Friday Noon: Seattle, Washington

The restaurant server first saw the silver-haired man enter the restaurant by himself.  His posture was perfect and he walked with a confident gait. He was a handsome man of sixty, perhaps ten years older than herself. His face was clean-shaven, his jaw strong, his gray hair short and coiffed, military style, contrasting his tanned face.

He wore a loose-fitting short-sleeved cotton shirt, tucked into green cargo pants. His forearms and hands were large and muscular.  He carried a small dark-brown leather briefcase.

“What are you looking at, Millie?” a second waitress asked.

Millie was forty-nine, black, tall, and had slicked back short hair, dyed a rhubarb color. She worked hard to keep her body curved in all the right places. She fought hard against the middle-aged spread, a losing battle, although most men her age and beyond followed her with their eyes as she passed.

Millie raised her eyebrows and smiled, “At the best-looking thing I’ve seen all day.”

Britney, the second waitress, a hefty twenty-something dishwater blonde with pale white skin, peered over Millie's shoulder as the man was being escorted to his seat by the hostess.

“He’s old,” the blonde waitress said. “He’s hot, though, I’ll give you that.”

“Look at that bulge in those breeches,” Millie noted. “You know damn well that man is packing heat.”

The blonde snickered nodded in agreement, “Yeah, I’d do him, old or not. He’s sitting at my station, too. Maybe I’ll just go over there and figure out what kind of heat he’s packing.”

“Please, girl. You couldn’t handle that.  This one’s all mine.”

“But he’s at my station,” the blonde protested.

“It’s not your station today,” Millie snapped back. “Step aside and let me show you how it's done.”

“You’re a piece of work,” the blonde chuckled, slapping at Millie’s shoulder.

Millie smiled and cupped her ample breasts, giving them a slight push upward. She grabbed a tray and placed a glass of ice water on it.

“Wish me luck,” she said.

“Like you need luck,” came the response.

Millie sashayed toward the handsome man. He did not make eye contact or even raise his head as she approached. She sat the glass of water on the table.

“My name is Millie. I will be your server today. Welcome to Red Robin,” she said.

“Thank you,” he replied, almost in a whisper.

Millie noticed the bright sun reflecting in off the Puget Sound.

“Would you like me to drop the curtain?” she asked.

“Just halfway,” he replied. “I want to see the Sound. It’s a beautiful day.”

“My pleasure,” she said. Millie tip-toed to reached the edge of the curtain, knowing the act would raise her skirt and expose her legs. She was proud of her dark-chocolate legs and natural round breasts and wanted him to get a good long look at both. After she lowered the shade a few inches, she turned back toward him and saw he was looking at his briefcase, and not at her.

“That’s a beautiful briefcase,” Millie said.

He looked up at her.  She smiled at him.  He did not return the smile.

“It’s a Buroni.”

“It looks expensive,” she said.

“I’ll take a gin and tonic,” he replied.

Millie’s smile half-disappeared, “Do you have questions about our menu?” she asked.

“No. I’m waiting on someone,” he replied, lifting his water glass.

“Ok, I’ll get your gin and tonic and wait until she gets here,” Millie replied.

“It’s a ‘he,’” the man replied.

Millie raised her eyebrows and her smile widened again, “Oh, you’re not being joined by a woman?”

Barnabas Quince looked up at the waitress as if seeing her for the first time. His expression was almost disdainful. She was attractive, but she gave off a vibe of desperation. He was accustomed to being approached by women and she looked better than most. This was no time for distractions, however.

“It’s a man, if you must know,” he repeated in a flat tone.

Millie raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips, “Hey, I’m just trying to make conversation, sugar.”

“I tip for good service, not conversation. You can go shake your ass elsewhere. The drink, please.”

Millie’s smile disappeared as she walked away, half-angry and half-embarrassed. 

The man looked out the window at the beautiful Puget Sound, the nearby islands and Olympic Mountain Range off in the distance. Seattle got a bad rap because of its annual rainfall, he thought. The summers were gorgeous in this town.

