a work of art. It was in ‘73 he’d lost the machete, along with Hermanas, his little Latino assistant. Hermanas was a loss, but like all people, he was ultimately replaceable. The machete was not. Sometimes at night, Marvin awoke with his hand curled in the shape of the fine bone handle of the knife, his thin frame tensed with a surge of adrenaline, ready to fight. He’d never held a weapon more perfectly balanced. More impressively deadly. To this day, he still regretted the loss.
Lifting the cane, he stepped back to the window and pointed it, pressing the small button that was disguised as a lion’s eye in the knob. The cane was an affectation, but one he rather liked. He could have used a pocket camera as easily, and probably with better results. But the cane allowed him to walk the streets late at night, an older gentleman unable to sleep, and certainly harmless. The image would be paid for in grainy photos that required special processing. But Marvin Lovelace had not lived through three public wars and uncountable secret acts of aggression without building a tight network of sources that could provide the best in support services. The irony of the film development made him smile. His source was a local undercover narcotics agent who happened to be a photography shutterbug. Bug being the operative word.
Marvin’s ramble of thoughts had given him a moment’s pleasure, but as he aimed his cane for a second series of photos, all the warm tingle of his memories disappeared. Lucille Hare was leaning her elbows on the work counter where that freak of nature was playing with the wiring of a VCR. Marvin was acutely aware of the Hare woman’s body language. Even a loutish KGB agent could see her sexual interest in Driskell LaMont.
Marvin clicked off a few more shots, wanting a good one of LaMont. His sources had been unable to turn up a thing on the television technician other than that he was from a small New Jersey town, and that he’d left that state after crashing through six toll booths without paying the fare. Marvin had no particular love of toll highways, or anything else that might come from New Jersey, but he did understand the need for an obedient citizenry. Those who hadn’t the balls to lead should follow without complaint, and without creating scenes. There was a remedy for trouble-makers like LaMont. Had he been the token taker, he would have whipped out the AK-47 he always kept close when he was doing enforcement work and blasted Driskell LaMont into the heaven-bound traffic lane. Thus the problem that now faced him would never have existed. Driskell LaMont, an odious creature with strange lips, would have been eliminated months prior. Now he was complicating the matter of the Hares.
Angry at LaMont for showing up in Biloxi just when he was ready to make his move, Marvin failed to catch Lucille as she strolled toward him. It wasn’t until she registered his image outside the glare of the window that he felt her hazel gaze upon him. He looked into her eyes long enough to notice, with astonishment, that the skin around her eyes was exactly the shade of gray-green of her irises. Exactly. How was it possible for a woman to match colors so perfectly? Especially one who didn’t have sense enough to get to work on time? He drew back just as Lucille’s lips parted, and he could almost feel the little expulsion of surprise that spun Driskell around to face the window.
Chapter Nine
“Driskell!” Lucille whispered his name but in a tone so urgent he whipped around to face her. “What?” he demanded.
“Someone is spying on us!” The malice in the face that stared in at her made her voice quiver.
Marvin had a last image of Lucille as a fish gaffed and gasping in the bottom of a boat. Cursing under his breath, he turned and fled down the alley beside the shop. He ran everyday. Eight miles. Up and down hills on his friend’s beefalo ranch up near Saucier. He ran for the discipline, and also for such a
Lifting the cane, he stepped back to the window and pointed it, pressing the small button that was disguised as a lion’s eye in the knob. The cane was an affectation, but one he rather liked. He could have used a pocket camera as easily, and probably with better results. But the cane allowed him to walk the streets late at night, an older gentleman unable to sleep, and certainly harmless. The image would be paid for in grainy photos that required special processing. But Marvin Lovelace had not lived through three public wars and uncountable secret acts of aggression without building a tight network of sources that could provide the best in support services. The irony of the film development made him smile. His source was a local undercover narcotics agent who happened to be a photography shutterbug. Bug being the operative word.
Marvin’s ramble of thoughts had given him a moment’s pleasure, but as he aimed his cane for a second series of photos, all the warm tingle of his memories disappeared. Lucille Hare was leaning her elbows on the work counter where that freak of nature was playing with the wiring of a VCR. Marvin was acutely aware of the Hare woman’s body language. Even a loutish KGB agent could see her sexual interest in Driskell LaMont.
Marvin clicked off a few more shots, wanting a good one of LaMont. His sources had been unable to turn up a thing on the television technician other than that he was from a small New Jersey town, and that he’d left that state after crashing through six toll booths without paying the fare. Marvin had no particular love of toll highways, or anything else that might come from New Jersey, but he did understand the need for an obedient citizenry. Those who hadn’t the balls to lead should follow without complaint, and without creating scenes. There was a remedy for trouble-makers like LaMont. Had he been the token taker, he would have whipped out the AK-47 he always kept close when he was doing enforcement work and blasted Driskell LaMont into the heaven-bound traffic lane. Thus the problem that now faced him would never have existed. Driskell LaMont, an odious creature with strange lips, would have been eliminated months prior. Now he was complicating the matter of the Hares.
Angry at LaMont for showing up in Biloxi just when he was ready to make his move, Marvin failed to catch Lucille as she strolled toward him. It wasn’t until she registered his image outside the glare of the window that he felt her hazel gaze upon him. He looked into her eyes long enough to notice, with astonishment, that the skin around her eyes was exactly the shade of gray-green of her irises. Exactly. How was it possible for a woman to match colors so perfectly? Especially one who didn’t have sense enough to get to work on time? He drew back just as Lucille’s lips parted, and he could almost feel the little expulsion of surprise that spun Driskell around to face the window.
Chapter Nine
“Driskell!” Lucille whispered his name but in a tone so urgent he whipped around to face her. “What?” he demanded.
“Someone is spying on us!” The malice in the face that stared in at her made her voice quiver.
Marvin had a last image of Lucille as a fish gaffed and gasping in the bottom of a boat. Cursing under his breath, he turned and fled down the alley beside the shop. He ran everyday. Eight miles. Up and down hills on his friend’s beefalo ranch up near Saucier. He ran for the discipline, and also for such a
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