True Terror - Chapter 1
Watson Drake’s eyes were closed tightly as he tried to control the pain invading his body. The man that had tried to slit Watson’s throat was standing there, talking to another of the hijackers. It was obvious that they thought Watson was dead. They would not be discussing what they were if they thought anyone was listening.
But Watson had managed to turn just enough to keep the sharpened edge of the boot arch support from slicing into his jugular when the hijacker slid it across Watson’s neck. The pain was intense, and there’d been blood. A lot of blood. But the improvised weapon had not cut either of the external jugulars, and only nicked the trachea.
As part of trying to control the pain in his neck, Watson was breathing very shallowly, making no sound, more than a little afraid the expedient knife that the man was holding, dripping Watson’s blood onto the floor of the Boeing 737, would be used on him again, with more success if the hijacker’s realized he wasn’t dead.
The sounds of people moaning and crying finally faded away as Watson lost consciousness. But not before he’d locked the words he’d heard into his mind. A time and date, and the words, “…when the pillars shake and the fires of death fall upon the Great Satan…”
Watson wasn’t out for long. But it was long enough for his body to have recovered slightly from the shock of the attempted murder. Barely breathing, opening his eyes only the barest crack, he took in the scene.
The man that had sliced him was standing near him, looking forward in the plane at his cohort in the hijacking. A third hijacker was hammering on the cockpit door, while a fourth held one of the cabin attendants against him, another sharpened boot arch support against her throat.
One man, big, sitting in an aisle seat just behind the man holding the cabin attendant, looked around at the hijacker. Watson must have moved for the man’s eyes dropped to Watson, lying on the cabin floor. It was enough to make the hijacker start to turn around to look, as well.
Watson knew he had no choice if he was to have any chance to live. He raised both feet and kicked into the side of the hijacker’s knees, taking him down. The big guy, realizing what he’d done, was immediately turning and rising from the seat, his hands up, crossed at the wrists. He hit the hijacker holding the attendant in the neck with crossed wrists.
Blood spurted from the man’s hand as it gripped the expedient knife to keep it from the attendant’s long, vulnerable neck. The attended raked her shoe down the hijacker’s shin and they all went down. The action spurned half a dozen other passengers into action. Three on one, in each case, was enough to take the other two hijackers down.
The hijacker Watson had kicked was groaning in pain with a shattered knee, but he was swinging the boot arch support toward Watson’s face. But a woman with a lap top computer in her hands slammed the hijacker in the back of the head with all her strength and he dropped down on Watson, out of it for the moment. But so was Watson.
He didn’t see the passengers truss up the four hijackers, and then get Watson back in a seat, his neck bandaged by the cabin attendant that had been under the hijackers weapon. He came to on a gurney, looking up into the eyes of a concerned paramedic. His eyes cut toward the big man sitting in a seat ahead of the gurney. A hand with a bloody bandage waved slightly. He was suddenly gone, a paramedic leading him out of the plane for further care.
“You are one lucky man,” the paramedic working on Watson’s neck said. Another millimeter and you’d be dead. You lucky you aren’t anyway. You’ve lost quite a bit of blood. That nick in the trachea is not a problem, but the one in your left exterior jugular could have gone at any time. Still could. So stay calm and we’ll get you into surgery to get a couple of stitches in the right places. Then you’ll be out of danger.”
“The jugular was nicked?” was all Watson had time to say before he passed out again. Something brought him around as the paramedics took the gurney off the plane to thunderous applause. Passengers and crew alike were standing there, applauding as Watson was rolled by.
“He’s the one that got it going,” said the big guy. “His actions saved us all. And a cut throat, to boot.”
The paramedics hurried him away to an ambulance, thankfully. Watson wanted to protest that he’d done anything except try to save his own life, but was afraid to even speak, the thought of his jugular spurting blood making him try and stay as calm as possible.
Watson was in a hospital bed a day later, waiting to be released after undergoing the minor surgery to stitch up his trachea and jugular vein. That was when the investigation team came in and he thought he was going to pop the jugular anyway.
He tried his best to get the information across that there was some kind of plan in place due on the date he kept giving them. None of the questioners seemed at all inclined to believe him. “They wouldn’t have been doing what they were doing, if something larger was planned, Mr. Drake. You let us figure out what is going on. You just answer our questions honestly and we’ll take it from there. If there is something else going on, we’ll figure it out.”
