Spy Interrupted

For Mom and Dad (We Miss You Dad)

Writer Lady turns off the water to the shower and pushes the curtain aside. Grabbing her towel she dries herself off quickly. The bathroom is foggy with steam. She barely misses Spots as she steps on to the rug.

“I’m sorry kitty. I didn’t see you.”

“Yeow.”

“I have got to stop cranking the hot water. My skin is getting so dried out.”

She finishes toweling off and heads to the kitchen.

“What do you think, veggie soup or potato soup?”

Writer Lady looks at Spots.

“The veggies would be healthier...” She reads the labels. “Pearl onions. No, I need something to coat my stomach. Cream soup it is.”

She enters High Command with dinner in tow, sitting down, she proceeds to continue writing her story.

“Her story?”

Writer Lady shifts her gaze to find a handsome spy reading over her shoulder, espresso in hand. “I am the creator, you are the character. I'm telling the story, hence, the word, her.”

“My dear sweet creator, if I was not here nothing interesting would happen.”

“If I had not created you then you wouldn’t exist therefore you would not being doing all the way cool things.” She stops typing and grasps her hands in front of her waiting for Scotch to finish reading her response.

“You don’t have to wait for me to read. I am an Oxford man.”

She adds his response, pauses again, and waits.

“No really. You don’t have to do that.”

A smile crosses her lips which she contains quickly hoping the spy will not notice her enjoyment at his discomfort.

Scotch leans closer and catches her smiling.

Writer Lady grins. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist Luv.” She rises from her seat in the Big Writing Chair and collects her dirty dishes, taking them into the kitchen. When she returns Scotch has taken her seat and taken over custody of the computer. She coughs to get his attention. Nothing happens. She coughs again a bit more loudly this time.

Scotch turns to address her. “I’m sorry were you needing something?”

Writer Lady points to the chair. “I would like my seat back.”

“For what purpose?” He asks.

“To continue my story.”

Scotch’s finger hovers over the back facing arrow.

“To continue writing the story.” She corrects.

Scotch begins deleting letters. (correc)

“To continue writing your story?”

Scotch stops deleting and repairs the damage. The spy relinquishes his seat with great ceremony. “By all means, take my seat, please.”

Writer Lady sits down. “Thank you Scotch.”

Three Days Later

Scotch was still sitting at the computer. He blinked. He blinked again. The spy scratched his chin. He needed a shave. A shave? He wondered how long he had been here. With these...pervs. Pen was right all he had succeeded in doing was finding a large population of men all looking for dates. How was he ever going to face her?

“What?” Scotch’s voice invaded Writer Lady’s peaceful moment. “I would never let a case get the best of me. I’m a professional.”

"Professional what?” Tinkletoes’ voice asks from Writer Lady’s other side. “Whiner?”

Writer Lady pretends to ignore all of the um...whatever these ya-hoos are up to and continue writing the story.

“That’s supposed to be my story.” Scotch points out.

“Who you calling a yahoo?” Tinkletoes asks.

Writer Lady looks at Tinkletoes and raises an eyebrow.

“She caught you with that one.” Scotch points out grinning.

“That’s okay.” Tinkletoes says. “I’m a giving guy. It’s important to let a girl think she’s winning every now and then. It looks good.”

Writer Lady stops typing and drums her nails on the table.

“What happens to the stuffed shirt next?” Tinkletoes asks.

“He’s not a stuffed shirt.” Writer Lady corrects. “Scotch is a spy. A very good one.”

“I’m a spy. A very good one.” Scotch looks at Tinkletoes. “And you are?”

Tinkletoes looks down at Scotch. “Bigger than you are.”

“Clearly.” Scotch responds enjoying the moment. “What are your talents, Sir?”

“I’m big and mean. I can kill any ninja zombie or space alien in existence. I train assassins and keep the creatures of Faerie from wandering beyond the confines of Writer Lady’s house...her yard. Except for that one time.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“A couple of years ago, Writer Lady’s sister went through a thing and the door between Earth and Faerie was opened allowing all kinds of suitors to pursue her. Human, animal, magical creatures... They were everywhere.”

Scotch rocked back on his heels, barely able to contain his laughter. “One man couldn’t handle all of that on his own, could he? We all can’t be legendary, can we?”

Writer Lady stiffens. Unhappy with where this is going she is determined to prove that all of her characters have their own gifts and qualities and should be appreciated as such.

Tinkletoes fiddles with the mouse and brings up the monitor that Writer Lady is not using. “What is so challenging about being a spy? Let’s see...it looks like you’ve been hanging out online and you’re hacking into some lady’s account. She’s hot but still...”

“That is not some lady. That is my partner, Pen. We are solving a murder. Several and possibly thwarting an attempt to take over the world.”

“Thwarting, really?” Tinkletoes nods. He looks at Writer Lady. “How does a guy get a looker like that on his team?”

Writer Lady stops typing long enough to shoot a glare at the self-proclaimed mercenary. “Characters are created based on need and necessity. Pen is integral to this story. A looker like Pen is not integral to your stories. Besides you get to work with me, Aunt Purdy, and don’t forget House.”

“Yeah, but what do I gotta do to meet her?” Tinkletoes asks pointing to Pen’s profile picture.

“Not Be You.” Writer Lady says. She mutters. “The man is just one big walking, talking hormone.” She shakes her head.

Tinkletoes looks at Scotch. “She says that like it’s a bad thing.” The self-proclaimed mercenary shakes his head. “Women.”

The Spy Who Whistled

“Suicide. Committing suicide is your answer?”

“Not for me. For him. Why would McKinney put himself in such a position?”

Scotch turned away from the monitor and looked at Pen.

“Why would he put himself in such a position...” Pen repeated in an effort to cue Scotch into finishing his thought.

“McKinney was on to something. Something big.”

“Clearly.” Pen sipped her coffee. “Did he usually take such risks?”

“In his early days, but by the time I was brought in he was a firm believer in calculated risks. Thoroughly planned out, calculated risks. If he was on social media he had a plan, a good one, and he knew all of the players.”

“All but one.” Pen responded.

