Anthony OneShots

The following is a series of unconnected, random one-shots/ shorts that feature only or mostly Anthony. Enjoy. [scroll down for more fics]

 

Gumballs

Ranger

''Why am I here?'' I asked.

We were at  my stealth brother's shooting range out on Long Island. Monday morning. Pouring rain, squishy mud, fuckin' cold.

"Practice makes perfect, dude.''

"It's raining.''

"Alls the more reason to get some shooting in. Anyways I have something cool to show you. ....Where's Les?''

''He had a line on an FTA we're chasing, some woman who might know where the skip is." We heard  tires crunching on the gravel parking lot. "This'll be him now."

Lester hauled a rifle case out of the back of his personal Mercedes SUV and stomped over. We exchanged Yo's.

Like myself and Anthony,  Lester was wearing waterproof gear and a baseball cap with his jacket's hood pulled over the top. We stood close together in the small rain shelter. The open structure was there to keep the weapons and ammo dry but I'd go with it.

Lester dropped the case on the wooden picnic table and stared out at the sodden range. He didn't make eye contact until I grabbed his arm and yanked him around to face me fully.

"What happened to your face?" His eye was swollen and jaw looked badly bruised.

''Oh man...Juney slammed a door on me yesterday, she was pissed off.'' June---or more disgustingly, "Juney" is Lester's current babe.

''Do I need to have a word?" Domestic violence is never okay, even if it involves [bizarrely] my playboy cousin Lester.

"No! She. .., well, she overheard me talking to Keneesha, you know the skip's woman. And I was kinda like charming her, flirting a little. Just for intell, you know?"

Anthony and I nodded dubiously.

"...And so I had to set up a meet with Keneesha, like I told you, for brunch, but I'd promised Juney I'd buy her brunch. And she...June...went wacko, she flipped out, said she wouldn't tolerate double booking, Or double dipping? I don't even know! Like I'd do that anyways, I would never,...what?" He glared at us.

''Nothing, nothing, go on.'' Anthony tried to hide his snickering.

''And I was sweet talking Keneesha, saying  "your fog or mine'', cos the weather is so shitty, right? But June loves fog, she says it's romantic and gets her in the mood, and it is supposed to be like our special thing." He threw up his hands, helplessly. "So she got extra mad and she grabbed my phone and threw it at me." He touched his eye..."Then ran into the bedroom, crying. Geez I felt awful. I hate it when girls cry. So I chased after her and she slammed the door in my face...caught my jaw...."

Anthony examined him seriously."You're lucky she didn't knock out any teeth, dude."

Lester shrugged. Opened his mouth, pointed."Athully, thiff one feels a eet oose, ya know? Look."

''Eeew, dude. No.''

''Lester...,'' I began.

''She didn't mean to, Ranger, she was so sorry. And you know she let me explain and put ice and then we made up,  and..."

"Did you find time to get the skip?''

''Well, no. But I will! And I'm here. As ordered. Do we have a plan? I mean, why are we here in the fuckin' rain?''

''I don't know ,man." We turned to stare at Anthony. I asked him, "Well, hermano? Plan? It doesn't have to be Wellington's at Waterloo, but some kind of plan would be nice. ''

''Dude. And, yeah, Waterloo, great imagery, man. With the rain and all."

"I'm leaving. Now."

''No! You gotta see. I have a plan. Absolutely. See those little neon pink balls out on the field?''

We squinted. "Uh."

"Well? Is that cool or what?"

''Uh....''

''Didn't you see Top Shot this week? Man, I never miss it.'' [Top Shot is a TV show with competition shooting challenges]

''I have no time to watch TV and actually I am amazed you do.''

''I have On Demand, bro.''

Lester intervened. "I saw it. The gumball/ golf tee challenge!"

''Yes!'' They practically high fived. I sighed.

''The guys had to shoot out the gumballs at 30 yards without hitting the tee," Anthony explained.

''Was it raining?''

''No.''

''So...?"

''So you know I wanna be on the show, I gotta be able to do all the challenges. So here we are, now watch.''

He pulled one of his Glocks out from under his rain jacket.

Lester said, ''Wait! They used rifles, prone, with scopes. And they still missed. The best guy hit the tee maybe once."

''Watch and learn." We jammed in our earplugs. Anthony stepped to edge of the hut and aimed one handed. "Picture this on the TV. It'll be so cool," he yelled. Because of the ear things. He casually took aim, fired. Pop. The first gumball exploded. Six shots, six exploded gumballs.

Hmmm. That was pretty much impossible even for my brother, the Glock just didn't have accuracy at that distance, plus the rain and wind conditions.

Lester was cool, said, ''No, man, it's gotta be a rifle."

''Party pooper.'' Anthony dug out his favorite rifle while Lester trudged down the range and set up another set of gumballs. Orange this time.

When he returned Anthony asked him, ''You checked the tees?''

''Yeah, they were all untouched. I just reused them, okay?''

Lester looked at me and shrugged. Nothing tricky out there that he'd seen.

Anthony, still showing off, shot from the hip, like a gangbanger. Six more gumballs exploded.

''That' s awesome,'' Lester  said enviously. He himself is one of the world's finest snipers, and he was pretty sure he'd fail at his, just like the men on Top Shot.

Anthony nodded to our own guns."You wanna try it?''

Lester stepped up. "If you can do it, I can do it."

Or maybe not.

 Poor Lester got down in the mud with his sandbags and scope and with much concentration, he managed to hit ONE! gumball.

''Dude, you took out the tee.''

''Shut up!... Ranger? Next?"

"There's more to this than meets the eye," I surmised. "What's the catch, hermano?"

"Just shoot, boss.''

''Yeah, Ranger. Try it."

I was not getting down in the mud. And I was not getting my rifle wet either. Lester handed over his own rifle. I shouldered it and stared  at the tiny colorful dots, back to pink this time. Far far away.

I didn't shoot but one after another the little neon balls popped.

''Shit! Shit!'' yelled my small audience of idiots.

''Did I scare you?'' I asked a trifle maliciously.

"No," lied my audience.

''Then maybe I need to try a little harder.'' I exploded the tees too.

Anthony sighed. "You're no fun."

"It isn't winning if you cheat, little brother."

''I never cheat! We never cheat!"

''Try selling that to that to Lester's girlfriend.''

But deep down inside we all knew: It would look so cool...if Anthony was there, on Top Shot. And the stupid gumballs exploded. Pop. pop. pop.

the end.

.......................

Welcome Summer

 

''Hey Ma! Happy Summer!" It was the Thursday before Memorial Day, the official first weekend of summer.

I dumped the bag of charcoal--BBQ time, yay!---on the kitchen table and gave my mom a hug.

''Hi, honey.''

My mom was looking hot for a mom, in white shorts and a lavender tank top. Flipflops. So what if it's 50 degrees and blowing a gale. Olivia Stewart thinks summer is here.

My mom is so cute.

She was standing at the french doors, staring out at the pool and deck.

"Ready for summer?" I asked. "Everything okay?''

"Mmmm." I studied her tense shoulders, noted the hands on hips. And she was frowning. Not my mom's usual mode.

"What's wrong, ma?'

"Oh well, the pool guy...you know, the foreman of the crew fixing the pool...?"

I looked over her shoulder. Busy men in grubby work wear, unfilled pool. Huh. Mom was still talking: "You know the pool and deck, and the pump and stuff needed to be repaired after the hurricane. And it's been tough getting people to work. Everyone is so busy. So I finally got this guy..."

?

"Oh well nevermind. Usually I'd ask your father to take care of things like this but of course...he's...''

 What, mom? Like, dead? Golfing? What?

''What did this guy do, mom?''

''He's a nasty piece of work, that's all. Stares at me, calls me Lady and Sweetheart. When I asked him not to, he just laughed and spit! And said he loves a feisty bird, turns him on! Eeew."

''No respect. I'll have a word."

My mother turned and looked at me. She saw the K-Bar knife that had appeared like magic in my hand.

''No! Yeesh! You don't need to kill him!"

I was now rummaging in the fridge. "Stella Artois? We're drinking fancy beer, now?''

"Lah di dah! No, I use it for cooking. I'm making beer chicken in the crock pot, in case it rains. Can't you smell it?"

''Uh....''

''There's some Blue Moon in the back, if you like that better.''

I found my beer and popped the cap with my knife's bottle opener thing.

Mom shook her head."Sometimes you worry me, Anthony."

'What, why? It's afternoon, I can have a beer, ma.''

''No. I meant the knife!''

I shrugged. "Knives are useful. People are so busy staring at them, they don't notice the gun until I've already shot them."

"Violent misdirection. Nice. And then you wonder why I worry about you."

"Just like dear old dad, right?'' whichever...

"Hmmm."

''So what should I do about the pool guy, mom? Since you like don't want me to kill him after all...?"

"Well, he's a nasty piece of poo. But the guys work hard. Maybe...offer them a bonus if the pool is ready by Saturday?"

''I can do that.''

''And no shooting anyone!''

"Aaaw, ma. That's no fun!"

