boy seated on the park bench with him. His name was Frank. His parents had been Gladys and Tom, and they’d lived around the corner from Vince and his parents in those dim fog-clouded days when they’d lived in California. Vince remembered he and Frank often played together when both boys’ parents were visiting with each other. Frank had been rough sometimes, but was mostly okay. Vince remembered he’d wanted to be just like him.

The man holding the photo tapped it with one black leather gloved finger and took off his mirror shades. He had brown eyes and now Vince could make out the vague resemblance to the boy in the picture, the boy from his dim childhood. “That’s you and me in that photo, Vince. Our parents used to be friends, we lived around the corner from each other. I’m—”

“You’re Frank,” Vince said, looking at the bigger man with a sense of awe.

“Frank Black,” the man said. He put the photo back in his wallet and shoved it back in his jeans. “No resemblance to the character Lance Henrickson plays on the TV show Millennium .” He cracked a slight grin at the comment, then leveled a serious gaze at Vince. “I’m sorry to intrude on your life like this, old buddy, but I had to. You’re in danger. Serious danger, and we need to talk now.”

VINCE BEGAN TO suspect Frank was serious about the being in danger part when he suggested they exit out the back. Vince agreed—why the hell not? It was only Frank, his old childhood buddy and playmate from a time he’d almost forgotten. He’d popped back into his life to warn Vince that he was in danger, so obviously he had some information on who’d tried to kill him, right? Frank was somebody he could trust. Vince followed the bigger man warily down the short hallway to the rear door of Holly St. Bar and Grill and into the alley.

“Where’s your car?” Frank asked, putting his shades on again.

“Parking lot,” Vince said. He felt awkward standing in the alley in his business attire, especially standing next to the heavily tattooed, swarthy Frank Black.

“Anybody follow you out here?” Frank asked.

“Um, no,” Vince said. “I don’t think so. I tried to make sure of it.”

“ Think !” Frank breathed, clenching his teeth. He faced Vince, glaring down at him through the mirror shades, putting him on the spot. “This is serious Vince, deadly—”

“If it’s so serious, why are we—”

“Our lives are in danger, Vince,” Frank turned to him. His face was intense, menacing. His raven hair blew over his shoulders from a slight offshore breeze. “Yours, mine, maybe others. The same people that killed Laura—”

At the words the same people that killed Laura, Vince felt as if a freight train slammed into him. He gasped. “What do you know about my wife!”

“Everything,” Frank said, gritting his teeth. “Now, the longer we stay here arguing about this, the more of a chance we may be spotted. Do you want me to help you or not?”

Vince almost hesitated again, then nodded. “Yes.” He had to know what Frank meant by Laura being murdered.

“Okay.” Frank accepted this easily enough. “Now, let’s go through this again. Were you followed?”

Vince didn’t think he was, and he retraced his thoughts of the drive over. As far as he could tell he hadn’t been followed. He shook his head. “No.”

“Okay.” He looked up and down the alley. “We need to go somewhere quiet where we can talk.”

“We can go to my place,” Vince suggested.

“I wouldn’t mind that, but I don’t think that would be safe,” Frank said, turning back to Vince. “Is there a public park around here?”

Vince tried to think of where the closest public park would be. There was a nice park near his home in Mission Viejo, but that was a good fifteen minute drive down the San Diego Freeway. He had to factor in the time spent away from the office as well; he didn’t want to arouse suspicion by being gone so long. He wracked his brain for a moment, then shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know,” he said.

“Then we’ll find one,” Frank said, stepping into the alley, motioning for Vince to follow him, away from the parking lot. “I parked on the other side of this strip mall. Why don’t we drive around until we find someplace quiet and we’ll talk?”

Vince shrugged and reluctantly followed the big tattooed man down the alley, his heart beating heavy in his chest with impending dread.

FRANK BLACK DROVE a car that didn’t fit his image: a dark, four door Saturn sedan. There was a baby seat in the back, positioned in the middle. Frank looked more like the type of guy that would drive something sleek and powerful; a Corvette, a TransAm, a Camaro, a Jaguar. Something sporty and powerful. A Saturn suggested he was a family man; it also eased the tension from Vince. A guy driving a Saturn with a baby-seat in the back wasn’t the kind of guy that was going to lure you somewhere so you could be murdered. Vince was about to ask Frank if he was married and had a kid, but decided not to. He wanted to hear about Laura more than anything.