“You’re reading my mind now. And you said we weren’t partners.” Scotch said with a grin.

Pen bit back a growl. “Could you just get to the point?”

“You have no sense of spontaneity do you?” Scotch turned back to his computer, hiding one tab and pulling up another. “Here is our first bread crumb.”

Pen stepped forward to read over Scotch’s shoulder. “Whistle.”

“It’s a social media app where users post things they found, restaurants, movies they liked, comments on trending events etc… Posts tend to be short, 250 characters or less.”

“Long whistle, short whistle, Wolf whistle?” Pen asked.

“A long whistle is 101-250 characters, a short whistle is 100 characters or less.” Scotch explained.

“The Wolf whistle?”

“Is the equivalent of an internet stonker.”

“What?”

“Something large, impressive, or...” Scotch looked at his lap, turned to Pen, and raised an eyebrow.

“An erection? Really?” A brief smile crossed Pen’s lips. “You Brits pretend to be so proper and then create this.” She commented continuing to study the screen.

Scotch shook his head. “This app originated and is currently operating out of the Bronx. Sorry darling but this one is all American.” The spy countered using his American accent.

“Why was McKinney using it?”

Scotch sipped at his espresso, his eyes shone with secrets to be shared, “To talk to other spies.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Which is probably why they were doing it. It was crazy; more importantly no one is expecting it. If no one is expecting it then no one is looking for it.”

Pen shook her head.

“You don’t believe me.”

“I don’t.”

“Look at this.” Scotch pulled up another tab. “These are the discussions that McKinney had been having on Whistle during the last two weeks.”

“I am looking for what?”

“You’re a smart woman. I think you’ll find it.” Pen perused McKinney’s Whistles. “These people are talking about dog parks.”

“What are they discussing specifically?”

Pen looked at Scotch. “I have to say it? Out loud?”

Scotch nodded. The spy had a twinkle in his eyes.

“The best poop spots.”

“Go through it again. What else do you see?”

“Play dates for their pets, where to dispose of dog waste bags, the fees for not following the rules, who to call if you find a dog that is without an owner in the park.”

“No my dear Pen that is not what they were discussing.” Scotch announced as he rose from his seat. “Look at the accounts of the users that he’s talking to. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Pen took his chair, studied the accounts briefly, and waited. When Scotch returned she said. “We have an @IF20 and an @JB7.”

“And…?”

“@IF20 is an international property dealer and @JB7 is an ambassador of a country that I’ve never heard of.”

“Take a look at the activity on their accounts.”

“There’s just a bunch of information about dog parks.”

“Exactly. You have an international property dealer and an ambassador and all they talk about is dog parks? No restaurants, no vacations they enjoyed, no properties for sale, no announcements of any new treaties...” Scotch pointed out.

“No pictures of their dogs. Did McKinney have a dog?” Pen asked.

“He was allergic. There you have two people who if their accounts are accurate would travel a lot and not have much time to take their dogs for walks.”

“They would hire someone else to do it.”

“Now you’re catching on.” He sipped on a fresh cup of espresso. “Would you like me to tell you about the numbers?”

Pen rested her chin on her hand as she moved back and forth between various accounts studying the numbers. “Um...no.”

Scotch moved to the leather chair and waited.

“These are fake accounts. The number of accounts the users are following is much higher than the number of followers the accounts have. If these were the accounts of a international property dealer and an ambassador they should have thousands if not hundreds of thousands of followers.”

“Some high profile users have over a million followers.” Scotch pointed out.

“Really?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“How much time do people really have to spend using these apps?”

“When was the last time you didn’t see everyone looking down at their phones?”

Pen blushed a little.

“You’ve never noticed?”

“I”m a chemist. I’m always working and it’s usually in the lab. When would I notice something like that?”

Scotch shook his head. “These were posts listing meeting dates, times, and places. They also showed amounts due for the exchange of items or information.”

“Twenty dollars?”

“Look at it again. Two zero decimal point zero zero. A. Two thousand dollars American. The reader moves the decimal down two spaces and adds two zeroes behind it. The initial is not the first letter of a name.”

“It’s the country the currency originates from.”

“Very good Pen, very good.”

“What’s the plan?”

“It’s only been a few hours, we have no idea which of these followers knows that McKinney is dead or if any of them do. I’m going to leave his account open and see if anyone comes looking for him. In the

mean time, we have another account. This user is following all of McKinney’s contacts both the followers and those he was following.”

“How do you know any of his contacts are going to be interested in following the new account?”

“I studied them. Sex of the user, country of origin, occupation, outside interests and I think that I have come up with something that is irresistible.” Scotch clicked and revealed their new endeavor.

Pen studied the account. “Brittany ‘The Pen’ Abercrombie—Travel Writer!” An American In Paris. Looking for fun, adventure, and romance. Where did you get this picture? This is a negligee picture from the other night.” Pen rose from her chair. “I knew there were cameras in here but I hoped it was something that you turned off when you entered the apartment and found the perimeter secure.”

“It is a lovely picture.”

“I am practically naked.”

“You are wearing the robe. You can’t see anything. Not really.”

Pen raised an eyebrow.

“Look at it closer. It’s not revealing, it just accentuates your curves.”

Pen does not respond.

Scotch looked into Pen’s eyes. “Trust me, I tried everything and all I saw was fabric.”

“You tried everything?”

“The more I explain things the worse I’m doing.”

“I can’t believe you put me out there like this. All of that talk about digital footprints being suicide for a spy.”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“Use a generic picture of some random woman.”

“And put her in danger? Pen I am surprised. Aren’t you the one who keeps insisting that you aren’t a spy? If Pen, you are, in fact, not a spy, you shouldn’t be in danger.”

“This is dangerous.”

“Yes but you’re with me. You can count on me to be lazy enough to never let anything happen to my Pen.” Scotch looked at Pen. “I hate looking for things. It’s important to always have a good pen at the ready. Look at your first Whistle.”

Hi. I’m Brittany! I’m a sexy, fun, single woman interested in experiencing all that Europe has to offer an adventurous cousin from across the pond.