''Anthony Robert Stewart! Just---just give the guy a hundred bucks. Two hundred? Whatever. And...be polite!"

I slid the fake French door aka slider aside and headed out on the sunny chilly deck. ''Sure, mom, I can do that."

Dad would have wanted me to.

 the end

...except ''people'' wanted to  see the scene with Anthony and the conractor guy. So:

The Confrontation

''Yo how's it goin', man.''

They shake hands.

''So what's the deal here, you guys looking to hit the waves this

weekend? Do sdome partying?"

Guy nods.

''Okay here 's the deal. If you disprespect my mom again, your

surfing days are over.''

''Oh yeah? Why's that?'' asks the pool repair guy.

''Because I'll kill you, asshole. They'll never find your body, you 'll
just be...gone. Poof. Like the wind.''

''Wind?''

''Or chum.''

''Chum?''

''Shark bait, my man.''

''Sharkbait?! Fer cryin' out loud, mister. You don't wish a shark \attack on a brother surfer!''

''Uh huh. On the other hand...[gestures with the suddenly appearing knife. Makes sure his mom can't see, keeps his back to the fake french doors....displays a roll of hundreds in his other hand.] There's five grand in it for you and your crew if the pool is up and running by Saturday.''

''Aw man, no way, it's gonna take at least...''

Anthony gestures again with the knife and the cash.

''Choose one: Chum? Or cash?''

the end again

In case someone does not  know ''chum'' is chopped up hunks of raw
bait fish which is set out in the fishing waters to attract fish, hopefully not
sharks tho....

apocalypse now

Anthony

Nice day for February. Sweet little pipeline waves, gently rolling into shore. Nothing like the big surf last week on the reef break at Thurso on the north shore of Skye in Scotland, but I was glad to be home. Unlike the near frozen surf in Skye, the water here is a few degrees warmer than the air, mid-forties.

Not that I much care because I am wearing a full winter wetsuit.

Today is Super Bowl Sunday but we ---Ranger and I---decided not to go to the game. It's like, bad luck...if I go, the Giants will lose! And it'll be All My Fault. Plus, you know...Indiana? Like, hello? Indiana? Ranger had shrugged and casually mentioned that Rangeman had a security gig that day anyway. Only Ranger works some stupid job on Super Bowl Sunday.

So I'm chilling here alone on the beach instead. So to speak.

The scene in front of me is, I suppose, entertainment enough. Ha. To my left, so to the near west, the local Polar Bear Club is staging their annual jump-in-the-icy-water thing to raise money for the Make a Wish Foundation, for sick little kids. I sit on my board and watch the group: lots of hairy old big-bellied guys in Speedos, eeew. And young guys showing off their winter muscles and bravery for their bikini clad girlfriends---everyone way too white and goosepimply to be attractive.

If I want to raise money for Make a Wish I'll just like write a check, right?  And the February water is as familiar to me as my shower at home. And like thank god I'm not that white.

To my right, to the east, where the sand opens up into a couple mile-wide expanse of nothing, there's a heavy metal band filming a video. LOL. This is the Rangeman gig, I guess.  From this distance I can only hear the thump of the bass and some wispy wailing.

The contrast to the Polar Bear group an eighth of a mile away is---maybe not apocalyptic, but it surely is surreal.

A wave rolls in and I ride it onto the wet white sand. I pick up my board and start for home, skirting the band and camera people. My mind is on the thermos of hot tea in my Jeep and I idly wonder if the box of donuts from last week's outing with Stephanie is too stale to eat. I'm not cold but I am freakin' starved.

"You ! Hey you! Surfer boy!" I finally decide the screamer means me and I stop and turn to look. Little man in a big black anorak, ball cap, mom jeans, with clipboard.

He scurries clumsily across the sand and yells at me, "You! You walked right into the set, you ruined the take, what the fuck is wrong with you, kid?"

I stare at him. Various answers occur to me: It's a private beach...MY private beach. Go home. and another part of me wants to whine about hot scrambled eggs and bacon on a roll from Beach Deli. Or maybe blueberry-banana waffles at the cafe? And the rest of me wonders if this man has a death wish.

"You dumb shit! You have to understand, you cost us money!"

Definitely door number three, death wish.

I finally tell him, "I have two words for you, dude." I push the neoprene balaclava off my head, and shake out my braids a little. The guy leans back, looks nervous. He has suddenly realized I am not a young kid.

He figures my two words are gonna be fuck off.

But no. I tell him, "Maybe it's like only one word, man. Photoshop."

''What!?''

''You can shop me outta the film, dude. Just point and click?"

''Huh?''

I sigh inside, mental shrug. Idiots. Man, they're everywhere. Chances are you seen 'em yourself, and didn't know it. On the subway or in a bar. On the beach in February...

But not on my beach. I frown and the guy steps back a little more. Suddenly a young guy in black appears and starts whispering urgently in the idiot's ear.

I smile, meanly. The Rangeman kid is probably telling the director dude about the death wish part of the program.

I shrug and decide my breakfast is calling my name. I want to get to the deli before the Polar Bears arrive and all the bacon gets sold out. I head towards the little car park where I left my Jeep.

But the band has started up again. We're all in the shot now, so they must just be jamming. The lyrics make me smile. I circle around for a better look.

Oh man, new way to do grunge, post apocalyptic no-way-to-wash-up style. Dirty lead singer guy with lots piercings in odd places [and major goosebumps...or zits?] is screaming into the mic.

You better wake up. The world you live

in is just a sugar-coated topping!

There is another world beneath it

 The real world. real world, real world!

And if you wanna survive it,

you better learn to pull the trigger!

Pull the trigger!

Kill em all, kill the motherfuckers Kill em kill em!

...

Catchy. I give it an eight, good beat for dancing?

Behind me the Polar Bears have gathered, shivering in their summery beach towels and grumbling at the words coming out of the speakers.

One old guy said, ''Well I never!"

The thing is this band never either. Poseurs. Mad Max wannabees on my usually pristine beach.

And if you wanna survive it,

you better learn to pull the trigger!

Pull the trigger!

Kill em all, kill the motherfuckers Kill em kill em!

...

Now I have to grin. The only persons on this beach who'd know a trigger if we had one (and I for one, do) is myself and the two Rangeman boys. The lead singer looks like he'd be hard pressed to figure out a switchblade if one jumped right into his long nailed dirty hand.

The camera guys were looking at me by now though, so I pushed my shades onto my nose and worked my way into the Polar Bear crowd. A girl in a wet pink t-shirt that said Yoga Pilates at the Point! ---isn't an exclamation point and the word yoga together, like an oxymoron?--- was pushing her way to the front and we bumped gently. She shoved me aside and headed to the band. Guess she reeeeeally doesn't like heavy metal, er, music. Her boyfriend mumbled an apology and stared after the girl. I told him, "Hey, it could be worse, sometimes there's like weddings, man.''

The guy sighed. ''I know.''

Uh oh.

I know when it's time to exfil so I left before the PB crowd got ugly, ya know?

I loaded my board in my Wrangler and texted Ranger:

u didnt tell me u booked a comedy act bro. lol. see you 1700 for the game go giants.

the end

"Here be Sea Serpents and Dragons...."

 For Hunter...and everyone....The title is something that early cartographers wrote on maps of unknown oceans. enjoy...

Ranger

I sat and listened and from the corner of my eye I watched Anthony doodling on his yellow legal pad. His face was intent, as if he too was listening carefully. But after an hour of garbled evasion and outright lying from our DoD (Department of Defense) briefer I was pretty sure he was as clueless as I was. Under the nib of Anthony's Mont Blanc pen appeared two groups of tiny stick figures with big black eyes---no, black sunglasses?---all with tiny machine guns spurting itty bitty bullets.

Cute.

It was pretty obvious that Anthony's  computer games artistry did not extend to freehand cartooning.

We were at a meeting in DC with an unfamiliar group of military analysts [I think] and trying to be polite because our favorite General---currently nowhere to be seen, distancing himself---had asked us to be here. He and I were due for a talk; I dislike being "lent out" to strangers.

The stick figures were now standing on two little boats, in the middle of a scalloped sea.

The speaker wound down. "Any questions?"

Silence, aka Huh? Finally I asked, "What was the American ship doing in the South China Sea?"

"They were fishing, the boat was a fishing trawler."

Anthony drew a great big shark, mouth open, teeth gleaming, ready to eat the little warriors.

I said, "Fishing?"

Anthony wrote in his blocky lefthander's printing:

Torn from the headlines!!!

Then underneath,

[Yesterday's Headlines!!!!]

I said neutrally, "What do you want? Or should I say: what do you want from Rangeman?"

"Look, we just want to talk---we need feedback here!"

I shrugged, waited. Never volunteer.

A speech balloon appeared over the head of the little black figure on the smaller boat: I've got no time to talk, I'm on a mission! He added little hats to the soldiers so they looked like tiny Blues Brothers, remember? "We're on a mission from God!"--- or something....Anthony loves old movies.

