A dead man story

I'm a writer & dry on ideas. I stop by a beatnik 1940s style dive bar to fire one up & think. I ask the bartender for a private table & slide him a 20. He points to the back of the bar.

I see a body on a bench with a half-loaded syringe & a bullet in his head. I have my story.

I'm sitting in a booth. The dead body is already in a bag. I have talked to the detective. I see two men standing at the bar looking for information.

They walk out the door. The bartender looks at me & shrugs his shoulders. I follow them. Their car is colored black.

I walk into the building & wave for the bartender. He approaches. 

"The two guys that asked you questions, who are they?" I ask as I am staring out of the corners of my eyes at the TV over the bar.

"Dude, they didn't even show any IDs, & their questions were threats."

Listening to the bartender, he tells me of the threats. My eyes catch a news alert on the TV screen.

"Writer and best selling author, David Lewenberg, is now a prime suspect in the murder of researcher Carl Smith." 

The on-scene cops look at me as I dash for the door.

Side streets & alleyways, a great escape plan, in my books. They save me once again. 

I'm three blocks from the bar standing next to a newspaper stand—a great way to blend in. I grab an evening paper. The ink is still warm. My face is on the front page.

I need to be invisible. My credit cards & phone—destroy. I have no choice. I must use the skills I know—shoplifting & pickpocketing. I need new clothes & cash.

The only person I can trust is my publisher. I will be able to sort the facts & have a place to hide.

I have $26 in cash & 4 check cards. Pickpocketing is no longer a cash business. Luckily, one gentleman had a 9mm. 

I see a truck with the logo Thrift World. I follow it for 2 blocks & raise the back door. 

I look like a roadie now, a New Yorker, it works.

Paul Danner, my publisher, stops by Starbucks every Tuesday & Thursday night. It's Thursday night, and I'm waiting across the street.

He never shows up.

The open sign is off. I stand and feel the side of my t-shirt rip. The window behind me shatters. 

A Mustang GT 2020 screeches to a halt in front of me. The door swings open.

"David, get in the car!"

I recognize Paul's voice, & a bullet nicks my arm. I jump in the car & hit the seat like a cannonball. Paul pops the clutch. Two rounds shatter the back window.

Paul, my publisher, has a seaside hideaway. He funnels it through a bank in the Cayman Islands under a business name, The Second Hand Down. The title of my second book.

"Do you use most of your client's book titles, Paul?"

"Only the ones that make me money."

I'm sitting on the beach watching the sunrise. True beauty.

Last night, Paul, let me know what the skinny is. It's astonishing what he knows about the whole ordeal, and I'm the one they are trying to kill. 

I crack open a copy of my 9th book, Words on Words.

Part 8B

The researcher, Carl Smith, did work for Paul. Now, I understand the possible misprints in one version of my book, Words on Words. It's a code—an algorithmic word pattern.

Paul knows the decryption of the words, but not the algorithm of which words. "Hey, Paul

I twist the doorknob to enter the hideaway. The door is locked. I knock on the door. Paul does not answer. I keep knocking on the door and looking through the small pane window glass. I see blood. I force the door open. The sound inside is deadening.

Part 9B

There are blood smears all through the mutual area of the hideaway. Likely a fatal encounter or torture. Paul isn't here(dead or alive).

There is a folder tab slightly sticking out of the AC wall unit. I pull it out of the unit. It's a folder full of pictures.

The folder has smoke stains around the edges, but the pictures are not damaged. I sort through the photos and notice very little as far as faces are concerned, they are out of focus. I keep seeing the same old building in the background. I need a burner phone—

I scan the seaside hideaway looking for anything from a burner phone to a gun—nothing. Standing between the bookshelf and desk, I shred the smoke-stained folder and photos. I notice a picture hanging on the wall. "That's the building."

The building in the photos is the same as the one on the wall. The picture looks like a PR campaign—Carl Smith is shaking Paul's hand.

I walk into the shed & take the gas from the generator. I douse the inside of the hideaway & flick a lit match as I walk away.

