Julian received an encrypted message from George that Mavis had received either backstage passes or tickets from Ryuji for the Cincinnati concert. He wondered if it were a good idea for George to talk with Ryuji considering Bill had posted a picture of a dead duck, which he had cropped from one of the snaps hanging in his shop that also contained both Julian and George. Luckily, the cropped picture was posted after the digital footprint had been removed. Either Bill had software that would remove the digital footprint (like the camera model), or he scanned the print to his computer and then cropped it. Julian spent the next thirty minutes preparing a photo either way to make sure it did not leave any identifiable traces. Even so, Rick’s cohort – including George and Julian – had been pretty rough on Ryuji the past few weeks. Hopefully, Ryuji hadn’t tried to connect some dots. Julian wrote back to remind George to be extra careful that Mavis didn’t expose a clue or two. You can never be too careful.
After working most of the afternoon, Julian realized it was time to get ready to meet Cylvia at Archive Metrorail Station. They planned to see an improv show at a theatre company that billed itself as a center of new theatre in America. The show started at 8:00, but they planned to meet at 6:30 so they could eat at a Mexican restaurant close by the Metrorail station. Julian would have driven, but it’s much less of a hassle to just take the rapid transit.
He parked his truck at the station nearest to where he was staying. While he rode the train, he was rather surprised that a middle-aged woman didn’t hesitate sharing the same seat with him. Actually, there was more than enough space so their bodies did not touch, which would have been impossible just a few months ago. He really had lost a lot of weight. In ways he wished he could meet with Ryuji, George and Mavis during their mini reunion since he was curious what kind of reaction he’d get from Mavis and Ryuji. He remembered George was very surprised at how much weight he had lost.
No doubt, Cylvia and he would never have started talking at the coffee shop where they met a couple of weeks ago if he had been as heavy as he had been for so many years. He had spent a good portion of the day at the offices of the Bitmore Group and decided to take a break. The place was pretty busy with a lot of D.C. bureaucrat-looking types and Georgetown University students, but he was able to secure a small table. He had been using his laptop for about fifteen minutes when a youngish, shapely woman of southern European ethnicity asked if she could sit at his table since there were no other seats available.
Being of similar age and both alone, they soon started talking and things escalated to where he was now on his third date in the past two weeks. She had suggested going to the theatre and picked the restaurant.
“I’ve been there a few times since it’s close to my job,” she told him as they chatted by video call a couple of evenings before. He was a little surprised to find out that she worked at ‘The Crime Museum.’
“You’re with the FBI?” he asked, the day they met at the coffee shop.
“Actually, it’s a for-profit museum co-owned by a TV personality.”
“Efrem Zimbalist, Jr.?” he joked.
“Don’t be silly, he’s dead. You know, I wouldn’t know who that was if I didn’t work at the museum.”
“Why?”
“We have a current exhibit running on the history of TV crime shows,” she explained. “It’s my job to coordinate groups and organize tours for the museum. Today, I worked at preparing a tour of students from China for just that exhibit.”
When he arrived at the station, Cylvia was already waiting at the agreed place. As he spotted her standing in a long, brown, leather coat using her smart phone, he was still a little amazed that she was waiting for a man who had a long history of avoiding any intimate relationship with a woman. But there she stood with her curly, shoulder-length dark hair; statuesque nose; slim, sleek figure waiting to go to the theatre with a man whose closest proximity to something resembling a vagina was the goatee growing on his face. As she picked him out of the crowd of people passing through the turnstiles, she put away her phone, smiled and waved to make sure he saw her standing. As he noticed how happy she appeared to be, his self-confidence soared.
Since adolescence he had avoided contact with females, thinking they weren’t attractive to him based on the negative body language he received and the occasional comment about his obesity. At this moment, though, all he could think about was how happy he was to see her smiling face.
As they were leaving the station, Julian saw a small poster pasted to a wall. It turned out to be advertising the Dogs.
“Do you know that group?” Julian asked as he pointed to the poster split down the middle with two pictures: one of the whole band performing live; the other being a close up of Bowen and Diamond from the TRinket’s streamed-on-demand video.
She looked at it for a few seconds. “Which: the Dogs or the TRinkets?”
“Either or both, I guess.”
“I don’t know very much about the Dogs, but I do like the TRinkets. Actually, since elementary school because my older sister used to play their CDs a lot; it drove my parents crazy,” she said, turning to look at him. “Why? Do you want to see the concert?”
