Author's note:
Some mostly off-screen violence in this part.
All characters over eighteen.
Part 6 of 6.
~~~~~~
CHAPTER 27
I'm squinting, hiding behind my palm as I rush down the steps to the lower level of the square.
The stairs swoosh like amphitheater seating around one whole corner of a city block. On the west side, a coffee shop hunches back into the steps, with its roof at street level. A flag pole shoots above the shop, with two triangular pennants, one tied several feet higher than the other. The bottom flag sports the logo of the coffee shop, while the top one flies a black bird over a blue background. The flags ripple and snap above several people standing at an exterior counter, next to a railing over a waterfall pouring into a rectangular pool. A mass of lunch-time travelers crisscrosses wet red bricks, keeping a wide distance around a group of protestors huddled together in the middle of the plaza.
A familiar pale man in a stars-and-stripes t-shirt stands on a stool, shouting distorted decrees into a red, white, and blue megaphone. His long brown dreadlocks shake and wobble across his slender back, as he points the bullhorn back and forth. Several dozen people surround him, and answer with a call and response rhythm. The man shouts. The crowd hollers. The man shouts something else. The crowd answers that. I can't really understand what he's saying, and I try to ignore him. I'm looking for my dad, who is likely dressed for work, meaning some kind of business casual, but all are see greys and blacks of the Northwest Uniform, save for bits of yellow and camo on a few protesters.
I hug the south side of the plaza, keeping away from the noise, and when I get around the crowd, an arc of police officers blocks my path. More cops than I can count on both my hands, all of them topped with helmets, face shields, batons. Each wears a vest adorned with additional tools of the trade, plus their belts sport the usual handgun, cuffs, pepper spray, and more items I can't make out.
The cops watch over the protest from the north east corner of the square. Batons wiggle, and shake in their hands, as they stand around, waiting. I cross the red bricks, keeping my distance from the crowd, while trying not to look suspicious. When I get past the protestors, a horn sounds behind me, and I jump. I turn to see the man on the stool holding the megaphone over his head. He then resumes his amplified mantra into the air. I watch his performance for a moment, and glance over at the cops, but then something red catches my eye on the other side of the crowd. A woman in a business suit stands with her back to me, facing the reflecting pool. She focuses her attention on what she cradles in her hand.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
"By the waterfall."
-- Dad
But that's not my dad. I don't know if he's showing up or not, so I start the audio recording app, and wonder how long seven percent will last. The phone tends to shut off abruptly when it's that low. I pocket my phone, and watch the red curls as I backtrack over the bricks, which are a more muted version of her hair color. I keep the protest as far to my side as I can.
When I get back to the steps, I look up to find another group of police in full face shield gear marching straight down at me. One of them hunches lower than the others, shouting commands at his comrades. His gut bulges out under the vest gripping his chest, and three stripes arc over the side of his arm he's using to gesture at the protest. Each of the officers slides a baton off their belt, and holds it in hand. I pivot to the right, and make a straight line toward the waterfall.
It's always red with her, and always a little too red. Shades not found in nature. Bushy curls flow down to her shoulders, atop the pads of a gunmetal grey pinstripe suit jacket. A matching tight pencil skirt runs to her knees, over shiny pointed black heels that put her at eye level with me. When I'm several paces away, she turns and looks up, then drops the phone into a black leather purse strung over her shoulder. Her skin glows an immaculate amber.
"Nice hair, Alex," says the Red Haired Lady.
I can't tell if she's serious, or she's mocking me. Her voice stretches over the noisy crowd behind me, and I realize I've stopped some distance away. I close the distance until a couple steps separate us.
"Why do you have my dad's phone?"
"That's what we need to-- What's on your face? Jesus. Let's get out of this mess." Donna holds out her hand, offering for me to lead the way to the hole-in-the-wall Japanese restaurant next to the coffee shop. I'd never noticed it there before.
"Is this safe, with all that?" I gesture at the mob behind me.
"It'll have to be. I'm out of time." Donna continues pointing at the restaurant.
When we reach the entryway, a siren blasts from the middle of the plaza, and Donna jumps, as she reaches for the metal door handle. More shouting bellows from the fat voice I know to have three stripes on his shoulder. Donna regains her composure and we're greeted by a woman holding menus.
"Sorry about the noise," says the hostess. She leads us to a table for two, which might have once offered a view of the crowd, but painted green and white letters in reverse coat the window with the restaurant's name, advertising to the square outside. "They've been at it all morning. Can I get you something else to drink?" She sets down a glass of water in front of each of us.
"I'm fine." Donna lifts her glass and takes a big pull.
"I'm good," I say.
"Okay, well here you go." The hostess sets down a tray with a slip of paper listing sushi items to mark, and hands each of us a menu, then leaves us alone.
I check my phone. Four percent battery, but it's still recording. Shouts and a bang bleed through the painted window to my side.
"Phone away," says Donna. She unfolds a piece of handwritten paper, and crosses something off a list. "This is crucial."
"I'm just checking my face." I turn on the front camera and discover a golden brown smear across my lips and cheek. I'd worn that all the way to work and back. I pull a napkin out of the dispenser, and give my face a forceful wipe, then I pocket my phone.
Donna rolls her eyes. "Get whatever you want." She lifts a plastic saucer off the stack by the napkins. "I don't suppose you have any money right now, do you?"
"No."
"That was your father's little addition. He did that on his own, and didn't set it up correctly. Charity work is tax free, as long as you don't get caught. I think that was the limit of his analysis. It would have been safer to just keep things in the existing channel I had. Now you have no bank account. And the police are all over you. We can fix that, but you need to do something for me."
"I need to?"
"Yes." Donna splits her wooden chopsticks, and scrapes one down the side of the other, carving away tiny splinters. She pushes the sushi slip across the table to me, with the accompanying pen. She's marked out a couple rolls.
"Where's my dad?" I tick the salmon nigari box, though I'm not hungry.
"He's been picked up and is currently awaiting a hearing. He was arrested Friday, with
her
." Donna's voice curls over the last word.
"Friday," I say. "Jessica was supposed to meet you for lunch."
"Yes, plans change once the cuffs start going on."
"Why do you have Dad's phone, and--"
The Red Haired Lady holds up her palm, and I stop.
"Your father's careless ambitions have me working overtime. To answer your question, I had his phone at the time he was picked up."
"Why?"