The motions of Anthony's pen caught the DoD drone's attention. He snapped, "Major Stewart! I see you are taking notes. Do you have anything useful to offer us here?"

"Who, me?" He did his best imitation of a preadolescent slacker on drugs. He added, "Dude! I'm, like--I'm just a mercenary doom-bringer! You pays us, I does the job, my man. Easy-peasy."

Appalled silence from his audience.

I finally said, "You people need to be more specific about what you're wanting here. This is not a military op you're talking about. This is a fishing boat, forgive me for laughing, that has been captured in an area that no legitimate fishermen would ever be working."

The drone said, "Why not?"

Sigh.

My brother chimed in helpfully, "Because the South China Sea is full of mammoth killer jellyfish and sea snakes, dude. The surfing is awesome, but man, you don't wanna like, fall off your board."

The government guy said, "Thank you for sharing."

"No problemo, man."

I said, "So these guys are either smugglers or they're US military---maybe spec ops who got busted, wrong place, wrong time." Now I was fishing.

"You don't need to know, you only need to know they are US citizens in the hands of Indonesian pirates!"

"Sounds to me like you need the SEALs, that's the kind of stuff they do."

All the government guys looked at each other but not at us.

I said, "Oh shit."

Anthony turned the page of his notepad and started to draw a stick surfer on a big wave. No---a kite surfer, he was adding a little parachute and a smiley face sun.

...   ...   ...

Lucky for everyone I speak bureaucratese, or at least I can decipher it if I must. I said, "Let me recap in words of two syllables or less. An undercover operation, run by Navy spec ops aka the SEALs, went fubar. Probably they were smuggling---let me see: not in, out? They had a person of interest on board. So far the pirates do not realize this, however you need someone to go in and maybe...take out that special person and then free the navy guys? So all I need to know is who the guy is and how much you wanna pay for this."

The clandestine sources team looked embarrassed but glad that the story was mostly doped out, much like some hopeless teenager who gets pregnant, scared to tell mom and dad, but desperately needs their help. Rangeman, in this case, being mom and dad. Geez.

The drone said, "Yes! Exactly!"

They finally told me who the person of interest was, a rabble-rouser imam with a death wish, very partial to using small children as suicide bombers. The US had hoped to deliver the imam to the World Court at the Hague for crimes against humanity. But dead worked for them too.

They met my price, no waffling. Must be desperate.

...   ...   .... 

Three days later a stealth helicopter with baffled engines and silencers dropped me and my team and an inflatable boat into the nothingness of the South China Sea. We scrambled down the usual ropes in our board shorts and the lightweight neoprene surf shirts known as rash guards, not wanting to be weighted down with long pants and jackets when we hit the water.

My team consisted on Anthony, Lester, Brett and three men lent to me by a PMC (private military contractor) colleague whose staff consisted of former and currently-serving SEALs. His company operated out of San Diego and we weren't really competitors, more along the lines of friendly allies. This guy's teams don't do the sort of work that Rangeman sometimes does. I had contacted him for advice and perhaps equipment of a SEAL nature, but "Smith" had insisted I use three of his regular men, too.

"These guys are  SEALs, they know how to act---SEAL-like, Ranger. Not like your ninja assassin specialists from black ops."

I said, "How's that work, Smith? My experience is the military doesn't love their highly trained troops moonlighting."

"Yeah, well, then they should pay them more, my man."

We agreed on the cut to the navy guys and a bunch more for "authentic naval equipment" and were good to go.

Now we motored without lights toward the pirate ship which had the US fishing boat tied alongside. We approached from beyond the dead trawler, using it for cover. Quarter mile away we stopped, one guy using the aluminum oars to keep us in place. I said quietly, "Do not forget, men---this job is off the books." I eyed the SEALs especially, got nods. "Wait for my flare, then come in big-time, playing the US Navy card, spec ops to the rescue and all."

More nods.

The sea around us was like glass, but all I could think of was Anthony's killer jellyfish and sea snakes. I stood and balanced in the raft, carefully suited up in a full wetsuit with balaclava and gloves.

Anthony came and stood behind me, tucking my board shorts into the suit and pulling up the back zipper for me. Surfers usually wear nothing underneath these suits but if I had to ditch the gear, I did not want to fight the pirates single-handedly AND naked.

"You're all set, bro. You look real cute."

I made eye contact again with each man. " Remember---what you are about to see is top secret. When this is over----be sure the media thinks it was a Navy op. And if there's a press conference, don't get your picture taken."

Nods.

"And....DO NOT tell my mother!"

This got the laugh from the off-duty SEALs that I was hoping for and broke the tension in the little boat.

"See you guys later."

As I rolled into the nasty black ocean on the other side of the world, I heard the whispered, "10-4, boss."

the end

Anthony:"Dog's got that right, dudes....

.......................................................................................

Practice

Practice. Practice makes perfect. I glance to my left. My brother Anthony flies his small plush heli up the Hudson River, his face serene and focused.

Just a guy on his way to work.

When we were kids we briefly had an annoying piano teacher who liked to tell us: How do you get to Carnegie Hall? [cackle, cackle] Practice! Practice!

Man, that pissed me off. It's a similar line to the antiques dealer who, when asked a price says: If you have to ask, you can't afford it. I never know whether to snarl, "So how do I know what to write on the check, idiot?"  Or should I make an offer...or just pull out my gun and shoot the motherfucker?

I'm a little tense today.

Anyway, guns...which brings me back to the present. And, despite the annoying coyness, it is true that to develop and maintain a skill, one must practice. Diligently. Which is why snipers like Anthony and my cousin Lester Santos, at least once a week, fly up here to the huge shooting preserve that Anthony has established in the Catskill Mountains. Anthony has another rifle range on Long Island, where conditions differ radically and they can shoot more conveniently. You have to have a large outdoor but safe range to practice the weapons they---we---use. If you shot a sniper rifle in the basement range at, say, Rangeman---or the Brooklyn Heights Rod and Gun Club for that matter---, you'd destroy the entire back of the building.

I shoot as often as I can, maybe three weeks out of four. Which is why I'm good and they are great. The point is, you don't just learn to shoot a tiny target a mile or so away, you have to practice constantly. And you have to keep up on technological advances, which is the purpose of our flight today.

Anthony catches my thought and glances at me. He grins. "Gotta be ready for the zombie apocalypse, bro. Advance planning is the key to survival."

That may be so, but zombies await me only my nightmares and I have no intention of going there right now.

Antonio  shrugs. "How about vampires?"

''No. Shut up.''

''Fine.''

...

We land on the white chalk X, get bottled waters and load our gear into quads, drive up into the nasty hot humid jungle that is upstate NY in July. Why old time folks came here for  the summer ''coolness'' is a mystery. The place sucks.

I slap at a gnat that settles on my hand and chomps down. Then my cheek.

"Bugs are bad this year, dude."

"Not enough wind,'' I agree.

"And fuckin' humid. Just like the jungles in, uh.... Anyways. So here's the new rangefinder, it is  made in England. I'm considering putting in a bid for the plans and helping develop the manufacture."

"Why?"

"Opening bid is under a mil'. Could go as high as four million but I doubt it. And I like the gadget. It's innovative but needs refinement. Look here, it gets charged in any electric socket...but these guys left the UK plug, needs a stupid adapter. Can you see being out in the desert somewhere and, oops, the plug don't work?''

''It won't matter because there's no electricity.''

''Exactly.''

His fast hands almost blur as he assembles his rifle and attaches the mechanism. He hands me a spotter's scope, we flop down on our bellies on the sandbagged jungle floor. Targets are set up far far away.

Silence prevails.

Bam!

A tiny green dot---a lime? a tennis ball?---disappears. Anthony sits up hands me the rifle. "Your turn. Go for the orange."

The orange dot is slightly closer than his target had been.

I spend time fiddling with the new gadget then I survey the encroaching woods carefully. No other hints of color, no movement. This huge acreage is surrounded by  wire fences and signs warning that it is a rifle range/ LIVE AMMO! or whatever, but I dread the thought of a flash of orange hunting jacket or...who knows, pink leg warmers on an illiterate or very stupid hiker.

Nothing moves except the bugs. The heat and humidity press down like a tangible thing.

Anthony sits sideways and cross-legged next to me. He begins, annoyingly to hum. Then he's fucking singing! If this was golf he'd never do that, but I realize that in real life a shooter has to block out annoying sounds and distractions.

Slap. Anthony stops humming and swats a gnat. "Got 'em!"

''Shhhh.''

Silence again. I attain my target again. And:

''Daaaaaze!  Of wine and roses

Laugh and run away!

Like a child at play,

like the golden smile

that introduced me tooooo

the days of wine and roses

and you...''

I look up and snarl. First of all he is projecting himself and Steph, some stupid picnic. [''No gnats, bro."]

Second of all, I have no clue why he and his half sister Jilly so adore old ballads. Must have learned them from their dad, though I only recall him liking Metallica, Hendrix, old Pink Floyd. And certainly their mom Olivia listens to nothing recorded past about 1995, but at least it's Springsteen, The Eagles, Beach Boys, stuff we grew up hearing on her car's tape deck on hot summer nights when we'd drive to the ice-cream stand at the beach. Jilly likes sappy Bette Midler stuff. Anthony sadly is enamored with Tony Bennett, Perry Como, Sinatra, guys like that.