“What do you think about all the negative press they’ve gotten recently? I guess things have gotten so bad there aren’t any venues that’ll accept their concerts.”
“It’s insane, isn’t it? What’re they worried about?” she asked, as they resumed walking out of the station.
“I think there was a bombing in Waikiki before they went on stage, so people are worried of a reoccurrence.”
“I guess it’s all part of the backlash from 9-11, huh?”
Julian noticed they just walked by a restaurant he used to eat at while he studied at Georgetown. He didn’t want to bring it up since she seemed excited to show him a cheery Mexican place with mobiles of butterflies hanging from the ceiling meant to represent the huge orange, white and black Monarchs that migrate to Mexico every winter. She was right; it was very bright and cheery. Their bar greeted you with large glass jugs of colorful fruit juice on the counter surrounded by pineapples, mangoes and oranges as the bottled spirits lurked on shelves lining the back wall; the floors and walls were white with a lot of green, orange and yellow accented by jugs and the furnishings. This was a much better choice than the place he knew, which fit more into his not too distant past: large portions of oily food, dark décor …
As they waited for their ‘hearty mushroom tacos that could easily rank among the city's best tacos thanks to the house-made tortillas and the bright, peppery sofrito,’ a description Cylvia had read from an online food site, the conversation drifted back to the TRinkets.
“What made you ask me about that group?” Cylvia looked at him across their booth with thin, metal butterflies bobbing above her head.
“Which group?” he asked, smiling.
She frowned momentarily then smiled. “Not back to that again: the Dogs, silly. No doubt, you’re aware that the concert is sold out, so …”
“If I wanted to ask you to go to the concert with me?” he asked, interrupting her.
“Would I like to go?” she asked and he nodded. “Sure, why not, but you can’t get tickets.”
“If I could, you’d like to go even under threat of a bombing?”
“That’s just nonsense. Besides, I haven’t heard there being any bomb threats at a Dog concert.”
“They’ve been having guest appearances by TRinket members. If that continues, it may lead to some violent action, don’t you think?” he asked as the server brought their food.
“If there weren’t so many people stirring the pot, there wouldn’t be all that negativity.”
“What do you mean?” he asked as ‘the city’s best tacos with their house-made tortillas’ were being positioned for them to devour.
“Doesn’t it seem like the constant pounding they’re taking online is a little orchestrated?” she asked as she began to apply some sauce to a taco.
“By their PR firm?”
“I don’t know who, but currently the majority of the U.S. is in favor of legalization. If you read any of the crap coming out lately about marijuana, legalization or the TRinkets, you’d think the reality was the complete opposite. ‘Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.’”
He smiled and said, “I don’t think we’re going to be watching Shakespeare tonight, are we?”
After they finished eating, Julian said, “I think I can get us into that concert.”
“Working for the Bitmore Group no doubt has its perks. Damn those think tanks can really pull strings, huh? What can I offer you from my job at the museum?” She pursed her lips together and screwed up her eyes as though she were making an effort to think. “Would you like a tour of the TV crime show exhibit for your cohort at the Bitmore Group?”
He looked at her with a puzzled look. “My cohort?”
“Or colleagues or whatever. Just a joke, okay?” She looked at her watch and said, “It’s twenty till, we better go. The performance starts at eight, right?”
As they walked to the theatre, Julian decided he would ask George to see if he could get tickets for the Dogs.
Links to the previous chapters of Book Three
(https://steemit.com/fiction/@keniza/wackos-to-obliterate-book-three-chapter-1)
(https://steemit.com/fiction/@keniza/wackos-to-obliterate-book-three-chapter-2)
(https://steemit.com/fiction/@keniza/wackos-to-obliterate-book-three-chapter-3)
(https://steemit.com/fiction/@keniza/wackos-to-obliterate-book-three-chapter-4)
(https://steemit.com/fiction/@keniza/wackos-to-obliterate-book-three-chapter-5)
(https://steemit.com/fiction/@keniza/wackos-to-obliterate-book-three-chapter-6)
(https://steemit.com/fiction/@keniza/wackos-to-obliterate-book-three-chapter-7)
(https://steemit.com/fiction/@keniza/wackos-to-obliterate-book-three-chapter-8)
(https://steemit.com/fiction/@keniza/wackos-to-obliterate-book-three-chapter-9)
Copyright (©) by Kenneth Wayne
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