“You forgot something.” Pen said. “You forgot ‘call me for a good time.’ The only thing that you’re going to attract with this Whistle is slimy oversexed men with overinflated ideas about...about...how well they’re endowed.”

“I don’t think so. Brittany looks like a sweet woman that I would like to get to know better.”

“Perverts. You’re going to attract nothing but perverts then you’re going to have set up a new account.”

“I’m a spy. I have experience using many levels of communication. This is going to be easier than sorting through my winter wardrobe.”

Pen looked at Scotch.

“Mum insisted.”

Pen turned to watch the screen as the number of responses to her Whistle steadily climbed. “Twenty-four hours. After twenty-fours of dealing with these perverts you are going to be begging me to help you set up a new account.”

“The rush will be over in forty-eight hours. McKinney’s killer will be found by the end of the week.” Scotch countered.

Pen rose from her seat. “The responses are climbing rapidly. You have 1200 new followers. I suggest you sit down. You’re going to be here a while.”

 *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.

Scotch's Mission

Pen looked at the man laying on the ground in front of her. He was older, heavy set, slightly disheveled looking, and he was familiar. But the mustache there was something about the mustache. She reached out with one gloved hand, took the outer edge of the mustache between two fingers, and pulled. The mustache began to come away from his face. She recognized him.

“Scotch, could you come here for a moment.” She whispered into her microphone. “Please? We have a problem.”

“Was the job done by another agency again? Relax Pen, it’s another freebee.”

“It’s not that he’s already dead. It’s the victim. You need to come over here.” Pen responded.

“We are working out in the open this time. Need I remind you that you are on a timer.”

Scotch looked up and found Pen glaring at him.

“Stop acting like such a...supervisor and get over here.” She said as she took him by the arm and led him to the body.

Scotch’s smile disappeared when he saw their target. McKinney was lying face down his head turned to one side. His eyes stared in the direction of the sunset, one arm extended. “No...no...no...not McKinney.” The spy squatted next to his mentor’s body in disbelief taking in the sight before him. He bowed his head. After several minutes he looked at Pen.

“Let me.” She said.

Scotch cooperated when Pen led him to a nearby tree stump. He watched as she studied the gunshot wound to the back of McKinney’s head, took notes that she carefully tucked into a pocket, then retrieved something from his open hand. Pen gently closed McKinney’s eyes and returned to Scotch.

“I found this. It’s a clue and I think we should keep it.” She said as she handed Scotch a cell phone.

He didn’t argue or rattle off a single directive.

“There’s no GPS on the phone. I’ve already checked it.”

Scotch looked at the stop watch in his other hand. They did not make good time on this mission. It occurred to him that he really didn’t care about records and lost accolades as he turned off the watch and put it in his pocket. He wasn’t sure if he would ever care again. 

After clean up, Pen drove them back into London slowly. It was still early. The paperwork would take little time. She wanted to study Scotch and try to gauge what he might need after losing someone that he was close to. The spy was quiet. Eerily quiet. It was so unlike the confident demeanor he usually radiated. Pen found it unsettling.

Headquarters was noticeably empty when they arrived. It was the height of the late dinner break. The pair finished with the paperwork just as people were returning to their desks. They did not speak until they were outside the Cock’s Comb preparing to part ways.

“Are you going home? Would you like to go into the pub? I’ll buy dinner.” She offered.

Scotch looked around for a moment, then he glanced into the crowd of merrymakers inside. “No.”

“Somewhere else?”

“It’s okay to leave me alone Pen. I’m going to be alright.”

She looked at her watch. “It’s barely eight. What are you going to do all night.”

He thought for a moment and said,“I’m going to pretend I’m you. I’m going to go home, take a shower, pour myself a drink and take a rest. Toast the friend that I just lost.”

“And then?”

“I might putter around with this.” Scotch said as he gestured to phone in his pocket. “Trust me by tomorrow morning I will be the same man you know and love.”

Pen sighed.

“The same man you have grown to admire and respect.”

Pen raised an eyebrow.

“The same man that you no longer want to kill every day?”

Scotch looked into Pen’s eyes. “I’m going to be fine. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“First thing?” She asked.

“First thing.”

Pen left Scotch in front of the Cock’s Comb wondering if it would be the last time they spoke.

Pen’s phone beeped at her at the ungodly hour of five-thirty a.m.

Hello. I’m looking for my pen. Have you seen her?--S.

Pen looked at the phone and frowned. She looked at her alarm clock. “Five-thirty in the morning? Really?”

Are you drunk?-- P

Pen answered, falling back into her cocoon of blankets and pillows.

Get out of bed sleepy head your shift started ten minutes ago. -– S.

“Damn Englishman.” Pen grumbled as she climbed out of bed. She made it to Scotch’s apartment in twenty minutes flat.

He opened the door before she had the chance to knock. “It’s about time you showed up. I’ve been working for hours.” Scotch lifted a cup to his lips, his eyes bright with untold secrets of adventures yet to be taken like a boy on the first day of summer vacation.

“What’s in the cup?”

“Espresso. A fine Turkish blend I stumbled across about five years ago. In a whorehouse.”

Pen looked at him unhappy at the sudden change in her day, the rushed morning, the lack of coffee in her own possession. The fact that he was so cheerful. “Of course. Everyone knows that the only place to find the good coffee is in a whorehouse.”

Scotch held up a large mug. “I made you the regular stuff. Go ahead, drink.”

Pen nodded, he had made a good cup of coffee.

He reached out and took her by the arm. “Good now that you’ve had some coffee, let’s get to work.” Scotch led her straight into the secret room.

“I get the impression that you’ve found something.”

“I did. McKinney had an app open on his phone when he died. A social media app.”

“Wouldn’t having any kind of digital footprint be dangerous to anyone doing intelligence work?” Pen asked.

“Suicide. It would be suicide.”

Double Gold Star

“Too dangerous? Why? What’s going on? Does it have something to do with our new friends?”

Pen’s questions were met with silence.

“That’s a great big ‘yes.’” She said.

“What?”

Pen rose from her seat. “Haven’t you ever heard the expression, ‘No answer is an answer?’”