Henry Mancini, he tells me.

Huh?

Sinatra recorded it but it by Mancini.

My personal feeling is that Sinatra should only be played after baseball games. When the Yankees win. [New York, New York.]

Anthony is back to jabbering out loud. He tells me, ''No, man, you gotta see this YouTube thing.''

 He digs out his iPhone and starts thumbing. I take a calm[ing] breath, let half out and shoot. The orange target disappears. My spotter looks up from his tiny screen and asks, ''Did you hit it?''

''Yes. The target finder is excellent."

''Mmmm...here, look: ---"

I stifle a sigh and look. Tiny speakers play Days of Wine and Roses and a film of circa 1999 NYC plays, complete with gorgeous sunset shots of the Twin Towers. I watch it silently for its three minutes.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lGA6b-DoX4c&feature=player_embedded

Anthony says softly, "History prefers legends to men. It prefers nobility to brutality, soaring speeches to wild deeds. History remembers the battle, but forgets the blood. I won't forget."

I tell him,  "You need to move on. There's a new Tower now."

''It's pointy.''

''Well, yes.''

We sit there in the ugly jungle of the rifle range and stare at each other. Finally I hand back the iPhone. Then the rifle.

''Your turn.''

A few hours later we're again flying over the murky summer Hudson River, this time south and home. The sun is setting under pink clouds to our right and to our left, in the southeastern sky a full moon is rising over the ocean. Anthony sings softly in my headphones, ''Moooon Riv-ER! Wider than a mile, I'm crossing you in style someday...''

Thank god he has a better voice than my daughter Zoë. And he doesn't sing show tunes.

the end.

Be sure to watch, listen, so...sad and sweet....:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lGA6b-DoX4c&feature=player_embedded

The days of wine and roses, Laugh and run away, Like a child at play, Through a meadowland, Toward a closing door, A door marked never more, That wasn't there before. The lonely night discloses, Just a passing breeze, Filled with memories, Of the golden smile, That introduced me to, The days of wine and roses, And you! The lonely night discloses, Just a passing breeze, Filled with memories, Of the golden smile, That introduced me to, The days of wine and roses,

and you.

the end

............................................................

The story below is dedicated to "Guest" on ff who had her POV and lots of criticism but couldn't man up and sign her name. She knows who she is, lol.

Fifteen Minutes

Ranger

“It’s a small independent emirate or sheikdom, crucially situated on the Arabian peninsula. Oil rich too of course…,” droned the unknown CIA analyst. He clicked a Power Point thing  and  a map showed up on the white wall, the locale in question marked in red.

I know where it is. And I don’t wanna go there.

I didn’t want to be here either, back in DC at CIA headquarters. I had put the CIA on my Do Not Acknowledge list after they tried to kidnap Steph and Zoe. And even the entreaties of my old friend Pete Harriman had not swayed my resolve. Harriman was currently the Interim or Acting Head of the CIA while the final choice for disgraced former Director Marshall’s replacement was being made. The President called me too but I still said no. Then our general who runs the Omega Group called. He didn’t beg exactly and he made it clear this was not an Omega job, but I like the man and I respect him, so here we were. Me. Tank. Anthony.

Now I raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

The analyst said, “This came over the wires at Meade---“ Fort Meade, home of NSA, the National Security Agency, which has the most extensive listening/surveillance/spy  network in the world. NSA was part of the Department of Defense, explaining, I suppose, the General’s involvement.

Harriman said, “Just listen, Ranger. Please.”

The analyst punched some buttons and the “tape” played a brief conversation in Arabic:  two men discussing the possible invasion of the tiny fiefdom shown in red on the far wall here. Apparently they had info that led them to believe one of the larger Islamic countries at their borders wanted to annex them, for their oil, for their harbor, for their gold.

Voice # 1: They come, your highness, in numbers and weapons far greater than our own.

Voice #2: Numbers do not win a battle. 

“No... but I bet they help,” said Anthony sarcastically. “What’s this got to do with the CIA? Or us?”

Voice #1-Your highness, it is imperative, that we immediately acquire more military power—if not our own, then we need an ally. An ally with an army, with planes---and bombs.

Voice number 2: Perhaps we can _____” 

The transmission either ended in static or the NSA scrambled the final words. Or maybe our hosts here at the CIA did it, who knows. Who cares.

Harriman said, “Word is, they are reaching out to the United States to help protect them from invasion. They are more moderate—or at least, less directly linked to Islamic jihadist- terrorist groups---and so they have gained the President’s ear.”

We three stared in hostile silence.

Finally  I  said, “And?”

“The President wants---requires—more first-hand intel than just some whispers of need or friendship.”

?

“And,” Harriman turned to Anthony, “It was suggested that with your background in international banking, you could make a connection in person.

Anthony said, “No.”

“No?”

Anthony fished an ice cube out of his water glass and crunched it somewhat rudely. Then he said, “No. We don’t do business with persons of that sort, both because there are official US and NATO economic sanctions in effect that prohibit commerce with potentially terror-involved countries. And because, as a private monetary fund, we do not have to do business with anyone we don’t want to do business with. So---no. I won’t do business with these people, I won’t even pretend to do business with them.”

“But---is it not a bank?” asked someone.

“My family’s business is not a bank like you seem to be picturing, gentlemen. It is an international money fund. We own the money. And sometimes we invest---venture capital, start-up funds. Sometimes we let other investors buy in, sure. But it is privately owned and essentially, the money is ours and ours alone. And sometimes we loan that money to people---or countries. Sometimes we even refill those black op coffers you guys guard so jealously.”

“But….”

“We do charge interest of course.”

Harriman turned to me and I shrugged. I have no control over the business’s policies, it’s not my job. And besides… “Why isn’t a CIA agent doing this? Undercover of course.”

“Because that’s why we have you guys, “said Harriman hopefully.

Tank had sat in neutral silence all this time but now he said, “We’re not spies!”

Anthony and I nodded.  I said, “You want someone taken out, you want something blown up---shit, you want a rescue op or for us to bail out a botched military mission, fine. But if you think any of us is gonna go to that sandpit and what?—play golf?--- with his highness and get the inside dope, no, uh uh. Not my job. Not our job.”

“Please?”

end

.................

If I Had a Dollar

Ranger

If I had a dollar for every boring meeting I've sat through in my adult life, I'd be as rich as my half brother Anthony.

Across the polished wood (so low tech!) conference table Anthony's eyes flicked up from his iPhone screen. He stared at me for a moment, a little confused: Huh, what, you are as rich as...oh. you're bored shitless..., then his eyes smiled at me without it showing to our companions. Tank and Lester Santos sit to my right; both glance at me, aware of the internal communication, but uninvolved.

The operations director of Homeland Security droned on. On the wall a slide show was playing and Images of a youngish man---obviously, to me, an Iranian---flashed by in migraine inducing color.

I said, "You can stop now, I get the picture."

So to speak.

The AD sort of twitched then he sat heavily in his seat at the table's head. "Fine. Samir Hamidi, Iranian national, lives outside Teheran with his parents. Twenty nine years old, software designer, educated at Cal Tech. He has requested political asylum here. He will be meeting the President at a White House dinner next week.''

''Why?''

''He has value, Colonel Manoso. He has designed a web program that examines banking activities with the ability to discern patterns that may be indicative of pre-terrorist activity.''

?

''The State Department wants that program. And so yes, we are giving the man asylum and protection...and a personal handshake from our President.''

I shrugged. "Okay. So you don't want him killed?"

"Of course not!"

"So why are we here, Mr. Director?" (I was not being polite. I just could not at this point remember these guys' names.)

After a few seconds Anthony supplied the director's name, Byron Handelman.

Handelman, oblivious of course, said, ''First of all, we want your security company to vet Hamidi's ...attitude. Veracity. And if need be, protect him during the White House visit."

''You want us to run a background check? Isn't that a little, ah, horse, barn door, if you know what I mean?"

''We did the usual preliminaries, credit check, background search, of course. We think he's clear."

''But?''

''But nothing. Humor me. Just put a tail on the guy."

''Okay." Maybe I frowned a little. Maybe Handelman was smarter than he looked. "What's reason number two?"

''Ah, well, we are hoping Mr. Stewart will also attend the White House dinner and meet Hamidi." Tannenbaum [dude! Handelman!] pointed a finger towards Anthony, who did a who me?

"We are given to understand that you are one of the few persons in our circle who can evaluate the authenticity of the computer program. And Hamidi will perhaps enjoy speaking with you, as an equal, as a software compatriot."

?

?

I don't think he  means 'compatriot'?

I fuckin' hope not, man.

Handelman added, "Colleague. Perhaps I should say colleague...."

Oh, well...

Anthony shoved away from the table and said, ''No fucking way.''

''What?! Why?"

