If you missed Part 1, click here.
“Bad thoughts,” she said, then whirled around and strutted away.
“That was strange, very strange.”
D’angelo turned around. Guy with a brown raincoat and aviator glasses took the barstool behind him.
“What?” said D’angelo.
“That whole thing, you know, with that girl? Sunset? Didn’t seem normal… not at all. Did it?”
“No,” said D’angelo. Weird was one way to describe that bombshell – Threatening fit better.
“Name’s John,” said the man in aviator glasses.
D’angelo shook his hand.
“She wanted your number, didn’t she? And that was it? Sunset?”
D’angelo pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yo bartender!”
The bartender stopped shaking the drink he’d been mixing.
“‘Nother whiskey ginger,” said D’angelo, tapping the bar counter. “Let’s go.”
“That was all she wanted?” said John.
D’angelo turned to him. “You’re wearin’ sunglasses. In a bar.”
John smirked.
“CIA or something?” said D’angelo.
Now John honed a full-on grin.
“Aight,” said D’angelo. “Whatchu got on that?”
“Suspicious, to say the least, dangerous, to say the most.”
“What kinda danger? You know her?”
John slid D’angelo a napkin and a pen.
“I can help, I think,” said John. “Number.”
D’angelo held a blink.
“Your number, write it down.” said John.
“Bartender!” said D’angelo.
“Hurry, time is running out. You should write it down, I think.”
“Why?”
“I can help, I deal with things… like this. A lot.”
“What things?”
“Odd Patterns. Stuff normal people miss.”
“You’re losin’ me.”
John chuckled. “I’m not surprised, but you are.”
D’angelo shook his head, then wrote down his number on the bar napkin. “Yo bartender!”
The bartender groaned as he brought over the whiskey ginger.
“9-1-8, 2-1-0-9,” said John.
D’angelo took his drink, then swirled it around.
“That’s why she wanted your number.”
D’angelo took a hefty swig, then coughed. “What?”
“The numbers. They mean something. You don’t know?”
“It’s a phone number. You get it at random.”
“You think. But sometimes, quite often, people think wrong. Others don’t.”
“Others? What? What the hell are you talkin’ about?”
John laughed through his nose. “Ordinary people, they never fail to amuse me,” he said, then tapped D’angelo’s digits into his smartphone.
“That makes you… what?”
“Extra-ordinary,” said John, with a sideways smile. He stood up. “Why don’t you come with me, I think you should.”
D’angelo raised his eyebrows, then followed John’s lead. John was much taller and well built, and oddly took long strides with only one leg. The two of them ditched the bar and carried on along the sidewalk outside.
“Everyday, millions of people go about their lives thinking they’re in control, but they’re not. Thinking that there is no big brother, thinking conspiracy theorists are loony, a bit nutty.”
D’angelo stopped. “That you? A Conspiracy theorist?”
John pulled his aviator glasses down to the tip of his nose. “I’m no theorist.”
D’angelo scratched the back of his head and nodded. The two returned to their pace.
“Why would the government, the U.S. government, care about a guy like you, is what you’re probably wondering,” said John.
“All I’m wonderin’ is why I’m still talkin’ to you.”
“The numbers.”
“What of ’em?”
“You want to know what I see, right, that’s what want you to know?”
“Nailed it bro.”
“Ok, alright, I see.”
“I don’t,” said D’angelo.
John laughed hysterically.
“Waddup, bro?”
“You do see. If you didn’t, you would trip, or at least need a cane.”
“Numbers John,” said D’angelo, before snapping. “Out with it.”
“Ok, I’ll tell you, but you’re not going to believe me.”
“I believe that.”
“Those numbers – your numbers, your phone number-”
“God-damn, bro! Spit it out!”
“Okay, I will, just hold on,” said John, before sticking his arm out. “You spot it?”
“What!”
“The cars – did you, do you notice that?”
“You’re on one.”
“A pattern. Green, red, red, blue, black, white.”
“Huh?”
“Watch,” said John, before pointing.
“You’re losin’ me bro.”
“Your phone number. It’s got coordinates.”
“What?”
“Treasure. Verizon didn’t give you that number – U.S. government did. Heard of Fort Knox?”
“You’re high.”
“Most certainly, I am not. Fort Knox doesn’t hold any treasure – it’s a showroom. All of it, an empty museum. Treasure is buried – destination? Unknown.”
“Ho-ly fuck.”
“People have been searching for it – people like me. She’s one of them. You can tell by her hair – purple streak? Symbolic.”
“Illuminati?”
“Knights of Templar. You’re the one. You’ve been chosen.”
D’angelo stared at him.
“Don’t worry, I don’t want the treasure. Gold means nothing to me. I’m a hunter, it’s what I do.” John violently grabbed D’angelo by the throat, forced his back against the building beside them, then pressed close with a finger in his face.
“But if you cross me, and I do solemnly swear it, I will kill you. It’s also what I do. I’ve done it before – treasure’s my life. Not keeping it, just finding it, I want to be the one who finds it. You can be the one it belongs to – but I’m going to be the one who finds it. I was born for that, destiny, it’s my gift. I had no ordinary birth-”
“Get off me!” said D’angelo, shoving John away. John fell on the ground, and his aviator glasses spilled off his face onto the sidewalk. Still at a hunch, he rushed to pick them up. D’angelo stomped on them before he could get a hold of them.
“You’re fucking crazy,” said D’angelo. “Stay the fuck away from me.”
John gradually erected straight. He glared back, red-faced and shaking.
D’angelo quit looking him in the eyes. “You’re crazy bro,” he said, then patted him on the shoulder.
John inhaled giant gulps of air, both fists clenched.
D’angelo shook his head, took two quick steps, then checked over his shoulder – John hadn’t moved. D’angelo broke into a sprint away.
To be continued…
- Thomas M. Watt
Thomas M. Watt 