The Death of 1977 (Book 3)

Chapter 13

The bathroom was simply an excuse.

Livingston caught the entire incident in the alley from behind the safe confines of a cozy corner. Just as the two men were breathlessly sprinting down the long alley Livingston managed to cut right in front of them.

"Just a second, boys," he said in his usual dialect. "I have some questions for you."

"Move out of our way, whitey," one of the men anxiously shouted.

Promptly, Livingston pulled out a wad of bills and waved them in front of both men. "Now, like I said, I have some questions for you." He calmly stated.

Gradually, both men came down and glanced at each other before going back to drooling over the money that was staring back at them.

"I need to know why you were talking to that girl."

Huffing and puffing, one of the men said, "Hey, mon, she American. She won know 'bout someone named...Bushard."

"Yeah, we give her some bullshit directions." The other man stepped in. "She pay us and we send her on a wild goose chase!" He giggled.

Livingston examined both men who appeared more delighted in their deception. "Why did you do that?"

"She a stupid American girl, mon," one explained. "We need de money! We know no Bushard, but we know money! She desperate, mon!"

"Hold it!" A megaphone rang out from behind.

Immediately, Livingston spun around while the other two men turned tail and took off down the other end of the alley.

Casually, three police officers all dressed in blue, short sleeved shirts and black shorts came towards Livingston. The man made sure to stuff his money back into his pants pocket before placing a polite smile on his blushing face.

"Good afternoon, Officers!" He reverted back to his 'nobleman's' English. "Would there be a problem?"

The three officers all surrounded the man and inspected him from top to bottom as though it were the first time they had ever laid eyes on a white man before. One by one they pulled out their batons and began slapping their left hands with them. Livingston on the other hand simply stood and watched as the ever so curious men circled him like vultures around rotting meat. He was sweating, but not from fear. He had Lynnette on his mind; the police were a meager annoyance.

"What's your name, sir?" One of the officers stood in front of Livingston and asked.

"The name is Livingston, sir." He respectfully replied.

"Is dat a first or last name?"

"Just Livingston, sir," he remarked in a cavalier tone.

Soon, the other two officers stopped swirling about and stood behind the man. "What were you saying to dose two boys?"

"Well, we were just having a bit of a discussion about what good places to eat around these parts, sir."

Appearing suspicious, the officer began rooting about inside Livingston's pockets before he managed to pull out his wad of bills.

"You must be a rich mon, Mr. Livingston." The officer purred.

Livingston stiffened his upper lip as the red in his face increased. He stood and watched as the officer counted each and every bill before taking and planting the wad into his own pocket.

"Ya sound like you're from Britain or somewhere." One of the other officers said

"Just from somewhere, sir," Livingston grinded his teeth.

The officer in front of him approached Livingston face to face and sneered, "We don't like your kind around here, mon."

Livingston eye-balled the man right back. In his heart there was only contempt, the kind that longed for only the darkest desires. But he held on and dropped his head in a defeated manner.

"I shall be more careful where I tread, officer." He humbly whispered.

One by one the officers all turned and left Livingston all alone in the alley. He could hear them laughing and carrying on all the way around the corner. But as he stood in complete and utter revulsion, there remained only the young lady that served him back at the restaurant named Lynnette. For the time being Livingston could withstand the abuse from the officers.

He suddenly found the ability to move his legs forward. The man carried on down the alleyway and around a bend that led to the front of The Kabal and other various businesses. The very second he caught sight of Lynnette aimlessly walking down the beach with her head hanging low the man stumbled backwards and watched quietly from a distance. In his eyes she appeared so lonely and destitute. She just plodded along as though her world had crashed into pieces. Livingston eyed her a few moments more before making sure she was out of sight, he then made his way around the corner, got into his truck and took off down the road.

He traveled back into town with such a salty attitude that he made sure to ignore at least three traffic lights. He just nearly missed a mother walking across the street with her three children and the basket of fruit that she was carrying on top of her own head. There was so much drowning his mind all at once that just staying in a straight lane on the road seemed all but impossible.

Livingston veered off the road and into an alley. On a dime he stomped on the brake, screeching until he came to a complete stop in front of a particular backdoor. The man pressed on the truck's horn repeatedly until Philippe came out. Livingston unlocked the passenger door and waited for the man to climb inside.

"I just saw the girl you were talking about." Livingston said. "I'm not quite sure what her angle is yet, but I just got through speaking with a couple of blokes. By the way they described her, she's either from some agency or else she's the dumbest little tramp I've ever seen."