''Because I said so, Mr. Tannen---, I mean Handelbaum. Handelman. Whatever.."

''But....''

"I'll go. But undercover."

''Fine.''

...   ...   ...

Hamidi's big night has arrived. His hotel and the White House are crawling with armed Rangeman guys, under Tank's supervision. And much to the discomfort of the Secret Service.

Anthony and I are all tuxedoed up and at 8 PM we walk side by side through The Four Seasons ornate but elegant lobby, up to Samir Hamidi's couple thousand bucks a night [so, you know, mid-level...] room.

Hamidi looks just like his photos, only shorter. And a little scrawny with a belly showing. Needs a gym, and a nutritionist. The state department's lackey introduces us to Hamidi as hospitality personnel, the President's personal envoys. We do not offer to shake Hamidi's hand, and indeed, he gives us an arrogant stare.

As the State Department man sidles away, Hamidi looks us up and down and finally drawls with a Cali inflection, "You Americans, you're all the same. Always overdressing for the wrong occasions.''  

Okay, I'm offended.

Anthony however grins and says, ''Yo, Sammy, I can call you Sammy, like, can't I, dude?"

"If you must."

"Miss Manners says it's rude to criticize another man's countrymen...in broadly offensive terms," Anthony says kindly.

''Huh?"

''Yeah, like sayin' all Americans are fat and rude and wear loud shirts, baggy shorts, and huge white sneakers!"

"What?"

"So dude, no insults, you like can't do that to me, to us, we're Americans and fucking proud of it."

White sneakers and all, hermano.

Shut up. They haven't been white, in, like years. Decades.

We could pass the hat, spring for a new pair?

Shit, no, dude. I love my Vans......

Hamidi interrupted. "Huh?"

"So okay, I know you can't like afford my tailor, dude. That little computer game you are selling? What's with that, anyway? Small change, or what?" Anthony gave a solicitous smirk, patted Hamidi's shoulder.

''I insist you treat me in a respectful manner, Mr....?''

''Yeah but like see, it goes both ways and I for one don't ever want to wear a cheap silk suit like...uh, this." Anthony fingers Hamidi's lapel. Shakes his head sadly. "Wal-Mart? Sheesh."

We have been slowly backing Hamidi into the window embrasure away from the State Department people.

''What are you doing! I am an honored guest!''

I flick open my suit coat, very James Bond. "You think the suit is overkill? Check this out." He sees my double shoulder holster and weapons and cringes.

We back him out through the french doors, onto the little balcony. Behind his head I see the main sweep of the Promenade and the Washington Monument, all lit up and cheery.

Anthony says nicely, ''Don't mind Carlos's guns, my man. He could kill you with a tiny, little screwdriver."

"Or a big one."

"A Bic pen."

"A money clip...."

"A paperclip!"

"A NY Times...?"

"Naw, with The Post."

Hamidi stares, mouth agape.

I grab Hamidi arms and twist him around, slap on flexicuffs. Anthony wrenches the small gun from the man's inside jacket pocket. It had been intended to shoot the president. I whisper in Hamidi's ear, "Shit I could kill you with my bare hands. But...I won't."

I don't see the need to inform him that's because that cheapskate Handelman didn't pay me to do so.

The Secret Service bursts into The Four Seasons classy hotel room behind us.

''All yours, boys.''

the end 

......................................  A Cupcake Bomb

Ranger

This time we dragged our butts down to DC for a major brainstorming session. Our general had called me, asked that I attend a joint security agencies meeting and bring my team, including an IT guy---and Anthony.

I had recently instituted a surcharge for this type of get-together, so Rangeman was billing for my time, plus that of Tank, Lester, and Hector; Anthony is more than capable of billing for his own time, so I let that issue lie for now.

I figure---the US government wants to hire mercenaries, I'll show them mercenary.

Idiots, they love it.

So here we are. We sit down in the General's high security Pentagon (DIA/ Defense Intelligence Agency) office. We get comfy, and the CIA appears. The guy skulks in and avoids making eye contact with me. He takes a seat. The silence is, as they say, deafening. Tank coughs a little and the general's aide begins to speak. The general doesn't actually talk at these meetings so his aide, Colonel Spence, starts things off with a bang. Spence stands up and says, "We're just waiting for the people from British Intelligence, they should be here any moment."

I stare at him. If Christian Winter* shows up I am walking out, I don't care what al Qaeda is up to.

Anthony does the annoying gold pen twirled through his fingers routine, then taps the pen on the yellow legal pad they've set out for each of us. As if I takes notes? Please.

''Yes, Major Stewart?" says the colonel.

Anthony frowns and looks at his watch, finally says, "Dude, time is money, let's get this show on the road."

''Excuse me?''

"Start without the Bond dude, man. My ass is getting tingly from sitting too long."

Spence turns dark red, opens his mouth to erupt.

But at that moment a couple of BI guys sidle in and save the day. Introductions. I can't decide if they are MI5 or MI6 and they lie anyway so I don't ask.

Colonel Spence looks to the CIA guy and says, "Bill, it's your show."

Bill, who offers no last name or rank, stands up, switches on the Power Point projector via his iPad. He glances at each of us, clears his throat, "Thank you for being here. I won't say more since the time issue has been raised..."

Anthony begins drawing on the yellow pad. An old-fashioned alarm clock with dollar signs instead of numerals.

"So...NSA has brought a new web publication to our attention. This is an English language online magazine ostensibly aimed at  Muslim women who want to modernize their domestic lives without offending their religious parameters. Uh, rules. It has advice columns, fashion, and cooking, and what-have-you. Lady stuff."

?

''It says on the web-cover: Recipe for Glorious Cupcakes---''

My men snigger discreetly and pointedly don't glance at me.

''---But inside...here's the feature recipe: How to Make a Pipe Bomb with Items from Your Pantry."

The page is in English, the graphics show pretty cupcakes in bright happy colors. The text details how to make a simple IED, using sugar, a light bulb, and some other household stuff.

We read and consider in silence. Finally Anthony says, "Bizarro world, dude."

''They are disseminating terrorist instructions, obviously,'' proclaims Bill.

''Aimed at whom?'' asks Tank.

'' Maybe some homegrown bad guy? Like that guy in Texas?"

I shake my head. ''I can't see it, no Muslim man would be caught dead reading a women's magazine.''

''Perhaps if instructed to do so? By a cell leader?''

''They can look it up online, they don't need a girly magazine.''

''And yet this is being published on the web, Colonel Manoso. And we want it stopped.''

''I can't see it. It's just not...badass enough for some AQ guy." Then, I add, "What?'' to my own crew who are again looking shifty.

Lester says, "Uh...well, Rangeman, boss, I can see, say, Zoë inveigling you into making cupcakes. Remember the Christmas cookie fiasco...? And if Ranger Manoso can bake cookies some terrorist can make cupcakes."

"Lester. It was not a fiasco. And I think I'd notice if the recipe said: Take  one 40 watt light bulb, remove the base; fill the interior with ammonia and sugar. Hello? 'Light bulb'? Probably even Stephanie would be suspicious."

"But it could happen," nodded Tank.

I thought about sighing. The CIA man said, ''Again, it doesn't matter. It just has to stop. So, gentlemen, any ideas here?"

Anthony is now drawing a big gooey cupcake with little cartoon TNT sticks stuck in it like birthday candles. The flames of the dynamite sticks spell out KaBoom! And the cupcake has a face with kissy lips and big eyes, long eyelashes. Huh.

He finally says, "I can think offhand of a simple temporary fix."

''Yes?'' All the agency and military folks look pitifully anxious.

''We can reprogram the web site to  show a real cupcake recipe...you know: Oprah and Martha Bake! or something.''

''Won't they just take it down and repost  their own recipe?''

''I can hack in and fix it so as soon as they do their fix and download it, my worm returns and takes theirs away. Endlessly. Very frustrating.''

''That would be perfect!''

''Wonderful,'' murmur the Brits.

''Excellent,'' says the general.

''Well no, because they can put the info in the falafel recipe... or just publish a new issue---they can just keep trying. It's hopeless."

''Never say Hopeless, dear boy!'' huffs the older of the two Brits.

Anthony returns to his drawing. I ask him, "Can you add some sort of backdoor so that when they try their fix, we can then  trace the whereabouts of the  programmers...and in so doing, find the masterminds of the plan?''

Anthony and Hector look at each other, then Anthony says, ''No problem.''

''And then what?'' asks the CIA guy

''Then we go blow them up!'' grins Les.

''No! No, we, the US, cannot have our fingerprints on this! That's why we're  using  BI." He gestures to the two Englishmen.

''We believe the cell is located in Northern Scotland,'' adds Colonel Spence. ''We have no jurisdiction.''

Now we all stare at him. As if Rangeman cares about jurisdiction.

Hector looks up from his own iPad. He says, in clear, perfect Rangeman English, "There's a major fiber-optic cable that runs to mainland Scotland and points north and west. We can simply...cut it...."

I nod. ''And in the ensuing chaos, we'll take down the cell.''

''You'll do this yourself, Colonel?''

"Uh...''