Exhausted, Watson quit trying, just doing as they asked, answering questions, or trying to. He didn’t have answers for many of them. But that didn’t seem to bother them. “Don’t worry, Drake. When we have everyone debriefed we’ll know exactly what went on and why.”
“I hope so,” Drake told the very confident looking and sounding woman. He finally got out of the hospital just before dark. His things had been given back to him, so he had a change of clothes to put on before he went to find a cab. He managed to avoid the reporters waiting to talk to him.
With a deep sigh of relief, Watson checked into a motel and took a long shower, avoiding getting his bandages wet. He slept for almost thirty-six hours, getting up only twice to go to the bathroom. He woke up ravenously hungry and thirsty. He took a couple of sips of water when he brushed his teeth, and then went down to the motel lobby to catch a cab.
As hungry as he was, the Continental Breakfast just wouldn’t cut it. He had the cabbie take him to a restaurant and paid it off. He got a paper before he went in, and stood there reading about himself on the front page, waiting to be seated.
Watson was shaking his head when the hostess came up. “A problem, Sir?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. Just don’t believe everything you read in the paper.”
“Or watch on TV,” the young woman said, showing Watson to a vacant table for two. “You’re server will be right with you.”
“Thank you,” Watson said and then turned back to the paper. He continued to read as his order was taken and then brought to the table. Eating slowly, Watson savored every bite of the breakfast as he went through the newspaper from cover to cover.
After the meal, he caught another cab and went back to the motel. A few hours later he was on another plane, this one taking him home, having given the presentation to a potential customer despite the bandages on his throat.
He had a feeling he wouldn’t get the contract, since the entire staff at the company was more interested in the hijacking and his part of it. Watson had not been too sure about the prospect, anyway, but you took every shot you could in these economic times.
When Watson arrived back at his condo at seven the next morning, he stripped, including the bandages, and took a long soak in the hot tub before going to bed for another twenty-four hours of sleep.
He woke up Wednesday, refreshed, and glad to be alive, he realized over breakfast. Then the thought of what he’d heard the one hijacker tell another came to him. He went to the laptop computer on his desk and turned it on after plugging it in. He pulled up the date that had been mentioned and tried to discern how it might be an important date to the hijackers.
It was an ordinary day, nine months hence, as far as he could tell. No religious significance to any specific religion. No holiday anywhere he could find. Just a Wednesday. Like this one.
Watson leaned back in the desk chair and looked out over the city. He had a great view of Lake Michigan and the Magnificent Mile of Chicago. He was making eight-hundred thousand a year on commissions, working just twenty hours a week, banking most of it, living the life of Riley. He drove a Rolls Royce Phantom. Had every electronic device available, enough gold and silver men’s jewelry that he seldom wore to adorn even the most lavish ancient monarch.
Two thousand dollar suits. Meals out almost every night at Chicago’s finest establishments, and then Friday nights out on the town with any one of a dozen beautiful women that counted themselves lucky to be asked occasionally.
Why was he suddenly feeling unfulfilled? At a loss? Watson pulled up the next project he was working on. The building suddenly looked flashy, gaudy, not suave and trendy, like it should be. What was wrong?
Still leaning back in the chair with his hands cupped around the back of his head, Watson spoke out loud. “It’s November 16, 2011 that is bothering me. And what those terrorists have planned.”
Watson suddenly leaned forward and turned to the computer. He searched for significant events on November 16. There were lots of entries, but nothing he could discern that would be a rousing cry for anyone.
He found himself researching terrorism. That led to some of the things that terrorists might do. That led Watson to how to prepare for what terrorists might do. Then to general survival and prepping for the end of the world. And finally to self-sufficiency.
At eleven-thirty that evening Watson stretched and groaned. He’d been on the computer all day long. He was hungry and thirsty, with oh so many things going on in his mind. Not bothering to change into a suit, Watson headed down to the parking garage and got into the Rolls. He ran his hand over the smooth leather. He started up the powerful, quiet engine.