Livingston stopped talking at that moment. He sat and studied Philippe who had the most empty and hopeless appearance on his shockingly pale face.

"What's got your knickers in a twist?" Livingston shrugged his shoulders.

But Philippe couldn't seem to answer, he just sat and stared out the window ahead of him as though he were anticipating something to happen right then.

"Look alive, man!" Livingston snapped his fingers in front of Philippe's face. "What's your bloody problem?"

Slowly turning his head, the young man responded in a skittish voice, "I tried to get in touch wit you...but I couldn't."

Appearing confused himself, Livingston griped, "What is this, a science-fiction movie? Do I look like I have the ability to carry a phone around in my pocket at all times? What the hell is with you, man?"

Shaking his head in dismay, Philippe explained, "I was speaking wit Ejo, and he told me last night he was down at de old warehouse past Tunston, trying to buy some Ganga."

"Ok, so," Livingston grew even more impatient.

"He said dat dere was someone inside de building."

"Probably a squatter," Livingston irately hollered. "So, what?"

"It wasn't a squatter, mon." Philippe's eyes began to water.

Livingston, at the very threshold of tolerance, rolled his eyes and stared at Philippe before an unsettling growl settled down inside his own stomach. Ever so steadily the man turned away from Philippe. His bottom lip started to quiver, as did his two hands, but he managed to conceal them both before glancing over at the glove compartment.

"Is it a bloke?" Livingston meekly inquired.

"Yeah...yeah, it is."

Livingston wiped his forehead which had suddenly exploded into a violent sweat before saying, "Okay...I want you. I want you to find out where this girl rests."

"But what about—

"Do as I tell you!" Livingston screamed. "You take care of her, and I'll go check this out." Property of Nô)(velDr(a)ma.Org.

Apprehensively nodding his head, Philippe got out of the truck and headed back into the building from which he exited. Livingston kept his eyes on the glove compartment a bit longer before eventually reaching over, opening it and pulling out a nine millimeter handgun.

"God, I hate this country." He muttered at the hazy sky before putting the truck in gear and driving quite slowly down the alley.

***

Livingston drove clear out of town and into a desolated section of the city where only tall, brown weeds and several abandoned warehouses were located. His truck bumped up and down across various potholes that lined the lonely road until he came to a stop just a hundred yards shy of one specific warehouse.

The man sat inside the warm truck for at least five whole minutes before mustering both the energy and bravery to get out and tread ever so carefully towards the broken down building. His stride was methodical if not wary. He had his gun in his right hand and even that didn't seem to grant him a semblance of hope. The building was approaching far too fast for his liking.

The second he reached the so called entrance Livingston immediately took off his blazer and tossed it to the ground before sliding through the halfway opened steel door. The entire building, which consisted of two large floors, smelled of musty rain. From one corner to the other was nothing but shattered windows. It was so empty and cavernous inside that every time Livingston made a step it echoed throughout.

With his gun ahead of him, Livingston crept about. Drops of water would tap onto the floor every so often making it sound as if they were louder than they should have been. Just as Livingston was about to take the metal stairs up, he was abruptly halted by the sight of a black liquid that was lying on the floor in front of him. He knelt down and poked at it with the tip of his weapon while noticing a shard of broken glass right beside him. Livingston picked up the glass and scraped at the ooze before managing to gather a few specs and lifting it to his nose. The mess had no smell to speak of, yet it felt so thick like molasses. Livingston dropped the glass back to the floor before rising up and resuming his march upwards.

"Are you really here, mon?" A deep voice echoed clear from the other side of the building.

Out of fear, Livingston fired his gun before stumbling to the ground. In the process of falling he accidentally dropped his weapon to the floor, but before he could even attempt to reach for it he managed to gain a glimpse of the individual that was slowly making their way towards him.

Livingston quickly got to his feet with gun in hand and adamantly pointed at the person who was gradually coming in clearer. He could see a raggedy looking man who appeared as if he were in his late seventies. He had a grey beard and a pair of bare, crusty feet that looked as though they had walked from one end of the earth to the other. Livingston squinted as hard as he could. The sunlight was shining brightly into the warehouse and yet making out the man before him was such a strenuous task.

"You there," Livingston yelled. "Halt, I say!"

But the man continued on until he finally stopped just seven feet away from Livingston. Both men stood opposite the other in what was a nervous standoff, at least for Livingston.

