Difference Of Opinion

Pen led the way out of the house and into the surrounding woods. She did not say a word until clean up was successfully completed and Scotch was speeding the car into London.

“Someone else killed that man.”

“They did.” Scotch agreed.

“Don’t you think that we should have stayed? Tried to figure out who it was?”

“And risk being discovered?”

Scotch looked at Pen and grinned. “It’s all about the adventure Pen. The target had been neutralized. The adventure was over for the evening.”

“No one was expected back until tomorrow afternoon. That would have been plenty of time to investigate. Stop calling me that.”

“Stop calling you what?” Scotch asked.

“Pen.”

“It’s your identifier.”

“What do you mean identifier?”

“Your code name? You don’t think that my real name is Scotch, do you?”

Pen didn’t respond.

“You did?” He asked.

“Who would lie about having the name ‘Scotch’?”

Scotch grinned, “You do have a point. ‘Scotch’ is my identifier. Your identifier is ‘Pen.’”

“I don’t like it.” She announced.

“You don’t have to like it. You just have to use it.”

Pen released a sound of discontent, “Why ‘Pen’?”

“Every time I saw you during your first weeks with the agency you were scribbling or asking someone for a pen. So I decided to spend a few days trying the name out. I did an experiment, every time I asked where you were, if the person wasn’t sure, I would mention that you were usually looking for a pen. Did you know that you were already known as The Pen Lady by then?”

“No. I only spent so much time looking for pens because I was usually discussing a formula with someone. It’s easier modify a formula when you can see it. Scientists are visual. As in most offices, pens disappear from agency desks with frequent regularity.”

“I wonder if that’s why so many of them are men.” He said, ignoring her final remark and running the more interesting route. “Men are visual.”

“It could also be why it takes forever to get anything done., the fact that so many scientists are men.” Pen said, her expression solemn.

“Touche.”

“So why ‘Scotch’?” She asked.

Scotch shook his head. “If you want to know, you’re going to have to figure that out on your own.”

“Is everything a game to you?”

“Yes. If I didn’t like games of chance I wouldn’t have become a spy. This time it’s an exercise, what kind of spy are you if you can’t figure out how I got my name?” Scotch reached out and tapped a display screen in the car.

“Cock’s Comb.” A familiar voice answered.

“Hello Martin, it’s me. We’re coming in a bit early this evening. I was wondering if my favorite table is available.”

Pen listened to the sounds coming from the background. Things were louder than usual, even for a Friday night. Patrons at a variety of levels of inebriation were laughing, yelling, and chanting what sounded like team names.

“I’m afraid not Sir. I can keep the two best stools at the bar open.”

Scotch looked at Pen. “The bar’s okay.” He nodded, encouraging her to agree.

Pen nodded noncommittally.

“Seats at the bar will be great Martin. See you in five.”

Scotch turned his attention back to Pen. “What did you notice?”

“During the phone call?”

Scotch looked at Pen and waited.

“It was louder than usual even for this time on a Friday night. The pub is crowded and there was chanting going on...you know, cheering for teams.” Pen stopped for a moment and thought, “There aren’t any local sports teams playing this week. I would have to say that Trivia night has gone into overtime. It’s a championship match and Martin had a room full of people waiting for him to finish the call with you so they can break a tie.”

“Between...”

“The Full Mounties and The Moll Fannies.”

“Very good.”

“And?”

“One of the taps has broken and they are running out of chips.”

“And?”

“Martin didn’t address you by name. Why didn’t he?”

“Why didn’t he?” Scotch repeated her question.

Pen shook her head.

“Look at the area around us.”

Pen looked at the wet asphalt there were several deep puddles. She also noticed some debris on the road and a couple of branches laying across utility lines.

Scotch leaned closer to Pen and said, “A storm came through less than an hour ago. Mobile service may be out for some people. Whether it is or not with the storm damage Martin couldn’t be sure that the signal was secure.”

“So he didn’t call you by your name.”

“If anyone was listening, all they would know is that one of his regular customers was on his way in for a drink.”

“Which is not unusual at all.”

“Exactly.” Scotch watched as a car pulled out of a spot close to the front door of the pub. He smoothly glided his car into the empty space and put it into park. “Congratulations Miss Pen, you have just taken your first field test.”

“What?” Pen asked as she followed Scotch into the Cock’s Comb. The pub was filled to capacity. She had been right. The Full Mounties and The Moll Fannies were at it in full force. The championship was at a tie and the teams were evenly matched. The crowd seemed equally divided as well. Regardless of who won, things could get interesting with this bunch. Pen was anxious to enter headquarters for several reasons including the size of the crowd. She wanted to complete her report and argue her case to their superior. Mr. McLeod would be on her side with this argument. She was sure of it. Actually she wasn’t, but Pen was sure that she could convince Mr. McLeod to take her side, eventually. Pen sat down on the stool next to Scotch. Martin presented her with a freshly poured pint. Pen watched as Scotch quietly sipped his...whiskey? She leaned in closer to Scotch. “I thought you wanted a pint.”

“I do. It was time to call up.”

Pen watched as one corner of Scotch’s mouth turned up in a grin. “If you want to finish your pint then I suggest you bring it with you.” He said as stood up and walked to the back of the pub with Pen following closely alternately dodging the other patrons and taking small sips at her stout.

* This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.