Shaking his head as he thought of the cow that the leather might have come from, and the horsepower he had harnessed in the vehicle that could be plowing a field for crops. Heading for the nearest favorite restaurant, Watson began to count up his assets in his head. But it was too confusing. He had money in several places. Diversity was the key to investments, he’d been taught. “Funny thing,” he muttered. “Those survivalist, preppers, and self-sufficiency people all seem to believe in that, too.”
The restaurant wouldn’t let him in. He didn’t have a jacket or tie. Just the three hundred dollar shirt, five hundred dollar pants, and seven hundred dollar shoes. Of course the maitre’ d gave him a jacket from those the restaurant kept for just such an occasion. Along with a tie.
Watson didn’t find the idea objectionable. A place of business could be run however the owners wanted it. But the sudden thought that came to him was that he wasn’t prepared. Not even for going to a specific restaurant.
“You have a lot to learn,” Watson muttered to himself. Then he enjoyed one of the best steak and lobster dinners he’d had in some time. And paid the hefty price without blinking. But the last thought in his mind before he fell asleep after going home was, “Wonder where that food had to come from?”
The first thing that Watson did the next morning was check his various portfolios of investments. Some were up, and some were down. Diversity was paying off. But what good would they do him if terrorists knocked out the financial district here or in New York?
The more questions he had, and the more research he did to answer them, led to even more research. He was getting an inkling of a plan, but he wasn’t about to rush into something without thinking it through completely. That was how he designed buildings and developments. By addressing every detail thoroughly, and combining them in winning combinations.
So Watson decided to start planning. He had the computer system with which to do it. Three large screen monitors, plus the widescreen laptop display allowed him to have a couple of internet windows open, a word document to take notes, and a spreadsheet to plug numbers into.
Watson had to force himself to get back on the last project he had in the works. He’d already been turned down on the one he’d made the presentation for after the hijacking. He found himself starting over almost from scratch, but was more than pleased with the result when he wrapped it up a week later.
He sent it off to the developers and received an almost immediate acceptance. “That’s another two-hundred-thousand in the ol’ bank account,” Watson mused when he got the acceptance notification. “Now, what to do with it?”
An idea suddenly came to him and he went to the computer to look up places to buy gold and silver. He had some mining stocks, but having the precious metals in hand was supposed to be much better.
But suddenly he paused. It occurred to him that there was another caveat about owning gold and silver. The fewer people that knew of it, the better, and in a like manner, the less paper trail left, the better.
“Hmm,” he thought. Then he smiled. “Wonder where my checkbooks are?” He had a plan.
Taking the Rolls to the main office of one of the banks he used, he went in, checkbook in hand. He’d been made aware of the limit of cash that could be withdrawn without causing any unwanted waves.
Twenty minutes later Watson walked out of the bank with nine-thousand dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills. Three hours later, after trips to each of the Chicago banks he used, he had a total of fifty-four-thousand dollars.
When he went home that night, after travelling all over Chicago to different coin shops he had a few dollars left, plus forty bright, shiny, new one-ounce Gold Eagles. He was smiling when he went to bed, the coins in the safe behind one of the Picasso’s hanging in the living room of the condo.
Watson had just made his first step to reaching the new goal of becoming as self-sufficient as possible. Before November 16, 2011.
The gold acquisition had satisfied Watson’s initial need to do something constructive on his way to independence from ‘The Grid’ as he thought of it. Some intangible something that he wanted to be free of, rather than just electric lines, water line, sewer lines and so on.
So he began to research more things on the internet. Everything to do with going ‘Off Grid’, as well as surviving the various things that could happen between now and whatever it was that was going to happen on ‘The Date”.
Fairly aware of the weather dangers of Chicago, Watson investigated those, and the new ones he discovered during his research. He did dearly love the city, despite the negatives, but it was obvious from the first that going independent wasn’t going to happen in the city. Nor even on the outskirts.
His research kept pointing toward a working farm and ranch, run with as much efficiency as possible, with the least dependence on outside resources. Watson quickly marked off the idea of becoming completely self-sufficient and independent of ‘The Grid’. It really wasn’t doable.
But there were degrees of independence, and many of the dependencies could be made much more dependable than the current version, or alternatives developed. Still an infrastructure, but one less likely to be disrupted by anything outside Watson’s control.