"Is it really you, my friend?" Arthur grunted.

Livingston's eyes nearly dropped right out of their sockets at that moment. The shaking gun that was inside his hand slowly dropped to his side.

"What...what the bleeding hell is this?" He gasped for air. "Who...no, it can't be."

"I am here, mon." Arthur announced in a weary groan.

Livingston stared more and more at Arthur's stunning appearance in the most flabbergasted manner. "What happened to you, for Christ's sake?" The man's tongue fumbled.

Looking at himself from his feet all the way to his withered hands, Arthur said, "I am less dan whole."

"Where the hell have you been?" Livingston asked. "Where's your brother and sister at?"

Arthur turned his head slightly, appearing as if he didn't want to answer the question.

"Are you deaf?" Livingston raised his voice. "I said—

"I hear you, mon." Arthur held up his right hand. "I hear you."

"Okay then, if you hear me, then tell me, just where in the hell have you three been all these months? You said that what you had to do in America would take only a week. That was way back in July. Now look at you, you look like you've been to hell and back, literally."

Arthur began pacing the floor, but all that action seemed to do was make Livingston all the more restless.

"What is this?" He screamed. "I leave for a few months and everything that we've worked so hard for goes down the shithole!"

"I see your men are now carrying guns." Arthur stopped pacing.

Sniggering, Livingston said, "Well, you and your siblings did kill five of the men and several workers back in January. What did you expect?"

Arthur just cut his eyes away as to say he didn't want to hear another word come from the man's mouth.

"I don't understand all of this." Livingston cautiously began advancing towards Arthur. "You three go away for all these months. No one hears from you. Now look at you, you look like...

But the closer Livingston got the more something just didn't appear right to him. Yes, Arthur was a brazen mess, but something even more startling caught his attention at that painstaking moment. The

man tried in vain to gain a glimpse of Arthur's face, but Arthur kept looking down as if in a shameful manner.

"Your...your eyes." Livingston lost his breath. "What happened to your eyes?"

Arthur would not give an answer. The man only took off his tattered shirt to reveal a scorched chest and back. Parts of skin were still peeling and falling off onto the floor.

Turning up his face, Livingston asked, "What on earth is happening here?"

"I have been traveling far to reach my home." Arthur murmured. "At last, my master has seen fit to bring me."

"What the bloody hell is going on?" Livingston yelled. "I don't understand any of this! Your brother and sister are nowhere to be found, you look like you just jumped out of a furnace, and your...eyes!"

For a few minutes both men stood before each other in a silent stare down. Before long, Livingston found his gun pointed straight at Arthur. For the first time in their relationship, the man found a potency that he had never discovered before. A newfound boldness emerged.

Staring at the weapon, Arthur grinned, "Understand, I am now de only one who can seek out our fortune. I am finally de last."

Livingston continued to point his gun at Arthur until his own right arm began to grow tired enough to where he had to lower it.

"Yeah...I guess I understand." He mumbled. "But it still doesn't account for you being gone for all these months. Here I am thinking that things are on the level, only to come back and find out that you're not even here. We should've had that cave mined in three months!" Livingston said aloud.

"Shh," Arthur put his finger to his lips.

"Don't shh me!" Livingston fired back. "I hate this fucking country! Do you think I want to be running around this fucking world for the rest of my life? Those old Nazi war criminals, the ones that escaped execution, they're down in South America and Cuba resting comfortably! That's where I should be rather than running from the law!"

Arthur reached down to the floor, picked up the remains of his shirt and put it back on before turning to Livingston and saying, "I am in need of new garments."

Livingston pressed his lips as tight as he could before bitterly replying, "I'm skint."

Looking up at the crumbling ceiling, Arthur said, "Perhaps it is all for de better. My master requires a sacrifice."

Rolling his eyes, Livingston snidely remarked, "Your master. Can't you tell your master to help us find our diamonds quicker?"

Arthur turned and gave Livingston a scornful glaze the likes that actually had Livingston raising his gun all over again.

"I require sustenance." Arthur grunted as he began for the door.

Dropping his shoulders, Livingston sighed, "I told you that I was broke. We can go down to...wait, follow me."

Slipping his gun into his waist, Livingston sidestepped Arthur on his way out the door and towards the truck at a hearty pace. "And pull your trousers up; no one wants to see your peter swinging all over the place." Livingston glanced backwards.