Scotch shook his head. “It must be something that circulates through the colonies.” He responded without looking at her.

“The colonies? First I’m a rotten spy and now I’m, what, an errant child?”

No answer.

“Scotch. Scotch are you with me?” She asks, snapping her fingers.

Scotch does not respond.

It had been a very long night and Pen was losing her patience. “Do this. Don’t do that. Go here, don’t go there. You’re a spy, figure it out. No, nothing is wrong. You can’t leave because you’re in danger. Your inconsistencies are infuriating.” She said. As she turned on her heel the fabric of the robe flowed around her legs.

“It’s classified.” He muttered.

She turned to face him. “What?” Pen asked quietly.

“It’s classified.” Scotch repeated.

“It’s classified? I’m supposed to be a spy, I’m the one in danger and it’s classified?”

Her comments are once again met with silence. Pen turned around and left the room.

“Where are you going?”

“I would tell you but it’s classified!” She called out. She changed into her clothes, locked herself in the bedroom with the comfortable bed, and left at first light.

Pen did not realize that she had the wrong phone until a text message popped up from Corporate the next afternoon. She put down the book she had filched from Scotch’s apartment and proceeded to text herself.

You have my phone.

Hello. It’s nice to hear from you too. Yes, I did sleep well thank you for asking. --S

I still have your phone.

That’s what happens when she sneaks out of a gentleman’s apartment in the wee hours. A lady forgets things. - S.

Women who behave like errant children are hardly ladies. Pen finished typing and hit send.

The phone rang.

“Shit.” Pen muttered before picking up. “Yeah.”

“Is that any way to greet a man after you’ve spent the night at his place?”

Pen did not respond.

“Is this the, no response is a response, thing that you were talking about?” He asked.

More silence.

“It seems that it is.” Scotch continued. “I have a couple of friends that were wondering if you might be interested in bowling a game or two.”

“Bowling?”

“They are anxious to know how our venues compare to yours in America.”

Pen thought for a moment. “Sure. That could be fun.”

“I’ll meet you at the school yard tomorrow at four pm. Oh and bring your day planner. We’ll compare calendars.”

“O-Kay. See you then.” Pen put down the phone, getting as far away from it as possible as quickly as she could. She looked at the clock on her nightstand. Six pm. Twenty- two hours. She had twenty-two hours to figure out what what was in that novel. She’d better get to it.

Scotch was not happy when four pm came and he found himself standing alone in the park. Pen’s phone vibrated in his hand.

Change of plans. Walk to the far side of the park, make a left, and duck into the tea house on the corner. Delete this message now.

Scotch deleted the message and wondered what was going on. He moved quickly, carefully matching his step to that of the power walkers around him. He made sure to allow a jogger or two to pass him in an effort to avoid standing out.

He entered the tea house and assessed the situation. The establishment was nearly full. Pen had chosen a small table at the back. A wall was behind her and she was facing the door. The kitchen was located on the opposite side of the building. The spy was able to claim the table next to her within seconds of it being abandoned by other patrons.

“You found me.” She said without looking at him.

Scotch leaned back in his chair allowing the waitress to clear things away, wipe down the table, and put it to rights. He gave her a quick nod and a “Thank you.” Scotch looked around while pretending to peruse his menu. “What happened to you?”

“Didn’t you wonder how you got out of your apartment building the other night without being detected?”

“It did seem a bit easier than it should have been.” He admitted.

Pen received her tea and scone from their waitress. The waitress then turned to Scotch and took his order.

“The men in the SUV weren’t following either of us. They were following this.” She said.

Scotch’s phone landed on the table in front of him.

“My phone? The agency has these phones specially made and programmed. Each is run through IT for screening and to verify that the phone has not been corrupted at any point during the manufacturing and shipping process.”

“The programming wasn’t corrupted. A very small chip was attached to the agency’s GPS chip. A professional would have had a difficult time finding it.”

“How did you find it?” Scotch asked accepting the pot of tea placed on the table in front of him.

“It was askew.”

“Askew?”

“It was not perfectly placed on top of the other chip. When placed correctly, the chip blends in. I was looking for something that did not look right and there was a slant to it. Someone was in a hurry when they placed it there.”

Scotch turned over the phone and began to pull off its back cover.

“Too late.” Pen said as she began slicing her scone in half.

“Where is it? Did you check for prints?”

“I looked for prints but there were none. The chip is in a Koi pond in a rest home on the other side of London. Hopefully it has been eaten by one of the fish that is going to be transported to Vienna. The owner of the rest home is a bit of hobbyist. The Koi bred very well this year.” She paused to enjoy a bite of her afternoon treat.

“How did you know about the chip?”

“I noticed our new friends outside my apartment building late last night. I did a bit of research, took a peek in the back of the phone and voila!”

Scotch looked at Pen as he returned her phone to her. “You are full of surprises today.”

“One of my college roommates dated a guy that had a scientific mind and an obsessive love of technology. He lived to talk about it. I was the only one in the apartment who could keep up with him. We stayed in touch, so I knew where to look.”

“You have officially earned your first double gold star.” Scotch proclaimed.

“You have a message from Corporate. It was why I texted you yesterday.”

Scotch scrolls through his messages. “It looks like we have a new mission. In thirty minutes.”

*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.

When You're At Work But Your Characters Think It's Play Time

(Late Afternoon –Office Setting)
Scotch leans over and whispers to a woman at a desk who is typing.

Scotch: You know what I think you should put in the story? The bad guys following me around is cool and everything but I think that it’s time for another dead body. Maybe I could hear something and chase someone into the darkness, a gun could go off and then Pen…

Pen: What are you doing? (looks around) This is work. We aren’t supposed to be here.

Scotch (looks at Pen and smiles): She’s typing, where else should we be?

Pen: Waiting...at home. She’s work-ING.

Scotch: Exactly she’s working. We need to be here to help. (Scotch leans in closer) What we really need is some action. Big action. You know what I’d really like to do? Bungee jump off of Big Ben. It’s dangerous, it’s exciting...readers will flock to us.

Pen (To Scotch): She’s working. Let’s go home.