''No way am I gonna go back to Scotland on a job, dude,'' interjects Anthony. "Ranger, you can't go with! Remember that last job? We're personas non gratas up there. No way, no how. No Scottish Highlands, no freakin' wet weather, no downpours and flooding, nope."

I thought about it for a minute.

''Ranger, their fucking castle blew up!"

''That wasn't our fault," I suggest.

''Yes it was.''

''Hmm....Okay, Lester and Hector can go. It's a good job for them.''

I write the fees on the useless yellow pad, the General nods, poor guy.

Hector is frowning, and the Brits kinda cringe away from the teardrop tattoo and stony glare. Hector reverts to his heavy Hispanic accent and says, "Scotland? I am not el hombre que trabaja Scotland!"

[not a man who works [in]...]

But Lester is happy, he's grinning. He reaches out and lightly punches Hector's arm. (Yes, okay, Hector reaches for his gun, then catches my eye and reconsiders.) Les tells him, ''It'll be fun, man, I'll buy you a pint and a bacon sandwich! We'll try on kilts. We'll shag some lassies!"

"Lassies?" asks Hector.

"Los perros," I supply, meanly.                  [dogs/ Lassie, TV dog....]

''And you can play golf,'' suggests Anthony. "In the rain."

Hector puts his hand back on his weapon. "No golf."

the end

 *from Adalind's world, and from One on ff.net

..................................................................... 

 Get Outta Dodge, Dude

Ranger

A slight motion caught my eye. I looked up from the mounds of paperwork that threatened to engulf my desk. A shadow slipped by my open door then returned. After a moment or two my friend and brother Anthony silently entered. I wasn't expecting him today so I raised an eyebrow.

?

He shook his head. "Don't ask." Sat down on my black leather sofa, head in hands.

Hmmm.

Today Anthony was dressed in one of his ridiculously costly Brioni suits and a gaudy silk Hermes tie. His trademark dreads contrasted oddly but it worked for him. I guess. Plus, you know, all the guns.

I said, ''What's up?" He wasn't emitting any distressed vibes or aura so I stayed casual.

He looked up at me. "I like had to get outta Dodge, dude."

"Dodge?''

''My office.''

''The market...?"

I touched a key on my computer and the Bloomberg feed for the stock market came up. Nope, everything was stable or slightly higher so far today.

''No, no, the market is fine, man. Well, as fine as it has the ability to be, which let's face facts, it sucks.''

''So?''

''Dani is interviewing a new PA." Dani---Danielle Granderson---is Anthony's efficient, bossy, super smart---well, PA. She runs his office and his life and when he is in the wind, she does his day job with finesse and charm. Total competence in one pretty well-dressed package.

''Dani is quitting?" The woman was married to a Brit footballer, had two kids. And now that I am again a parent I can see how her job and a long-distance marriage might not mesh so well. But I also knew she was essential to Anthony's complex life.

''No, no, she  is getting her own PA. I'm a fucking idiot, I told her to do it, because she was saying how if anything, god forbid, happened to her---kid gets sick, Tommy (the husband) plays in the World Cup, whatever, she needs a backup, and I know she needs more help..so.... Oh okay not heaven forbid Tommy's team makes the  playoffs, I mean I know she'd be there cheering the brute...though who gives a shit about soccer, right? But..."

"I hope you didn't tell her no one gives a shit about football. Soccer, I mean."

"Well I mighta said it's not the World Series, but dude!....Anyways, man I didn't fucking know I'd be interviewing strangers on Skype! Dani says it's how you weed out the crazies and the uglies. But still. I said, Not my job and I snuck out, okay? I admit it, I'm a lazy sonofabitch. A coward. Slacker. But...I just couldn't...skype.''

I stared then waved a hand at my workload. "Under the circumstances I am gonna  guess you're not here to help me with my paperwork.''

''Paperwork? Who does paperwork. Isn't this a paper free office?''

''Rangeman is paper free; the US government and its agencies are not.''

''So....? Any action on tap? Iran?  Syria? I gotta get out of town, remember?''

I thought about sighing. ''I have the ongoing thing in Iran, but I am waiting for intell. It's on hiatus for awhile. Until more unfortunate nuclear scientists of a terrorist persuasion are designated for relocation." Six feet under.

''So what's the paperwork about?"

''It's an ATF gun-running sting. Feds working out of Philly.''

''Perfect. I'm in.''

..........

0100, that same day/ next a.m. really....anyway late that night:

Anthony and I loaded up one nondescript SUV with weapons and body armor; Tank and Santos organized the second vehicle, a rundown van. Neither vehicle was shiny, new, or black. A few hours later we pulled up in a warehouse district in south Jersey, near the harbor at Port Elizabeth. Port Elizabeth is a major industrial port, south of both Philadelphia and Trenton, maybe 20 miles west of Atlantic City. Busy, congested; gun-runner heaven.

"Any feds actually involved here, bro?" asked Anthony. He was calm and focused, the craziness of the afternoon replaced by total mission focus.

"No. We can do the take-down," said Lester in our earbuds. "Easy peasy. Piece-a-cake."

I nodded agreement. "We're picking up a mid-level guy, Mikos Stavrilofsy, he's part Greek, part Ukrainian, 100% Russian mob."

I handed Anthony the file, he looked at the guy and nodded a little.

I went on, "Drives an old Land Rover Discovery...green, plate number---"

"I see it. NJ plates, LTY 6578 R. '97 Landy. Huh. That's just weird. Gunrunning must not be paying so great these days," Anthony said. He unwrapped a maple butter power bar and crunched. I cringed. Maple butter! eeew.

"If I wanted to watch someone eat crap while I'm on stakeout, I'd have brought Steph," I groused. "She's at least something pretty to look at."

''And oh so fun to pass the time with...!''

Whap! ''Have some respect, Santos.'' Tank smacking Lester upside the head. Watching my back as always.

Anthony chomped away, swallowed, gulped his Coke and mumbled, "I'm pretty, too."

''Eeew.''  T and L in our ears.

An hour or so later, just as dawn was lightening the eastern sky we handed the Russian guy over to the waiting ATF agents in Philly. They would interrogate him, and try to turn him: lighter sentence/ no deportation in return for info on the higher-ups.

Good luck.

We piled back into the POS vehicles and Anthony's phone buzzed. He looked at the screen, hesitated, warily said, "Yes."

I could hear her from two feet away. "You divot! Get your white ass back here and help me choose a personal assistant! You know you don't just want any old sucker off the streets, you want someone discreet, someone pretty, someone with...a security clearance?"

''Fine. But no Skype.''

''For a computer tycoon you are such a Luddite,'' scolded Dani's disembodied voice.

''Humor me.'' Anthony sounding boss-like. Finally.

''Fine. No Skype.''

''See you in a couple hours. Three or four, I'm in Philly, babe."

"No shit. I sent a heli, you'll be home in fifteen minutes.''

Whomp. Whomp whomp.

His pretty black BellJet executive helicopter suddenly appeared over a deserted Wal-Mart parking lot down the block.

I  said, ''Scary.''

''You have no idea.''

the end

....................................................................................

                Occupy Wall Street 

My bodyguards hustled me through the crowd of protesters, their faces taut, vigilant, their body language hostile. This fall we couldn't just stroll down the fairly sedate financial district streets. Nope, we have to wend our way among the smelly hoards of citizens exercising their right to gather in public. Mornings are better than noontime, protestors sleeping in a park aren't real chipper at 7AM. Right now it was a sunny October afternoon and a guy was standing on his park bench yelling, "We will force the world of big business to change. We must focus on our goals! We need to work as a team! "

My man on my right mumbled, "Does this look like a team-oriented  group of individuals to you?"

I hire them because Ranger insists. Left to myself, I'd slip in and out of the entire world un-noticed.

Or if not, I was packing my little H&K SP89, a cute little semiautomatic handgun that I'd more or less traded in my Uzi for.

Near the entrance of my building an MSNBC financial  reporter was interviewing a guy in a suit. The man was saying, "These folks have a right to their opinions, they have a right to peacefully protest."

"Yes?" urged the reporter.

"But they are misguided. The world economy is an organic, uh, organism. It has, by now, in the 21st century, a life of its own."

Cool. I wish I had a life of my own sometimes...

"So you're saying it cannot be controlled or changed."

"Lady, we'd fix it if we could!"

The woman turned to the cameras. "There you have it. The economy is out of control!"

She rotated so park bench guy was in the camera shot, over her shoulder. She went on, "Next up will be a review of Michelle Obama's new hardcover novel, Life in the White House Is Murder! But first, we have Brett in the newsroom with the breaking story about arrests in Chinatown. Brett? Are the fake Louis Vuitton bags copyright infringement? Or forgery?"

 Pause. "And we're out." She handed the mic to her assistant and got into her news van, wincing a bit at the jeers of the protesters.

I threw my hotdog in a bin  and got on the elevator with my guards. Dialed my cell phone, returned some calls.

"Yo.''

''Yo yourself, what's up?" I asked Ranger.

''General wants to talk, says we're gonna need a new plan.''

