coming from a blocked number.
“You didn’t throw away the phone. Smart man.”
“Want to tell me what you want?”
“Not over the phone. Take down this address. I won’t repeat it either.”
I listened, writing down the information he provided on a scrap of paper. When he was finished, I had a question.
“This isn’t right around the corner for me. How do you expect me to get there on short notice? I might be out of the country,” I said, continuing to walk briskly past people, the phone pressed against my ear so as to better hear.
“But you’re not,” he replied. “Because I told you not to leave the country when I gave you that phone. And because you’re currently in Portland, Oregon. Heading east on Couch Street. Toward the river. How is Old Town? I can hear all the people in the background, too, by the way.”
I stopped on the dime, saying nothing as I surveyed my surroundings. Felt my stomach knot up as I carefully backed away from everyone around me. Didn’t stop until I was free of the crowd and next to a stairwell. Ready to flee if this didn’t go as planned.
“Now that we understand each other, see that you make it. On time,” he said with a smirk that I could see through the phone.
After he hung up, I waited a while longer. Allowed myself a smirk of my own. Then I used my phone with which I’d just spoken to him.
My phone.
Not the one he thought he was speaking to me on. That phone was somewhere else.
Dialed a number to someone.
“You okay?” I asked the person who was in Portland instead of me. And apparently heading east on Couch Street. In a nasal tone, he answered that he was.
“Good,” I said. “They’re tracking the phone’s GPS. Turn it off again and dump the battery. And get out of there.”
If someone was physically in Portland, they wouldn’t catch him. The teenager was Wally Dunwoody, a student at Portland Community College, but also a parkour legend in Oregon. Could leap, jump, and flip like a spider monkey based on the YouTube clips I’d seen of him. Adrenaline junkie that he was, it only took a grand and the possibility of danger to get him to take the phone and turn it on at the right time. I’d already set all calls to be forwarded from it to my phone.
Satisfied so far, I dialed another number.
“Did you get it?” I asked cryptically of the man who answered.
“Working on it. Gotta do discreetly,” the man I had monitoring cell phone tower transmissions around the Old Town area of Portland replied in a low tone, in case his coworkers were being nosy. Money wasn’t the answer for everyone. For him, it was that long elusive acceptance letter from Stanford that would be coming for his daughter.
“Just get something for me as soon as you can,” I said from behind sunglasses and a Mariners baseball cap. Then I ended the call.
Sloppy of whomever he was to think I’d follow his instructions without a few ideas of my own.
And for him to not figure it out.
Told me a lot about him and his current state.
He was far from infallible ... and desperate.
Left Pike Place Market whistling to myself.
For I had somewhere to be per my instructions.
14
Oklahoma City
I was in the main bar of Mickey Mantle’s Steakhouse. Manning a booth seat against the memorabilia-laden wall while I enjoyed a meal of pepper steak with fresh broccoli and mushroom risotto. Took a look at the time on my phone while I drank from my glass of water.
Was in the right city.
Right time.
Wrong location.
Just trying to put things back on my terms.
My instructions were to meet with the mystery man by the water taxi on the canal here in Bricktown. But I wanted a good steak, so I sent some poor schmuck to summon him to me instead. Told my messenger to look for a pompous, gangly asshole who looked like he was used to giving orders.
Dressed differently than when he first met me, I motioned him over when he entered the restaurant. Seeing the pissed look on his face brought joy to
“You didn’t throw away the phone. Smart man.”
“Want to tell me what you want?”
“Not over the phone. Take down this address. I won’t repeat it either.”
I listened, writing down the information he provided on a scrap of paper. When he was finished, I had a question.
“This isn’t right around the corner for me. How do you expect me to get there on short notice? I might be out of the country,” I said, continuing to walk briskly past people, the phone pressed against my ear so as to better hear.
“But you’re not,” he replied. “Because I told you not to leave the country when I gave you that phone. And because you’re currently in Portland, Oregon. Heading east on Couch Street. Toward the river. How is Old Town? I can hear all the people in the background, too, by the way.”
I stopped on the dime, saying nothing as I surveyed my surroundings. Felt my stomach knot up as I carefully backed away from everyone around me. Didn’t stop until I was free of the crowd and next to a stairwell. Ready to flee if this didn’t go as planned.
“Now that we understand each other, see that you make it. On time,” he said with a smirk that I could see through the phone.
After he hung up, I waited a while longer. Allowed myself a smirk of my own. Then I used my phone with which I’d just spoken to him.
My phone.
Not the one he thought he was speaking to me on. That phone was somewhere else.
Dialed a number to someone.
“You okay?” I asked the person who was in Portland instead of me. And apparently heading east on Couch Street. In a nasal tone, he answered that he was.
“Good,” I said. “They’re tracking the phone’s GPS. Turn it off again and dump the battery. And get out of there.”
If someone was physically in Portland, they wouldn’t catch him. The teenager was Wally Dunwoody, a student at Portland Community College, but also a parkour legend in Oregon. Could leap, jump, and flip like a spider monkey based on the YouTube clips I’d seen of him. Adrenaline junkie that he was, it only took a grand and the possibility of danger to get him to take the phone and turn it on at the right time. I’d already set all calls to be forwarded from it to my phone.
Satisfied so far, I dialed another number.
“Did you get it?” I asked cryptically of the man who answered.
“Working on it. Gotta do discreetly,” the man I had monitoring cell phone tower transmissions around the Old Town area of Portland replied in a low tone, in case his coworkers were being nosy. Money wasn’t the answer for everyone. For him, it was that long elusive acceptance letter from Stanford that would be coming for his daughter.
“Just get something for me as soon as you can,” I said from behind sunglasses and a Mariners baseball cap. Then I ended the call.
Sloppy of whomever he was to think I’d follow his instructions without a few ideas of my own.
And for him to not figure it out.
Told me a lot about him and his current state.
He was far from infallible ... and desperate.
Left Pike Place Market whistling to myself.
For I had somewhere to be per my instructions.
14
Oklahoma City
I was in the main bar of Mickey Mantle’s Steakhouse. Manning a booth seat against the memorabilia-laden wall while I enjoyed a meal of pepper steak with fresh broccoli and mushroom risotto. Took a look at the time on my phone while I drank from my glass of water.
Was in the right city.
Right time.
Wrong location.
Just trying to put things back on my terms.
My instructions were to meet with the mystery man by the water taxi on the canal here in Bricktown. But I wanted a good steak, so I sent some poor schmuck to summon him to me instead. Told my messenger to look for a pompous, gangly asshole who looked like he was used to giving orders.
Dressed differently than when he first met me, I motioned him over when he entered the restaurant. Seeing the pissed look on his face brought joy to
Similar Books