Scotch ignores Pen and watches the woman type. He stops smiling.
Scotch: My name is not on the screen anywhere. Is she cheating on us with another story? (Looks at Pen and points to the screen) She’s cheating on us with another story.

Enter Toni Johnson, Window Weather woman. Toni stops to stand on the other side of Pen.
Toni: Excuse me. Does he know what the phrase “at work” means?

Scotch looks away from the computer screen and turns to look at Toni.

Toni: Yes I’m talkin’ about you. Hey there baby. What your petite lady friend, excuse me but where do you find clothes that small? Does Barbie have a consignment shop full of her old clothes or something? You are a tiny little thing. 

Pen makes a face.

Toni: Sorry I ran off the road there for a minute. Let Toni pick up where she left off. (Back to Scotch). What our friend here is doing is called Working. She has a job.

Scotch: Yes writing about us.

Toni: No don’t nobody pay her for that. This is her other job. The one that pays for things. So if you want to go killing yourself jumping off that big ole clock thang you need to take your happy butt home and wait for her there.

Scotch: But what about?

Toni: (Patiently repeats) No baby take the butt home.

Scotch (setting tumbler of scotch on desk): I’m just going to leave this for her. In case she gets thirsty.

Regarding The New Year

Let’s try something new this year. A holiday message. A reflection on 2019. My hopes for 2020.

It was cold last night but much of this winter has been warm so far, in my neck of the woods, anyway. Rain instead of snow. There have been only a couple of mornings of frosty roofs and windows. Regardless my bed is still piled high with blankets, old houses can be drafty at times. We still have wind. If we have nothing else these days. We have wind. Plenty of wind. 

Christmas came early this year. Did you notice? People put up their trees and lights when I was still saying good-bye to Halloween and as a result Christmas decorations have come down early too. I’m the only one I know who has not already packed up Christmas. I remember when people didn’t put anything away until after New Year’s had come and gone. I miss that. 

With my father passing in November, once I found the energy to decorate for Christmas, I have held fast to the changes around the house. I don’t want to give my Christmas decorations up, for the simple fact that the inside of my house does not look exactly like it did during his final days. My plan is to have one piece of everyday décor changed in each room by the time Christmas has been put away. A plan that has yet to be implemented. 

New Year’s Eve was not the long, boring night that it has been in previous years. Once I gave up on television and pulled out a book it was quite cozy. As the evening wore on, I stopped to empty out the Happy Moments jar. 

The Happy Moments jar. It’s something that has been circulating our Cyber world for a while. A person writes down on a scrap of paper something good when it happens. A happy moment. Then it is placed in the jar and saved for New Year’s Eve. At the end of the night each moment is taken out and read out loud as a reminder of all of the good things that have happened in life. I adopted it about three years ago. I find that it does two things: it teaches a person to recognize the little joys in everyday life and it is also a reminder that there was good in your year regardless of how a person may be feeling on New Year’s Eve. 

I opened the jar and read. Yes, I did not have a lot of happy moments. More than one or two were tied to Dad and his illness. I had challenging days and false starts in some areas. It was a difficult year.

I was thinking about those moments this morning. Thinking about what I could take away from the exercise. I was reminded that even though we have happy moments some things don’t always have a happy ending. I also recognized that most of the happy moments had to do with me coming out of my comfort zone, taking on bigger challenges, and getting through difficult things. I questioned, I challenged. I went down unfamiliar roads. Sometimes I got hurt. Sometimes I had to step back and rebuild. 

Those kinds of years are good too. It reminds us that somewhere inside there is resilience, there is strength. It might not be fun pulling them out and using them. We might yell, scream, cry, or fight against what’s coming. We can also face it and deal with it. Rebuild, become stronger. Whatever is next might be easier to deal with than it would have been last year or the year before that. 

My hopes for 2020? There is hope. It’s growing slowly. I’m not going share any specifics because I am still identifying them all. I am hoping it gains momentum in the coming weeks and snowballs. I hope that we all have an amazing 2020. I hope that 2020 is a year of positive change for our world and all who live on it. 

Happy New Year Everyone!

May all of your wishes come true.

HR Apostos

A Self-Proclaimed Mercenary And His Cookies

*I created a teeny tiny play this time.

FADE IN.

INT. --Bonus Room

Tinkletoes sits in the bonus room. It is decorated for Christmas. Snow is falling outside.

Dramatic reading of Carp Fisher’s “Tinkletoes’ Christmas Mission.”

Narration by: Someone Really Cool.

Narration begins:

Tinkletoes looked at the list.

He saw the snow falling outside.

Tucking the list into his waist band...

...the self-proclaimed mercenary stood, rising to his full height.

A man on a mission.

He was present.

At the ready...

It was a mission like nothing that had come before.

This soldier was not in pursuit of the enemy, baked goods, lighted sabers...or other sci-fi toys.

(Tinkletoes looks at Narrator) : They’re not toys, they’re collectibles. Would you call a Bergara B-14 a toy?

(TP pops in dressed as Raggedy Ann): Rifles are party favors in Faerie. (giggling)

(Tinkletoes to TP): That doesn’t count.

TP: Does too!

Tinkletoes: Does not!

TP: Does Too!

Tinkletoes: Look, who’s wearin’ the boots here?

The faerie holds up one black booted foot.

Tinkletoes: You may be wearing some kind of boots but I’m the one wearin’ the combat boots and I say it doesn’t!

Narrator (To Tinkletoes): You do realize that you’re arguing with a faerie dressed up as a rag doll, don’t you?

Tinkletoes growls.

Narrator: I’d like to continue if that’s okay. I’m sorry if I upset you. It’s just well...I got excited. The cookies will be coming out of the oven soon.

Tinkletoes: Who’s baking?

Narrator: Aunt Purdy just whipped up some…

Tinkletoes: Without me?

Narrator: She was going to wait but Writer Lady pointed out that with it being December 21^st you might be gone for a while.

Tinkletoes: They’re making cookies? Without me?

Narrator (weakly): She mentioned making more.

Tinkletoes: When I get back?

Narrator: Yeah...um...sure.

Tinkletoes (raises brow): What kind?