Normally the path he was on took several years of hard work, scrimping, saving, learning new things, and building things up slowly. “Not enough time,” Watson muttered one evening after considering and discarding several ideas on how to do what he wanted done.
“There are people that know what I need to know,” he mused, swiveling back and forth in the desk chair, hands behind his head in the position that he so often assumed when in deep thought.
Suddenly his eyes cut toward one of the expensive prints hanging on the wall near his desk. He slowly turned the chair, taking in all the works of art he had ‘invested’ in over the years. “Wonder how many cans of beans I could get for one of those in the PAW?” A second later he answered his own question. “Not any.”
Sighing, Watson set up straight and turned back to the computer. He pulled up the spreadsheet that held his insurance inventory of objects in the condo. “Sheesh!” he muttered. “Talk about buying some beans…”
Though it was late, Watson opened up his cell phone and ran through his contact list. Janey Montenna was his art person. They saw each other socially at times, and she had got him started in collecting art as an ‘investment for the future’ as she’d put it.
“Janey! Yes, it is Watson. I’d like to talk to you tomorrow about my collection… Yes. That would be fine. I’ll see you for lunch.”
With something else started, Watson relaxed, able to prepare and enjoy the simple meal he put together from his first ever real purchase of ‘regular’ food. He went to bed after a half an hour on his exercise machine. “Need to do something real, there, too,” Watson decided. He was fairly fit and trim, but it was all machine made. Could he travel ten miles with a pack on his back? “No, not yet,” he muttered just before falling asleep.
Janey was distraught. All the great buys she’d found for him and he was going to give them away. Janey sniffed and her right hand held a delicate hanky to her eyes as tears formed.
“I’m not giving them away, Janey,” Watson told the woman quietly. “I expect to sell them at a large profit to… Well, I have some other investments in mind.”
The tears stopped, and the hand with the hanky went to the table top. “Who is it? You found another dealer?”
Watson sighed. Quite the change in Janey when she thought she was just being out sold. “No, Janey. Nothing like that. I just want some tangible things. Things I can touch.”
“You can touch those things! Well… Perhaps not the paintings… And you have to be very careful with the glassware… The carvings… well, they shouldn’t be handled too much…”
“That’s not what I meant, Janey. I want something worthwhile that is also useful. Not just something pretty to look at.”
“You just tell me what you want, Watson, and I’ll find it for you.”
“I don’t think you’d be interested in finding me the things I’m thinking about. But back on track. When can we have the auction?”
“Two weeks, I suppose,” Janey replied, feeling defeated. “It will take that long to get things moved and catalogued.”
“You see to it, Janey, and there will be a nice fee in it for you.”
That perked the woman up some, Watson saw. And then he got a good look at her eyes. They were focused off in the distance. “Calculating on who she can broker them to, or I miss my guess,” Watson thought.
“I must go,” Janey said after heartily consuming her lunch. “I’ll get back to you with the particulars.”
“Okay, Janey. Thank you.” Watson stood and took her hand for a limp handshake when Janey held it out. He sat back down and continued to eat his desert and finish his coffee.
Watson had thought that dealing with Janey had been a pain. It struck him later the next day that she hadn’t held a candle against what his investment ‘team’ put him through when he told them what he wanted.
“You cannot sell everything, Watson! It just isn’t done!” said Bill Duggan, the lead member of the investment ‘team’ that was the company that handled Watson’s financial holdings.
“What do you mean I can’t?” Watson asked, with just a bit of chill in his voice.
“Well… Of course you can sell them. But it just isn’t done. You could stand to lose millions in upcoming profits!”
“You think the markets are going to turn around?” Watson asked, watching closely Bill’s eyes. They wouldn’t meet Watson’s.
“Well, it is a volatile market. There are never any guarantees. You know that. Let me do a little research and see what I can find that will be more to what you want… Which… Actually, I don’t know what you want to get into when you sell what you have.”
“I want cash, Billy. Cash in my account.”
“Cash! Are you nu…” Bill shut up for a moment when Watson looked ready to get up and walk out. “Okay. Okay. Cash it is. At least you’re leaving it in the account. I’ll be able to pick up whatever bargains there are that you must obviously be looking into.”