In the foreground, he saw a barge floating across the water. It was a dry-cargo sea vessel, small by normal standards. Its blue paint had faded with age, and rust was noticeable on many areas of its hull.  He saw it approaching its port, which was about a mile and a half south of where he sat. Chinese characters had been painted on its side and just below them, in English, giant block letters spelling out, FOCUS.  He watched the barge slowing even more during its final approach. Finally, it stopped. He saw the anchor dropping.

The rest of the Sound was low in activity. He saw a passenger ferry making its way home and a few fishing boats.  A couple of tourist boats were churning up the water as well.

He pulled his cell and dialed a number from memory.  

“Ya,” a man with a thick Asian accent answered.

“Is my package here?” the man asked.

“It here as I say. My money?”

“I will be able to make the wire transfer Tuesday, as promised,” he replied.

“We get confirmation of transfer, we deliver package, not before,” came the reply in broken English.

“Understood. I’ll call you back Tuesday afternoon. Handle it with care.”

The call ended.

He turned his attention to the sound. He seemed mesmerized until he heard carnival music.

His eyes wandered to the right, just outside the restaurant where Seattle’s Great Wheel dominated the landscape. He studied the enormous Ferris wheel, impressed with its beauty. The LED lights were flashing colorful patterns. He continued to stare at the wheel’s lights.

A man’s voice broke his concentration, speaking to him from behind.

“The Great Wheel was the tallest Ferris wheel in the US when it was first built in 2012,” the voice said. “It’s one-hundred and seventy-five feet tall.”

Barnabas recognized the voice. He didn’t bother to turn around. There was no greeting of any kind.

“It’s no longer the tallest?” he asked.

“Not even close,” the second man said. He sat. “The High Roller in Las Vegas is well over five-hundred feet tall. I’m sorry I’m late, Barnabas.”

“No problem. I’ve seen Seattle traffic firsthand, Randolph, and I know what you were working on,” he replied. “I assumed you’d be late.”

Randolph Henson was Barnabas Quince’s second in command. Henson was ten years younger with black, peppered hair. Small differences aside, the two men looked like brothers.

“How was your trip in from Nome?” Henson asked.

“Long and uneventful,” Barnabas replied. He had been running his drug operation from Nome, Alaska for four years, building it back to the force it once was, before he nearly lost it all after his once-trusted friend betrayed him.

“I beat our guest here,” Henson said.

“He’ll be along,” Barnabas replied.

Millie approached the two men with a tray holding a glass of water and a gin and tonic. She said nothing, just placing the drinks on the table, avoiding eye contact with Barnabas.

“Do you want a menu?” Millie asked.

“No, I’ve eaten here many times,” Henson said. “I’ll have the crispy cod sandwich,” he said. “Oh, and an IPA.”

“Which IPA?” Millie asked.

“Surprise me,” Henson replied. He winked at her and smiled.

She shrugged and turned to Barnabas, shooting him a cold stare which he chose not to notice, “I’ll take the salmon entrée, and bring another gin and tonic, please.”

Millie whisked up the menus and walked away without comment. Henson made a note of her abrupt departure.

“I see you’re making new friends again as always,” Henson said with a mild chuckle. “I love black women. They are better in bed, you know. It’s a proven fact.”

Barnabas Quince flashed him a stern glare.

“Damn. She’s fine, and she looks available,” Henson continued.

“Other things are on my mind my friend, as they should be for you,” Barnabas replied. 

The smile disappeared from Henson’s face, “Yes. You’re right, of course.”

Henson looked around the room. Satisfied, he turned back to Barnabas, “I love Seattle.  It’s a shame that...”

“It makes sense for my purposes,” Barnabas said.

“I understand.”

“The mark? Has she been located?”

Henson nodded, “She is under observation now. She’s doing well for herself. Every time we see her, she is carrying a different Gucci purse. We’ll pull the plug at the last moment. I don’t get why we need her though. She will die, anyway. There's no chance in hell that...”

“Insurance, my old friend,” Barnabas interrupted. “I’d rather have her and not need her than need her and not have her. Like I said... insurance.”

Henson nodded, “You've spoken to Singer?”

‘Singer’ was the code name for the FBI Agent who Barnabas paid to pass along information to him. He had been receiving information about FBI activities as they related to him for years. As a result, the criminal mastermind was always one step ahead of the FBI.