Narrator: What?

Tinkletoes: What kind?

Narrator: Your favorite?

Tinkletoes: What’s my favorite?

Narrator: Choc…

Tinkletoes shakes head.

Narrator: Peanut b…

Tinkletoes shakes head.

Narrator: doodles?

Tinkletoes: Chocolate chip. I’m a chip man. But they wouldn’t be making my favorite cookies because it’s Christmas. They’d make those white cookies that get frosted and decorated with sprinkly things.

Narrator (nods): She’s making sugar cookies.

Tinkletoes (paces): They won’t be making more later. They never make more sugar cookies later. There is only one batch of sugar cookies at Christmas and it’s mine!

Narrator: But you’re Tinkletoes. The world famous self-proclaimed mercenary. A man on a mission and a soldier on a Christmas mission cannot give up. He cannot fail! In the name of Christmas the mission must prevail!

Tinkletoes (to Narrator): You’re right!

The self-proclaimed mercenary turns towards the kitchen.

Tinkletoes: It appears that my mission has changed.

FADE OUT.

Paths Down A Long Dark Road

 (Personal Essay)

 I see my old self in you. The sadness. The constant worry about the future. The unending need to prove to yourself that you can take care of yourself. That you are going to be okay. Let me tell you this now. I am using all caps for emphasis. Not because I’m yelling.

YOU ARE GOING TO BE OKAY.

You will. It doesn’t feel like it but you will. I have learned a lot over the last decade. Let me share with you what I’ve learned so your journey is easier.

You are surrounded by people who love you. That voice inside your head telling you how alone you are is lying. If you can’t see it then every day I want you to find one person that you know loves you and has your back. Each day look for a new person to add to the list. Write the list down and put it in a drawer or a box. Something that is hidden but close at hand. On the bad days take it out and read the list. Out loud. Remember these are the people who are there for you. They are also the ones who would miss you if you were gone.

There are stages of grief but you don’t go through them in any set order. It’s not like checking things off of a list. You don’t wake up one morning feel acceptance and bam! you’re done. You are going to move through the stages. In and out. Over and over for a long time. You may feel several in one day. You will have emotional days. Days full of difficult things that drain your energy and make you wish for simpler times.

There will be days that almost feel normal except when you remember that he or she is gone.

Some days will be sweet, happy, and spread out before you like buttercream over cake. Then you will feel guilty that you had that day because you aren’t supposed to have good times without him. The truth is that you are. You are supposed to have the good times, the funny times, and the crazy times. He loved you. He wouldn’t want you to die with his passing.

I spent a long time convinced that crying was showing weakness. Crying is not weakness in grief it is a testament to how much you loved. Something so beautiful cannot possibly be weak.

I can hear Dad now. “Have appropriate sadness because I was fuckin’ great. Keep going.”

I hear you Dad. I’m listening.

Keep going. Keep resting. You will start healing. Slowly it will get better.

Try not to make the same mistakes that I made. I realized this morning that I grieved for my late husband like he grieved for his wife from a previous marriage. He never let go of his grief. She was always in the forefront long after we were together.

After I had accepted losing him, grieving had become such a big part of my life that I kept grieving. For other things. Failed attempts at change, mistakes, perceived losses. A decade came and went and I was still grieving. Don’t do that. It does not make for a happy life.

As things change, as you learn to live in this new life you are building let yourself become uncomfortable again as you move away from the hurting. Don’t let living in grief become the forefront of your life. Don’t let it stay forever. Live with it not for it.

Don’t be afraid to change. To build something new. Be happy. Find joy again. Laugh all you want.

The events that took him from you are just a blip of the time that you had together. Remember all of it. It was beautiful.

Changing everything right away does not make the grieving process go faster. Just more complicated.

Loss of a loved one is a difficult journey. You can get through this. You will get through this.

Love yourself, trust your own instincts about change, if something feels like it has to be done right now you may be rushing things, take a step back and proceed a bit more slowly. You’ve got this. You really do.

Nightcap In The Library

The screen on Scotch’s cell phone lit up just as Pen was replacing the last book on the shelf.

How are things going? Are our friends still watching?

Pen read the message. “How long have I been in here?” She muttered. Pen picked up the fake novel and the phone and returned to Scotch’s bedroom. The spy-in-training quickly shoved the book into her purse before she made another appearance at the bedroom window.

The black SUV was still parked on the street outside. She noticed that the doors were closed and the windows had been rolled all the way up against the chill of early morning. The vehicle shook here and there which was consistent with three men of their “friends” size attempting to make themselves comfortable within a limited space. It looked like they would be staying for the night. Or what was left of it.

Pen moved out of view and sent a quick response of “yes” to Scotch. She returned to the hidden room and looked at it to make sure she had not left any tell tale signs that she had been in it. There was a button with a sign next to the room’s entry that read, “Headmaster’s Coming.” Pen retrieved a clean, dry cloth from the bathroom and pressed the button, keeping her fingers covered with the cloth to avoid leaving fingerprints. The door closed, as the room tucked itself away the wall lowered itself to the floor, the bed sliding back into place in front of it.

Pen checked the time on the phone. One corner of her mouth turned up in a smile. She wondered where she wanted to be when Scotch returned. Her told her to wait for him in the bedroom. Pen sat down on the edge of the bed. “There’s no way he’s going to believe that I’ve spent the entire time he was gone on such an uncomfortable bed.” She grabbed the robe that matched her nightgown out of the closet, heading back into the library she prepared to wait.

The bookcase door slid open in front of him, although it was completely dark Scotch knew that he was not alone in the room. The spy stepped forward slowly looking, listening, even smelling for anything unusual or different in the apartment. There was no movement or sound, but there was the faint scent of...he knew that smell. Scotch entered the room pushing the door back into place. He did not utter a single word. The only move he made was to the drink cabinet. Scotch poured himself a nightcap, enjoying that first sip. “Were you scared or did you just miss me?” He asked.

“Neither.” Pen answered.

“I told you to wait for me in the bedroom.”

