The Sun, The Fun, The Women...The Spies

I pulled a clean T-shirt out of my suitcase.  I unbuttoned the shirt I was wearing, being careful as to not get any blood on my hands.  I folded it and put it on back seat floor.  I slipped on the T-shirt, started up my engine, fired up my pipe, and moved out.  As I left the station, I got a glance in my rear view mirror of a black Jeep Wrangler that I hadn’t seen before pulling out behind me.  It must have been behind the building because I didn’t see anyone while I was there.

There were two guys in the jeep, it was a hard top, and I didn’t get a real good look at them, but one was gesturing wildly for me to pull over.  My first impulse was, “Hey, this is the nineties, and I don’t pull over for strangers.”  But it isn’t the nineties anymore, and I had just seen someone dying and disappearing.  So I pulled over.  The jeep stopped in front of me, and the two guys got out.  I didn’t.  Without bothering to identify themselves, the one who was driving, asked me if the guy who had been hanging on me said anything to me.

“He just asked me for help. And who the fuck are you?”

He growled, “Who we are is of no concern to you.”  His accent was vaguely British.  “What did he say to you?  Did he tell you where it is?”

“Where what is?”

“None of your business!  Where is it?”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about and I have to hit the road.  So if you gents will excuse me........”

“You vill be excused ven vee say you vill be excused!  Said the other.  Uh oh, a German.  And I’m going to a Jewish singles weekend.  I could almost imagine him saying “Ve haf vays of making you talk,” when he said, “Ve haf vays of improofing ze memory of zose who do not covoperate viss uss!”

Neither of these guys was much taller than me, but both had a bit of bulk.  I hadn’t hit anyone in anger since college, and whether I won or lost that fight depends on who you talk to.  The guy with the British accent had brown hair, brown eyes, and a brown mustashe, a really suave looking guy, about 5’8”, and about 180 pretty solid pounds.  The aryan motherfucker was a little taller, blond, blue eyes, and pretty scary looking.  Both were wearing polo shirts and chinos, and could have fit in at any golf resort.  As neither was wearing a jacket, it pretty much reduced the chance that either was armed at the moment.  I revved the engine, popped out the clutch and moved out.

My thirteen year old Pulsar isn’t the quickest vehicle, but it is ok, and it handles pretty well.  ‘Till they got back in the jeep, started the engine, and pulled out, I was well down the road, with one eye glued to my rear view mirror.  I again looked at my cell phone, and again wondered what I would tell the cops.  I have a shirt drenched in the blood of a dying man, whose corpse has disappeared.  I just kept going.