Watson didn’t tell Bill that the cash wouldn’t be in the account for long. Instead, he just stood up and shook Bill’s hand. “Thank you, Bill. I knew you and the ‘team’ would do just what I needed done. Keep me informed whenever you make a sale.”
Bill stood, too, to shake Watson’s hand. “Of course. Just part of the service.”
Watson had always believed that, but was beginning to get the feeling he was just one more dollar sign in Bill’s eyes.
The next upset person in Watson’s life was his real estate broker. He held parcels of land and interest in several building projects in and around Chicago. Twinette Zoagle, Watson thought, was going to have a heart attack. Or a seizure.
“Are you all right, Twinette?” Perhaps you’d better sit down.
“Oh, Honey! You’ve just given me a case of the flutters. Dear boy, tell me now you are joking and all things will be well.”
“Twinette, I’m not joking. I want to sell all my holdings in and around Chicago, including the condo, and buy a farm or ranch somewhere in the rural areas of the state. Or over in Missouri, up in Michigan… I’m not sure yet just exactly where I want to be.”
“Surely you don’t mean you are moving, as well! Not out of Chicago!”
Twinette looked worse, Watson thought. He filled a glass with water from the sideboard in her office and handed it to her. She took a tiny sip, her eyes on Watson.
“Does this have something to do with Janey Montenna? She offered me several works that I know are in your collection.”
“Same reason,” Watson said. “But that isn’t really a concern here. I just need you to list my properties and sell them for as much as you can.”
“You really are serious, aren’t you, dear?”
“I am, Twinette. I really don’t want to go into the whys and wherefores.
“If you insist, deary. If you insist. I shall humbly do your bidding.” A limp handshake reminiscent of Janey’s, and Watson left the office.
What he’d experienced over the last several days had him a little leery about his next step. Replacing the Rolls Royce Phantom with something a bit more Prep-worthy. He just couldn’t picture himself in an old, beat up, dirty pickup truck.
And a Cadillac Escalade was probably too citified for what he might have to do with a vehicle. But first, get rid of the Rolls. He could pick up a BMW or Mercedes Benz to drive for awhile while he looked for something else.
Going to the closest dealer, Watson was talking to the manager about selling the Phantom, with little success, when a salesman knocked on the door and asked to talk to the manager.
Watson wandered out to wait while the two discussed something. He noticed an elderly couple looking over the Phantom and went out to talk to them, mostly just for something to do.
“Nice car,” said the man. “Is it yours?”
Watson nodded. “Sure is. Hello, I’m Watson Drake. You here for service?”
“Oh, no,” said the woman. “We want to buy one. Is yours here for service? We thought they were very reliable.”
Watson smiled. “Oh, they are. I’m not here for service. Actually, I’m trying to sell mine.”
“But why, if they are such good cars?” asked the man. He was running his fingertips over the shiny finish of Watson’s Phantom. “I’m Glen and this is Elsie. Miller.”
Watson shook their hands and said, “Oh, sort of a mid-life crisis sort of thing, I suppose. I’m going to get one of the SUVs. Four wheel drive and all that.”
“You’re too young to have a mid-life crisis,” Elsie said.
Watson smiled back. A salesman came over and Glen and Elsie followed him off to look at the showroom models. Watson just stood and watched the sky. It was a glorious day out. He turned when the manager approached. They began discussing again the sale of the Phantom back to the dealership. The manager simply didn’t want to do it. He shot Watson a ridiculously lowball offer.
“No, thanks,” Watson said. “I’ll deal elsewhere.”
Glen and Elsie were again standing by the Phantom when Watson walked out of the building. “So, did you buy one?” he asked.
Both turned sad eyes on him. “No,” Glen said.
“They are so much more than we expected,” Elsie said.
“How much did you want to spend?” Watson asked.
When Glen told him how much they’d set aside for the car of their dreams, Watson whistled. “Well, if that isn’t a coincidence? That’s about what I was willing to sell mine for. Care to take a ride?”
“You aren’t serious!” Elsie said.
“Totally,” Watson replied. It might not be the maximum that he could get for the car, but it was enough. He just felt for the couple. They had their hearts set on a Rolls in their last years.
Watson opened the passenger door and handed Elsie in. “You drive,” he told Glen and tossed him the key.
“You really are serious!” Glen said. When Watson nodded, Glen grinned and got in behind the wheel.