He heard Pen slide along the leather of his couch. The lamp next to her clicked on. A dim light revealed his partner sitting on it wearing… Scotch blinked for a moment to refocus. Pen filled out the sheer nightgown superbly.

“I am not a child. I’m perfectly capable of choosing a safe place to wait.”

Scotch looked at Pen without replying.

“I couldn’t get comfortable. That bed is a torture device. How do you sleep?”

“A good spy can sleep anywhere.”

“I’m a chemist. Where do chemists sleep?”

Scotch raised a brow. He grinned for a moment and said, “Chemists sleep in the bedroom across the hall. It has a more comfortable mattress on it. As a spy you should have known that.” He took another sip of the amber liquid. “I’m sure that as a scientist you are used to following specific and dedicated instructions. There are probably good reasons for that. Spies can’t always follow instructions.”

Pen looked at Scotch. “Then why are you always quoting rules to me? And subheadings? Setting an example of following the instructions?”

“There are always exceptions to rules. There are always going to be unanticipated situations. There are going to be times that you are on a mission and the background information is out of date or one key bit of information is missing. You only discover it when you get out into the field. The only way you are going to be able to work through those problems if you are always looking around, taking in your surroundings, verifying the information you were given at the briefing, gathering new information. You are always on duty. You are always a spy.”

“Even with you?” Pen asked.

“When I leave you on your own yes.”

“That does not make any sense.” Pen pointed out.

“If you had done any searching on your own while I was gone you would have found the other bedroom and you wouldn’t still be awake in the wee hours of the morning. You are a terrible spy.”

“Where is this coming from?”

“You have to quit fumbling around. You have to focus Pen.”

Scotch was not planning on telling Pen anything. It would be much safer to keep her in the dark. McKinney's words haunted him. “Pen is a beginner, you are not. Everything is new to her; you know how everything is supposed to work. If you’re smart, you’ll use your differences to your advantage.”

It had been a long day and an even longer night, Pen had participated in all the fun that she could stand for one day. “If I’m such a terrible spy then maybe I should quit.”

“You can’t.” He said. "It's too dangerous."

*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.

Hidden In Plain Sight

“You’re losing people?” Scotch asked.

“At an alarming rate. So are the French, the Spanish, the Americans...”

“What about the Russians?”

One corner of Ursula’s mouth turned up revealing a rarely seen dimple, “Ask the Americans, if you can find a live one.”

Scotch thought back to his conversation with McKinney, it felt like it had taken place a lifetime ago, only a few hours had passed between that conversation and this one, “Who are the men in the SUV working for?”

“The one outside your apartment?”

Scotch nodded.

“I don’t recognize them. They must be independents.”

“You don’t know who they might be working for?”

“No. I don’t. The only thing that I can tell you is spies from agencies all over the world are dying and no one is taking responsibility.”

Ursula looked at Scotch waiting for a response.

He sat and waited for her to reveal her final piece of information.

“Have you noticed how none of the spies at your agency have died?”

Scotch remained quiet.

“Why is that? Perhaps it’s because your agency is responsible?”

“You chose to warn Pen.” Scotch pointed out.

“Because I knew that she would go to you and eventually you would come to me.”

“Isn’t that taking the long way around? What if Pen had been reassigned? What if I had been out of the country tonight? How many more employees might you have lost before we ran into each other?”

“I guess I got lucky.”

“You got lucky? There’s more to this Ursula. I’m going to find out. About everything.”

“I hope you do.” She responded, turning her attention to Fluffy. He was slumped in his chair, chewing on his cuticles looking bored. “Good help is getting more and more difficult to find.”

“Things just got very interesting.” Pen repeated to herself as she took in her surroundings.

The area housed a desk with several monitors displaying video surveillance of everything from the hallway outside of the apartment and the street below to Jeremy in 5J’s dog’s whereabouts. A comfortable looking wing back chair stood in the center of the room. A small table sat next to it. She settled herself into the chair and looked around the room.

“If I were Scotch where would I hide things?”

Pen continued studying the room, the dark walls and furniture. She looked down and admired the rug beneath her feet, ran her fingers along the black leather of the chair, took in the carved detail of the cherry table next to her. The furniture looked familiar. A bit too familiar. Pen turned and looked at the monitors. One displayed a view of Scotch’s library. The room she was sitting in was a smaller more simple version of the other room. It appeared that Scotch had intentionally put in the same room twice.

“If I were Scotch and I hid an entire room. I would hide sensitive information, anywhere I wanted.” Pen looked at the room from another perspective. “Knowing Scotch, I would hide it...in plain sight.” Her eyes stopped at the surface of the cherry table next to her and the paperback book. She picked it up greedily like a child who had successfully filched a cookie while Dad napped on the couch. “I would have had it whether I had found this room or not.” Pen quickly looked at the monitors, nothing had changed. She looked at the cover of the book, the chemist remembered looking at the synopsis of this movie when she was exploring Scotch’s references to James Bond and discounting the film as being too far from his references to be of any use in understanding him. Obviously, she had been wrong. It would be useful to do an Internet search to get more details but all she had was Scotch’s phone and she was sure that he would be able to quickly see everything she had done with the phone in his absence. It would be the same story with any equipment within the apartment. There was always the possibility of introducing herself to Jeremy in 5J and requesting use of his computer but explaining how looking up the details of a movie that’s nearly twenty years old in the wee hours of the morning is an emergency requiring he get out of bed and let a complete stranger into his home, suffice it to say Scotch would definitely find out about that one. Pen would have to rely on her own memory and hope that she remembered enough about the movie to help her navigate through her partner’s mind.

She started with the cover. Spy Game By Nathan Muir. The author name was not right. Nathan Muir. Nathan Muir. He was Redford’s character. It sounded like a Redford character. Pen flipped through the book. There was dialogue, narration, the names Bishop and Muir were both mentioned many times. The passages that she read did not stand out. Maybe a novelization of the film was released at some time. Without access to the Internet, Pen would have to confirm that later. Pen turned her attention to the back cover of the book. A website was listed above the ISBN number. Isleofskyepublishing.com. A website was of no use to Pen for the moment. She looked at the ISBN number. Something looked off.

