Homer Barstow once believed that he was nothing but a small fish in a very large pond. But immediately after passing his CPA examination, he was approached by one of his former teachers, a man who spoke with a Russian accent. He extended to Homer an invitation to enter the employ of a very successful Russian businessman by the name of Rasputin. Homer quickly accepted, and that's a decision he celebrated nearly every day after.
This celebration was often held in a small, hole-in-the-wall bar, and he was always escorted by three men in dark suits, who usually waited outside by the front door. Rasputin had given Homer more than a job; he'd given him a responsibility. In fact, Homer knew little about his occupation aside from the small thumb drive he kept on his person at all times and the list of numbers he was forced to memorize on his first day on the job. Every once in awhile, he was given a new list to memorize, and occasionally, he was called upon to recite these numbers. Homer Barstow may have been a meek man, but he was no fool. He had realized that the numbers in his head were account numbers, but only partials, meaning that somewhere out there was another person like himself, cluelessly carrying the other halves of these numbers in his or her mind and living the same sort of life that Homer himself lived. Not that it was a bad life. He had money. He had personal bodyguards. But most of all, he had power.
It was the sort of power that radiated from his body like pheromones, drawing all sorts of women to him, like the one that now sat across the bar from him--the one that had been eyeing him all night. She wore a short, black dress and smiled at him, so Homer wisely sent a drink to her table. She soon joined him at the bar, bringing a drink she said she'd bought just for him. Homer Barstow was a lucky man, and he took great pleasure in that drink as he gulped it down, even though it did taste a bit funny.
Guarding Homer Barstow was a very long and boring job, but the men outside were far from carefree. This used to be a one man job, but in recent weeks, the security detail had been upped for every higher-up in the organization. They didn't know exactly what kind of trouble was going on, but they did have stories that they swapped as they smoked their cigarettes and waited for the short, fat man in the bar to finish his drinks.
"They have a vendetta to settle with Rasputin," said the veteran. "So they strike only at night, hitting his warehouses and businesses, and then poof! They vanish like ghosts."
The new recruit chuckled, but the other kept a very stern look on his face.
"You may think it's funny now," said the stern guard, "but just you wait until we're face to face with them. It'll happen sooner or later, you know. I heard that twenty men were killed at the port in Kamchatka."
The recruit blinked with a dumbfounded look upon his face and swallowed hard.
"Ha, that's nothing," said the veteran. "I heard that after that, they sank two pirate ships and made a clean getaway when the Coast Guard came to investigate. I told you--like ghosts."
A wiry man with his arm hanging in a sling approached, and all three of the guards took up their positions in front of the door.
"Excuse me," said the thin man in English. He held an unlit cigarette in his hand. "Do any of you gentlemen have a light."
The two other guards both looked to the veteran, who then nodded. The recruit pulled a lighter from his pocket and struck a flame, letting the American light up.
"Thanks."
"Welcome," said the recruit in heavily accented English.
The injured American lingered for a moment, glancing at the bar behind them and then up at the sky. "Look at all those stars," he said. "You've got to love a clear night like this."
While all three guards indulged in the offer to gaze at the heavens above, a woman in a short black dress turned the corner. She came from the alley that ran alongside the bar, but the guards didn't notice. Nor did they particularly pay attention when two other men, one old with a grizzled beard and the other with blond hair, passed by, walking along the other side of the street behind her. The American reached into his sling, as if to scratch an itch that refused to go away.
"Well, you boys have a good night," said the American. "I've got places to be."
The three guards waved goodbye and went back to their stories, not even bothering to check the status of their charge in the bar.
"Let him drink," said the Veteran. "Maybe then we won't have to hear him talk."
"What's the take?" asked Jenn.
Philip was hunched over a laptop. He looked up at her and grinned.
"Half a million," he said, and Jenn's face lit up like a child's (or that of any reasonable person, actually) on Christmas morning.
"That sonuvabitch Rasputin has to be steamed by now," said Hayes. "That's our second hit on his bank accounts this week alone."
Jenn jumped up and down. "I'll tell the boss."
She ran out onto the deck, and down by the picnic table, Vitus sat on the old settee, looking up at the stars.
"Half-a-mil, dear. I think we can afford that villa now," she said.
Vitus stared at her. "Come here," he said.
She sat beside him on their settee. The night belonged to them. This was the cusp of their own revolution--one in which they could all carve out a place for themselves in a world too absurd for its own good. This was where they belonged.
"So what do we do now?" she asked. "Vitus?"