“Yes,” Barnabas said.

Henson nodded, “I know you have been resistant about this in the past, but I think it’s time you tell me who Singer is in the event something unfortunate happens.”

Barnabas smiled, “You mean if something unfortunate happens... to me?”

Henson shrugged, “You’d want the mission completed in that event, right?”

“I do,” he replied. “Don’t worry, my friend. If something were to happen Singer knows how to reach you but his identity remains my secret until then.”

Henson nodded and sighed, “What does Singer say about... you know?”

“It was as we thought. We failed to kill him in prison. Rainhorse has more lives than a cat.”

“That presents a problem.”

“A problem we can handle, though,” Barnabas insisted. “It’s fortunate in a way. It will be like killing two birds with one stone.”

“What about the package?” Henson asked.

“It arrived,” Barnabas said, “early, I might add. As long as we can deliver the full price, we are all set. Any problems on your end?”

Henson shook his head, “We will have the funds we need on time as scheduled. Our product will arrive as expected. Our buyers are ready to receive and pay.”

“That’s excellent,” Barnabas said. “There's no need to remind you that the timing is crucial. We cannot keep an operation this large secret for long. It must all go down on Wednesday as planned.”

“I understand,” Henson said.

“The FBI mole,” Barnabas inquired. “Cicero? Does he have any idea we are on to him?”

“No.”

“And he is in San Francisco?”

“Yes.”

“Then switch the final buy to our LA operation... just to be safe.”

“It’s already done,” Henson said.

Barnabas smiled, “Then we need not feed the mole false information any longer. Eliminate him.”

“Already arranged.”

“Make him suffer,” Barnabas replied.

“I will.”

“You've done an excellent job, my friend.”

“I live to serve,” Henson said.

Barnabas noticed a tall, fifty-year-old slender man entering the restaurant.

“Our guest is here,” Barnabas said. “His name is Max Mason.”

Barnabas raised his hand. Max moved toward them. His face was leathery and dark. His bulbous nose appeared to have a dime-sized melanoma on the side. There were no greetings of any kind.  He pulled out a chair and sat next to the two men.

The man wore a uniform top. The logo on the pocket said “CBP,” which stood for Customs and Border Protection. At least it didn’t have his name emblazoned below the logo.

“Max. I thought I told you to not wear any identifying clothing,” Barnabas said.

Max shrugged, “I need to be back soon. It is what it is.”

“I don’t like loose ends,” Barnabas said.

“We’re sitting on the bank of the Puget Sound,” he snapped back. “No one will think anything about seeing a customs agent.” He glanced at Henson, “Who’s this character?”

“A friend of mine,” Barnabas replied. “No names, please.”

“I get it. Nice to meet you, friend.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Henson said.

“You've made the arrangements?” Barnabas asked.

“Indeed,” he replied.

“And there will be no foul-ups?”

Max shook his head, “None. You are in the clear... as long as you pay.”

Barnabas used his foot to slide the suitcase he’d brought in toward the leathery-faced man. Max picked it up, resting it on his lap. He looked around and opened it an inch or two, peeking inside.

“All good?” Barnabas asked.

Max smiled, “Yes. Then, we’re done here?” 

“We’re done,” he agreed.

Without further comment, Max stood and walked away, briefcase in hand.  Barnabas followed Max with his eyes until the restaurant door closed behind him, then he turned to Henson and nodded.

“Wait until he reaches the parking garage. He did a good job for me, so make it quick and painless.”

Henson nodded, “Should I retrieve the suitcase after I do the deed?”

“Please. It's expensive. Try not to get blood on it.”

Henson stood and left.

Barnabas looked out the window again and took in the beauty of the sound once again. The enormous Ferris wheel was spinning away; the ferry had docked; the pleasure boats still churning up waves; the barge still anchored. A wide grin formed on his face. Millie showed up with his order on a large serving tray.

“Is your friend coming back?” she asked. “His order is ready.”

“No, he had to... take care of something.”

He looked up at Millie and smiled. She looked somewhat confused but smiled back.

“Thank you so much,” he said. “I’m sorry if I was rude before. You know... your smile is beautiful.”