Ranger was scheduled to do a stealth solo job for the military. Far as I knew I was just on stand-by.

"What? Why?" I asked. "What changed?"

''Not sure, he'll be here in an hour.''

''I can't really get away for chitchat, Ranger, you know that.''

''What's the problem?''

''The economy, bro.''

''The economy's mess is not our fault...is it?"

''No...''

''Anthony, we don't run a business as such, we don't indulge in corporate greed."

"Not exactly. I mean, it's like, our money, man." I opened my desk, began unfurling a paperclip.

"So a few days out of country will do you good. If you can't fix the big picture, let's at least fix this one deal that General XXX has. It will cheer you up. Okay?''

''Sure. Fine.''

''I'll get back to you.''

I toss the mangled paper clip onto my desk, walk to the window, and stare down at the mob below.

Predators? Headline grabbers? Idiots?

I wish I knew.

.......................

                 Business as Usual?

"Are you available for a job, hermano? I can't take it, I have a conflict."

"Weekend with Stephanie in Cabo?"

"No, rescue op in K'stan.....some of the troops are bogged down; I'm taking my team in."

I threw my feet up on my big boss-type desk and listened. Not to Ranger's words but to his tone of voice, to his aura.

I said, "What's wrong?"

"Nada. It's a long range hit, urban setting."

"The money is good?"

Ranger named a fee. Absurd. I said, "Shit, man, I don't even get out of bed for less than half a million dollars."

"Yeah, me neither. But this is a primo window to hit him. He'll be in country this week. Word is, this guy has to go, he's ---ah---unusual."

"In what way?"

"You're on the encrypted line?"

"You called me, Ranger. You should know what number you dialed."

"Fine."

Silence prevailed. I finally said, "Go on. We'll argue the compensation agenda later."

"The faithful seem to think this guy is more than just a cleric, they consider him a messiah, of sorts. And his followers believe he can sway world events---with just his rhetoric and charisma. That he performs miracles, has supernatural powers."

"Supernatural?"

"Yeah. The guy has an agenda beyond the obvious; basically he wants to bomb the US into oblivion. Uses bullshit for the uneducated masses but a mob of believers can be dangerous. Under the circumsatnces. "

"Is it bullshit?"

"You haven't gone over to the far side, have you, m'hijo? You starting to believe in---things?"

"You don't?"

"No."

"What if I believe a hot woman in, like, a French maid costume is gonna walk through my office door any second? Can I make that happen?"

?

"No, really. It could happen."

Ranger laughed in my ear. "If it does, Dani will kick your sorry ass from here to...."

Dani is my uber-efficient, kick-ass PA. Lucky for me she took a long weekend.

I smiled. "Looks like I'm heading there anyway. Not to mention it's a fucking freebie, geez. Allow me my fantasies, dude."

"So you'll do it?"

"No prob. You got any operational intell on the target?"

Ranger told me the guy's name and schedule. I didn't ask why the US government had invited this goofball to visit. I was guessing it was a way of flushing him out.

Ranger was still talking."He'll arrive in DC on Tuesday. They'll put him up at the Ritz Carlton. He'll be in a silver BMW 735i stretch limo."

"Unusual car. The guy has good taste."

"It will be armored so you need to go for the head shot as he gets out of the vehicle. It has to look like an accident, Anthony, a drive by."

"Yeah right, drive-by sniper shot from half a mile away?"

?

I sighed. "I'll make it look good."

"Take care."

"No problem, man. Hasta la vista, Ciao." Whatever.

I hung up with Ranger, hit my intercom button on the desk console thing.

"Yeah?" A woman's rather annoyed voice.

"Are you dressed?" I asked.

Huge sigh. "Yes, " she hissed.

"You wanted the job, babe. You said, Undercover, boss, I can do this, didn't you?"

"Shit! Yes. But a fucking French maid? Get a grip!"

"I'm waiting, Em."

the end

...............................

Sell You The World or,

Give Us a Minute, We'll Give You the World...,uh, Sell You the World?

Here is the encryption grid:  grid

Today's high level meeting has a new venue. We're at 12 Wall Street, high above Manhattan's financial center. Attending are the FBI and General XXX. The feds are trying for blank faces but I can sense they are somewhat awed by the headquarters of M/S World Bank. That or it is the absolute last place they imagined meeting surfer bum/ freelance operative/ mercenary Anthony Stewart.

I'm not thrilled to have the feds at the family bank, but the FBI's job parameters required Anthony's expertise. When I demurred, our general called and practically begged.

I called Anthony who sounded jittery as a meth tweaker in need of more crystal, asked him to come to Trenton for the meeting.

"I can't, Ranger. I'm too busy. Tell them if they wanna meet with me they gotta come to me. I'll fit them in."

Hmmm. Never use force unless you are certain you will win---or no sense arguing with a guy on the edge. "Fine."

"Call Dani when you know a day and time." He hung up.

Unlike Anthony I don't have, or need, an uber-efficient PA, personal assistant, like Dani, so I called the general and passed the options along to him.

...   ...   ...

So now here we are, ushered in by the aforementioned Dani, plied with coffee or spring water by her PA, a young woman named Charmaine. Charmaine makes sure we were all comfy on the extravagantly lush grey suede club chairs overlooking NY harbor, then she pops the ring on a can of Diet Coke and reverently places it on the floor near Anthony.

Anthony had risen to greet us but is now reclining on his tropical print floral sofa (think black and white O'Neill board short fabric), iPhone in hand, thumbs working industriously. His blond hair is short but mussed, he needs a shave. He has removed his suit coat but wears his tailored suit pants, handmade pale blue shirt with platinum bullet cufflinks and silk tie; his handgun is discreetly tucked in the small of his back (yes he's lying on it, doesn't seem to mind) and his knives and other weapons are invisible. But there.

''Will that be all, sir?'' asks Charmaine.

''Yes, thank you.'' Anthony is always formally polite to the help.

The feds stir their coffee which has been presented in white French porcelain mugs, very moderne, with real silver teaspoons---and they look around, trying to hide their awe. Anthony's office is, first of all---huge. And sky high and glass---almost scary under the circumstances, considering the locale. They eye his collection of vintage lava lamps; an entire wall features dozens, all colors. Some executives collect scale car models, or football helmets. Anthony's car collection is made up of real cars. And he never got to play football...mostly because of feds just like these guys.

General XXX says, ''Let's get started.''

The AIC, the agent in charge is named, for my purposes: Agent Smith. He asks, "Is this room secure?"

 Everyone looks at me because Anthony isn't really participating. One of Anthony's MIB bodyguards has followed the FBI personnel into the room. He stands a parade rest and emits scary vibes. I catch the feds throwing nervous glances his way, which is ridiculous. If anyone in this room decides to pose a lethal threat to either of us, Anthony or I could take that person out before the bodyguard woke up and stepped in.

Now I shrug. "It's too high to listen into with mics. And I assure you it is not bugged or wiretapped."

''But...''.

Anthony glances up."It's secure, dude. My security measures make your crap in the Federal Building look like monkey bars.''

"...What?"  Monkey bars?

I tell them again. ''It's secure. What's the job?"

Smith opens his mouth to reply and Charmaine reappears."Mr. Stewart, your conference call with Ms Merkel, Mr. Cameron, and Mr. Fillon is scheduled to begin in 15 minutes.'' These are the current heads of state---UK, Germany, France.

''Tell 'em I'm in the can,'' mumbles Anthony.

''But sir...''

sigh. ''Give me a 2 minute warning, please.''

''Yessir.''

When she's gone I say to the AIC, ''Go on.''

"We've been wiretapping a group of homegrown jihadists, we believe their base is located in central Georgia. We are inferring, from the current flurry of messages intercepted, that the cell plans to move on a target in the near future."

"Homegrown?"

"Yes, they are American citizens, born here, who have espoused the Islamist cause."

"That sucks," mumbles the general.

"And? If you have their conversations...?" I ask.

"They're using a new form of encryption. We can't break it," admits Smith. "We're trying, but...."

''You can't break it?''

''We're trying," Smith repeats testily.  "But it's got the most complex encryptions I've ever seen---it's got Sudoku with fractions!''

''Did you bring a copy? Can we see it?''

Like pulling teeth here, man. Anthony is paying closer attention than he pretends.

The second fed---Jones?--- hands me a printout. "See?"

From the sofa Anthony says, ''It can't be Sudoku with fractions.''

''No? Look at it." urges Smith.

I pass Anthony the paper.

Anthony gives the page a glance and with no pause whatsoever says, "There are only three ways fractions can work in a Sudoku grid. One: the numbers are rewritten as decimal fractions. Two: the lower integer, the denominator, is reduced to its prime numbers with the upper number or nominator... three: the grids are redrawn in a more complex form, for example a five number grid would have 25 spaces, if you put two numbers in each square it becomes a hundred square grid. As for the numbers available to solve the puzzle, Sudoku requires the use of rational numbers."