Each step I take, I hear the fire raging louder. I feel the heat getting more robust as my anger rises. I am not sure if Paul is trying to help me or kill me. I am not even sure if he is alive. I need to get back to the city.

I step down out of the cab on the 18 wheeler & say, "Thanks for the ride, Bob." I shut the door & casually walk away. In my pocket, I jingle the 9mm bullets I lifted from him. As Bob slowly upshifts, I smile. Hitchhiking is better than Uber when off the grind

The streets are busy, & the sidewalks are full. Blending in is one thing, but staying that way is always timed. Once the domino effect starts, it becomes a tidal wave.

I walk past one of my trusty contacts, Lenny, outside Tony's Dogs on 28th, he says nothing.

It's 11 am Friday. I have been on the run for 24 hours, trying to piece things together. All I am getting is more questions, no answers. I need some sleep. The bullet nick on my arm is becoming infected and looking worse than it should. I need to stay awake.

A dark lit smokey hazed bar—There is only one thing better—the nuances of a great coffee house. The dive reminds me of a place in Tangier; it never changes. The sign above the doorway has the word coffee painted on with a broad brush—the place I need to be.

Part 14B

I'm sitting in a booth flipping through my 9th book, Words On Words, & drawing diagrams in it to help me figure out more of the algorithm. It is straining my fatigued eyes, even more. The only light is a low burning oil lamp hanging on the wall. I fall asleep.

Part 14C

I wake up when I hear someone sitting on the opposite side of the booth, my eyes are closed. My book is being slowly tugged from under my hand.

"Let go of the book,"  I say, never opening my eyes. "I have a 9mm pointed at you under the table." The books stop

I open my eyes and raise my head. The book tugs my hand a little more. I cock the 9mm and stare deep into the man's eyes.

"Do you talk?" I ask, not flinching my eyes.

The man says nothing. He's not some junkie looking for a quick dollar and a kill

I feel the book tug under my hand, again. The man is a professional. Hired, working for an organization, or the belief in an ideology—I'm not sure. I grab my book and push it down onto the booth bench. I stand up and point the gun in his face

"Talk"

It's time this broken record quit playing. I lower the hammer onto the firing pin with my thumb. In one swing, the man is out cold on the bench. He has no ID, gun, or phone. His wallet has three $100 bills & what looks like a business card, but it only says Abbey Roads

It's Friday night, & I know a hacker that can supply me—I need a burner phone & information—I have cash. He's a traditional hacker: every three hours, his phone number changes. A bit cliche, but he goes by the user name @THESHADOW on the dark

The easiest way to contact @The-S-H-A-D-O-W, on the dark web, is through any computer that has a USB/FlashDrive connection to the internet. I insert my apartment key chain. It's not hard to find a computer in New York City connected to the internet

A simple input line pops up on the screen that asks for nothing more than a location. I type in a place that is protected by skull and crossbones graphics instead of asterisks for a meeting place. Immediately, the word ok pops up on the screen. It goes black

I need to find Paul. The answers I need, he might can help answer. Hopefully he's still alive. 

I take the card out of my pocket and read it. It makes no scene. 

@The-S-H-A-D-O-W, whose real name is Francis, always likes to meet under the backdoor awning to a vintage record store. He claims the area has higher bandwidth. 

Did I mention how he hates his real name?

If I change the location, our connection goes silent.

I keep my face down but notice a group of people is pointing into the sky behind me. I start turning around, and the person's head beside me explodes. A silent hovering black helicopter catches my peripheral vision as I wipe the blood off my face

I watch 5 more people fall—blood fountains from their bodies. I dive into traffic, hoping I have a better chance of not getting hit by car or truck. I grab a smartphone from inside a stopped car, & it's back window shatters. Bullet holes puncture the door.

I take cover between two buildings in a narrow walkway. The bullets stop.

The phone doesn't have a USB port. Now I know why Francis constructed an alternate side drive to the USB on my apartment keychain. I boot the dark web and input ABORT.

A map with a green line showing how to follow the maze appears on the phone screen.

I look around & shout, "Where's it at Francis?" A picture taken from a satellite, of what looks like a manhole cover appears on the screen.

I reach down & lift the cover.