He said nothing. He looked at the stars again--both those in the sky above and those reflected in the eyes of the woman he loved. And he looked down at the intricately carved arm of the settee they now sat on and ran his fingers along the grooves, thinking of what the future might hold.
Vitus Bethel smiled.
This celebration was often held in a small, hole-in-the-wall bar, and he was always escorted by three men in dark suits, who usually waited outside by the front door. Rasputin had given Homer more than a job; he'd given him a responsibility. In fact, Homer knew little about his occupation aside from the small thumb drive he kept on his person at all times and the list of numbers he was forced to memorize on his first day on the job. Every once in awhile, he was given a new list to memorize, and occasionally, he was called upon to recite these numbers. Homer Barstow may have been a meek man, but he was no fool. He had realized that the numbers in his head were account numbers, but only partials, meaning that somewhere out there was another person like himself, cluelessly carrying the other halves of these numbers in his or her mind and living the same sort of life that Homer himself lived. Not that it was a bad life. He had money. He had personal bodyguards. But most of all, he had power.
It was the sort of power that radiated from his body like pheromones, drawing all sorts of women to him, like the one that now sat across the bar from him--the one that had been eyeing him all night. She wore a short, black dress and smiled at him, so Homer wisely sent a drink to her table. She soon joined him at the bar, bringing a drink she said she'd bought just for him. Homer Barstow was a lucky man, and he took great pleasure in that drink as he gulped it down, even though it did taste a bit funny.
***
Guarding Homer Barstow was a very long and boring job, but the men outside were far from carefree. This used to be a one man job, but in recent weeks, the security detail had been upped for every higher-up in the organization. They didn't know exactly what kind of trouble was going on, but they did have stories that they swapped as they smoked their cigarettes and waited for the short, fat man in the bar to finish his drinks.
"They have a vendetta to settle with Rasputin," said the veteran. "So they strike only at night, hitting his warehouses and businesses, and then poof! They vanish like ghosts."
The new recruit chuckled, but the other kept a very stern look on his face.
"You may think it's funny now," said the stern guard, "but just you wait until we're face to face with them. It'll happen sooner or later, you know. I heard that twenty men were killed at the port in Kamchatka."
The recruit blinked with a dumbfounded look upon his face and swallowed hard.
"Ha, that's nothing," said the veteran. "I heard that after that, they sank two pirate ships and made a clean getaway when the Coast Guard came to investigate. I told you--like ghosts."
A wiry man with his arm hanging in a sling approached, and all three of the guards took up their positions in front of the door.
"Excuse me," said the thin man in English. He held an unlit cigarette in his hand. "Do any of you gentlemen have a light."
The two other guards both looked to the veteran, who then nodded. The recruit pulled a lighter from his pocket and struck a flame, letting the American light up.
"Thanks."
"Welcome," said the recruit in heavily accented English.
The injured American lingered for a moment, glancing at the bar behind them and then up at the sky. "Look at all those stars," he said. "You've got to love a clear night like this."
While all three guards indulged in the offer to gaze at the heavens above, a woman in a short black dress turned the corner. She came from the alley that ran alongside the bar, but the guards didn't notice. Nor did they particularly pay attention when two other men, one old with a grizzled beard and the other with blond hair, passed by, walking along the other side of the street behind her. The American reached into his sling, as if to scratch an itch that refused to go away.
"Well, you boys have a good night," said the American. "I've got places to be."
The three guards waved goodbye and went back to their stories, not even bothering to check the status of their charge in the bar.
"Let him drink," said the Veteran. "Maybe then we won't have to hear him talk."
***
"What's the take?" asked Jenn.
Philip was hunched over a laptop. He looked up at her and grinned.
"Half a million," he said, and Jenn's face lit up like a child's (or that of any reasonable person, actually) on Christmas morning.
"That sonuvabitch Rasputin has to be steamed by now," said Hayes. "That's our second hit on his bank accounts this week alone."
Jenn jumped up and down. "I'll tell the boss."
She ran out onto the deck, and down by the picnic table, Vitus sat on the old settee, looking up at the stars.
"Half-a-mil, dear. I think we can afford that villa now," she said.
Vitus stared at her. "Come here," he said.
She sat beside him on their settee. The night belonged to them. This was the cusp of their own revolution--one in which they could all carve out a place for themselves in a world too absurd for its own good. This was where they belonged.
"So what do we do now?" she asked. "Vitus?"
He said nothing. He looked at the stars again--both those in the sky above and those reflected in the eyes of the woman he loved. And he looked down at the intricately carved arm of the settee they now sat on and ran his fingers along the grooves, thinking of what the future might hold.
Vitus Bethel smiled.
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