He looks expectantly at each face. Nothing. "FYI, a rational number is any number that can be expressed as the quotient or fraction a/b of two integers, with the denominator b not equal to zero. Since b may be equal to 1, every integer is a rational number. This is intrinsic to any Sudoku solution because the decimal expansion of a rational number always either terminates after finitely many digits or begins to repeat the same finite sequence of digits over and over. Moreover, any repeating or terminating decimal represents a rational number. These statements hold true not just for base 10, but also for binary, hexadecimal...and so on."

He looks up. "With me so far? You understand?"

No one says a word. Anthony looked back down at the grid on the paper.

Adds, "Or I suppose you could solve it as is, with the fractions and then discard one of the two integers in each fraction, like use all the bottom numbers, or all the top...or alternate in some pattern. Truly now that I think of it, the possibilities are endless. Infinite. Because as you can see it is possible to convert a mixed fraction to an improper fraction and convert an improper fraction to a mixed fraction. To convert a mixed fraction to an improper fraction multiply the whole number by the denominator of the fraction and add the result to the numerator.

"The number of whole times the denominator goes into the numerator is the whole number part of mixed fraction. The remainder becomes the numerator of fraction, if the numerator becomes zero then there is no fraction part at all, just a whole number....Okay, you guys got it?''

More silence.

He sighs, ''People, this is like uh, third grade? You guys did third grade?'' The group squirms under the reprimand. But no light bulbs of understanding switch on, either.

Anthony gives me the look.

I say, What?

I know you understand this, bro.

I could but I don't like to clutter my brain, I reply.

Finally the AIC says, ''What's an integer?''

" The integers ---from the Latin integer, literally "untouched", hence "whole": the word entire comes from the same origin, but via French, are formed by the natural numbers including 0 (0, 1, 2, 3, ...) together with the negatives of the non-zero natural numbers (−1, −2, −3, ...). Viewed as a subset of the real numbers, they are numbers that can be written without a fractional or decimal component, and fall within the set {..., −2, −1, 0, 1, 2, ...}. In algebraic number theory, these commonly understood integers, embedded in the field of rational numbers, are referred to as rational integers to distinguish them from the more broadly defined algebraic integers but with "rational" meaning "quotient of integers", this attempt at precision suffers from circularity. Still we use it as necessary when expressing these conceptualizations.''

Anthony  passes the paper back and sits up. Dani knocks, pokes her head in, ''Two minutes, boss. Fix your tie, put your suit coat on.''

''Why?''

''It's a Skype conference. You know that!" she scolds. She looks him over with critical eyes. "Did you shave this morning?"

''Uh...''

''Sir!''

''Baby, they want my money not my face, it's not an ad campaign. And, like, you know, they need me, they want a bailout. I hope these people don't want to give themselves a pay raise; that's so not in their budgets."

"I'm sure, sir. Just...let me...."  She fusses with his hair and he steps away, frowns.

We watch the train wreck as Dani nags my grown brother like he was five. She tells him, ''The briefing file is in your iPad, sir.'' Shoves it into his hand.

''I know, Dani.''

He starts to leave the room.

The AIC stands and says, ''Wait!? What about our file?''

''This is hopeless,'' moans the general.

"What about it?''

"Aren't you going to feed it into your supercomputer?"

''I am a supercomputer," Anthony tells Smith. Not very modestly.  "The note says these idiots bought little toy remote control airplanes, like from Sharper Image?--- and have packed them with C4, added cell phone triggers. And they plan to fly them into the Capitol Building in DC next Sunday when the president greets the Pope. It even says, and I quote, because I don't want anyone to think I mix my metaphors or use banal rhetoric myself: We shall kill two birds with one stone...or many stones! And lop off the head of the evil Christian-Capitalist snake that is America. Yaddah, yaddah, Praise Allah, Allah is great and so on."

Everyone goggles. Not because of the content but because Anthony solved the riddle in about 10 seconds.

Anthony adds, "We should roll, Rangeman. Right after I bail out Europe.''

''Wait!" This time it's the general. ''How much?''

Anthony shrugs. ''The decryption's a freebie, I'll send you guys a disk for future message decoding. Anything else is Ranger's call." He ignores their thanks and leaves.

I write a figure, everyone nods. Yeah, the price is right.

...   ...   ... 

a/n all math stuff is lifted randomly from Wikipedia! And no it makes no sense, so don't feel bad if you can't understand it, lol.

the end

                              >o< >o< >o< >o< >o< >o<>o< >o< >o<      

                   Big fish, Little---fish

Anthony Stewart is alone at a meeting in DC. It’s a hot, muggy day, August in our nation’s capital. Anthony has left his bodyguards in the building lobby and has appeared simply as himself—or at least one version of himself. He is dressed in his usual surf bum attire, 3-day stubble, dreadlocks, surfshop logo wifebeater, ratty cargo shorts filled with weapons. Not that he needs weapons---being, of course, himself intrinsically a lethal weapon. Nice tan, very expensive watch, Oakley shades with blue mirrored lenses.

He is filling in for Ranger who is unavailable.

The man who is directing this private conference is not impressed. He is a new hire at Homeland Security, unknown to Rangeman, Ranger himself, or Anthony. Anthony has agreed to the meet because the President called and asked very nicely, using those scary phrases about our nation’s safety. Obviously the new guy likes to hear himself talk.

<Sigh> I’m surrounded by idiots, thinks Anthony. He takes off the sunglasses to get a better look at the new Assistant Director-in-Charge of operations/ HLS. When he settles the Oakleys on top of his head, the little colored beads in his braids clack loudly. Anthony smiles despite the look he gets from the man.

The new HLS guy drones on and on---definitely a handler who wants to micromanage. And  he’s not just imparting intel details, all of a sudden he’s outlining a Plan of Action (lol, thinks Anthony) that he seems to be ordering Anthony to obey.

Anthony yawns.

The suit snaps out, “Listen up, kid, I don’t know or care who you are---you are in my little pond now and I’m the big fish who runs it.”

Anthony raises an eyebrow and looks at his iPhone. Thumb-types awhile.

The HLS guy smacks the table and yells, “When I say jump you jump! When I say kill, you goddamned better kill. And when I give you an order you stand up and you say siryesssir.”

Anthony leans back and puts his flipflops up on the ‘smart table’ which is a shiny mahogany wood conference table for twelve or more people, with built in computers under glass inserts and encrypted satellite phones and all kinds of costly gadgets that the poor beleaguered taxpayers are funding for this jerk-off. Anthony thinks, How ---jejune! (He’s been watching old Woody Allen films lately….)

Out loud he says, in his best stoner voice “Okay, dude, so like let me get this straight: you’re, like, the little prick who lives in this little pond? You’re like what, the little dick in charge of---what was that again? Pond scum? Whoa, dude, awesome. Far out! Far-fucking-out!”

HLS guy is turning purple. Anthony looks at his phone again to make sure it is transmitting to Ranger who is lying on a private beach in the Cayman Islands, enjoying his effin’ honeymoon. But whatever. Anthony can, of course, handle this idiot himself but he figures Ranger deserves a good laugh. Otherwise it’s just a lost week of hot sun, hot sex and cold margaritas, ya know?

He turns his attention back to the HLS person. The man is saying, “You listen to me when I am speaking, boy! I don’t know who the fuck you think you are....”

Anthony, thrilled, gets to his feet and leans in close. He whispers, “Oh boy I always wanted to say this: I’m your worst nightmare, little man.” He pauses, then adds, “Is that like a Dirty Harry quote, I never really knew…? You know, man, like Clint Eastwood? Anyways, dude….” He pulls his Glock out of his ratty surf shorts, ostentatiously racks the slide and aims it at the suit’s head.

Right between the eyes.

The guy gasps and goes pale but on the other hand, he shuts up. All good things, thinks Anthony.

Anthony says, “Let me get this straight. You want me to shoot someone?” He sits back down.

‘Yu yu yu yes…!’’

“Not you, I am guessing.”

“W-w-w-what…?”

Sigh. “For the sake of clarity in our negotiations, I will assume that you do not want me to shoot you, asshole? Is that correct?”  The guy nods vigorously.

What--- he’s never seen a gun before? Where do they find these people, anyhow? thinks Anthony.

Anthony gestures with his gun and says, “So sit down, start over. Be polite, be nice. Be cordial, be---generous.”

“Uh. But…,” babbles the HLS guy.

“Very generous.” Anthony waves the Glock at the smart table and says, “Obviously you can afford to be---generous, my man.”

The guy opens his mouth but no words come out.

Anthony adds, “And stick to business, little fishy. Got that?”

The guy nods, still pale and now sweating profusely.

“I didn’t hear you, dude?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

The man scowls but says, “Yessir.”

“Good.” Anthony holds up a finger and with his free hand punches a button, holds up the iPhone. He smiles, because over the tiny speaker, they can both hear Ranger laughing his ass off.

….    ….    ….    ….

One more for the good guys, thinks Anthony a few days later. He dismantles his sniper rifle and fades into the crowds of the marketplace, the hot desert dust swirling around him like a ghost.

And in the end, as Ranger likes to say, the price was right.

  the end