Finally, something she could work with. The spy-in-training stepped out of the room and walked quickly into Scotch’s library. She turned on the light closest to Scotch’s bookshelves, pulled down a paperback book, and compared ISBN numbers.

“This book’s ISBN has ten digits on it. Spy Game’s ISBN has nine digits.”

She located another book and compared.

“Ten.”

Another book.

“Ten.”

Another.

Pen checked twenty books and compared them to Spy Game before concluding that her hypothesis was correct. The paperback in her hand held something Scotch had been hiding. The chemist was determined to find out what it was and what it had to do with the events that had been taking place.

*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.

Negligees, Hidden Rooms, and Private Conversations

The man that Scotch had thought was Duff turned his stool to face him. The new guy had dark hair and eyes similar to Duff’s. The man also had heavy jowls along with a weak chin as opposed Duff’s more defined facial features. The new guy was also pointing a gun at him.

Scotch listened for movement but didn’t hear anything coming from Fluffy’s direction. Either this was a delicate matter or Fluffy was such a newbie that he couldn’t be trusted with his own weapon. Scotch turned his head briefly. Fluffy’s already bloodless complexion had not paled nor did he appear jittery or anxious. Scotch looked for perspiration on the man’s forehead, another sign that he was in over his head. There was nothing.

Scotch rose from his seat slowly. He crossed to Ursula’s booth and sat down. “There are four of you here. Only two of you have weapons. Your newbie is on the job but not nervous so you must only be here to talk. From the imitate size of your group I am going to surmise that this a delicate matter.”

Ursula’s eyes brightened and one corner of her mouth turned up in a smile. “There are only three of us here Scotch. You must be losing your touch.”

Scotch leaned across the table and whispered, “There are four of you. Duff is hiding behind the counter. I can smell him from here.” He leaned back against the seat and continued. “Which also explains your new recruit being weaponless. You didn’t want to take the chance that gun fire would be exchanged, he would miss me and hit Duff instead. He must pull to the left when he shoots. Ergo, no gun for Fluffy.”

“Fluffy?” Ursula asked.

“When I first spotted him he was standing in a dog park.” Scotch turned around and called out to the man. “Have you checked your shoes lately? You probably stepped in something.”

“You’re the only one who’s stepped in something. Cheeky blighter.” Fluffy’s long legs allowed him to cross the diner quickly. Duff Look Alike a.k.a. Ursula’s Thug at the Counter had to hustle in order to block Fluffy’s path.

“Down boy.” Duff Look Alike said.

Ursula looked at Fluffy, “Lock the front door, sit back down, and be quiet if you want to get paid.”

“You said that you wired my bank with the money an hour ago.” Fluffy argued, looking stricken.

One corner of Ursula’s mouth turned up in a smile, “Lesson Number Three. If a client says that they are sending you the money before the job is done then they’re lying. Always check your bank account before leaving for work.”

“Lesson Three.” Scotch repeated. “How long ago did you bring him on?”

“Yesterday.” Ursula answered.

Scotch looked at Fluffy. “Three lessons in twenty-four hours? You are new at this.”

Fluffy glared at Scotch then at Ursula. He walked over to the front door, locked it, and sat down quietly looking uncomfortable.

“You and Duff cover the other doors.” She said to Duff Look Alike. “This is a private conversation.”

Scotch watched Ursula’s team as they made themselves scarce. He turned his attention back to her. “You used to be more discerning about who you hired.”

“I also used to be off the radar.” She countered. “Fewer people want to work with you when your long term employees keep turning up dead.”

Before Pen began her search she needed to see to it that the men in the black SUV downstairs stayed put and did not wander off. She looked at her reflection in the mirror and hoped she could pull this off. She had chosen something long, white, and silky with lace over the parts that benefit from being accentuated. At first she was concerned that choosing the most conservative looking item in the closet would not be sufficient. There were nighties of all kind in there. Everything from leather ensembles with matching whips to ruffled white and pink numbers with tiny aprons. After sifting through outfit number sixteen she wondered if Scotch had that many encounters or if it was just wishful thinking. “If I find a case of condoms somewhere it’s all in his head. Just like Aunt Serendipity and her collection of wedding veils.”

Pen took a deep breath and slowly eased her way into their visitors’ line of sight. Her calculated risk that leaving something to the imagination could be every bit as effective as showing everything was confirmed when one man hit his head on the outside of the vehicle. Another one had to have his hand stilled by the others before he could honk his approval. She mentally counted for sixty seconds and slowly backed out of the window to return to the task at hand.

Pen looked at the clock. Scotch had been gone for approximately thirty minutes. She anticipated that she had thirty to forty-five minutes to herself before chances increased that the men in the SUV outside would either call it a night or wonder if Scotch had taken another route outside the building and go looking for him. It was not much time to find what she was looking for.

She started with his drink cabinet finding nothing but alcohol and cut glass tumblers. The closets yielded little information as well. Much of Scotch’s money seemed to go into clothes and furnishings. Pen did appreciate his home library and wondered what it would be like to spend several days just exploring it.

There was nothing in the bathroom except a wide range of grooming products. “This is all impressive Scotch but where are you in all of this?” She commented. Pen checked the nightstands and found little more than the usual items including half read copies of both Chaucer and another book called Spy Game. She recognized the men on the cover. “That was a movie not a book.” Pen flipped through the paperback but did not know what she was looking for she eventually abandoned her search tossing it on to the bed.

“Now for the bed.” The first thing she noticed was the texture of the blankets. They were rough. The bed sheets weren’t much better. If the bed had been any harder it would have been made of nails. “This is out of character.” She whispered. Pen took a small flashlight from her handbag and began looking around the base of the bed. She laid down on the floor to take a look underneath but there was solid wood hiding behind its skirt. She began running her fingers along the wood anywhere they would fit.

“There you are.” She pushed a button, not knowing what was coming next, Pen stood up and got out of the way. The bed slid to the left and a section of the wall that had been concealed by the bed lifted. Lights came on revealing a well lit room.

“It looks like things just got interesting.” She said. She looked at the book she had abandoned minutes earlier, picking it up, Pen entered the hidden room.

*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.