Half an hour later they were back at the dealership. Glen parked the Phantom next to the couple’s Audi A8L W12 luxury sedan. The three got out of the Phantom and Watson walked around the car to shake first Glen’s and then Elsie’s hand. “I’ll be by Saturday.”
“We’ll have a cashier’s check in hand,” Glen said.
The two got in the Audi and drove off. Watson looked over at the dealership office and saw the manager looking at him. Watson just waved, got into the Phantom, and drove away, grinning.
With the Phantom sold, Watson decided to stop and get something else to drive while he looked for an appropriate Prep vehicle. He was headed toward a BMW dealership, but saw a Mercedes Benz dealership just ahead on the right side of the road. It really didn’t matter much to him what he got. He just wanted a good car.
So he pulled into the dealership and parked the Phantom out of the way. He began going down the line of vehicles, just looking at them to see if something stood out. A salesman was on the way out. With the experience he’d just had he wasn’t really looking to dealing with another one.
But the woman was there and Watson was too much of a gentleman to brush her off. “How can I help you today, Sir?”
“Sold my old car. Just looking for an interim car. I want to get an SUV, but I want to look around some before I buy.”
“Look no further,” the woman said. “We have the best line of SUVs and cross-over vehicles on the market.
Watson had to smile. She’d said it with such a straight and sincere expression. And she was pretty. Why not spend a little time looking at vehicles?
“Okay. What do you have?” Watson asked.
“Have you decided on a cross-over, compact SUV, or full size? We have quite a selection of all three. We even have a G55 AMG. Probably the best SUV on the market.”
Watson had a hard time concentrating on her words. The skirt she wore was swirling around in the wind, providing delightful glimpses of long, long legs.
“Uh… Yes. If it’s the best, might as well look at it first,” Watson said, dragging his eyes up to the woman’s face.
She smiled at him. He knew she must have seen where his eyes had been, but didn’t seem to mind. Watson smiled back.
“It is right over here,” she said, sweeping an arm for Watson to precede her.
“Not in the display room? I would have thought if it was the best, it would be show cased.”
The grin exposed some dimples, Watson noticed. “Normally the best of the best is in the showroom. But this vehicle is a bit out of the ordinary. Not very many people are going to be interested. It is the best, but it is expensive. We have a good price on it, I assure you. But for most SUV buyers it is a little above their reach. And believe me, the weather isn’t going to hurt it any.”
“You didn’t see what I drove into the lot in, did you?”
“Oh. You have a trade in?” the woman asked.
“Nope. Sold it outright. Just asking. So. This it?”
“This is it. G55 AMG. Five-hundred go anywhere horsepower.”
“Not claiming to know much about SUVs,” Watson said. “But what makes this worth…” Watson looked at the sticker and whistled. It was a great deal more than he thought it would be just looking at the boxy thing. “This much?” he continued, pointing his thumb at the sticker.
“If you’ll come inside, I’ll show you. But are you sure you don’t want to look at another of these SUVs first?” The woman obviously thought that the G55 AMG might be out of Watson’s reach.
“No. I don’t think so. I would like to know more about this one, though.”
Watson had to admit, she was good. He had a feeling the rig got a lot of lookers and inquiries, and very few buyers. But she didn’t show it. Watson followed her into the showroom and into a cubical.
She turned a computer display around and pulled up the information on the G55 AMG. She definitely was good, and did know her stuff. Watson learned more in the twenty minutes he spent with her than he had in a day of research on the internet.
“What is your best price?” Watson finally said.
“I’m afraid, that on this vehicle, it will be the sticker price. They are few and far between. And worth every penny of the price.” She said firmly and with some pride.
“Out the door?”
“Sure,” the woman replied, “For a sale like this, of course.”
“Oh. Okay. I’ll take it.”
Her eyes widened remarkably. “You’ll take it? Just like that?”
Watson grinned. “Sure do. I’ll write you a check.”
“A check? I’m afraid we’ll have to wait for the check to clear, Mr…”
“Drake. Watson Drake. And your name?”
“Karri, Mr. Drake. Let me talk to the manager…”
“Don’t wait too long, Karri. I need to be going in a few minutes.”
“Yes. Of course.”
Watson was smiling when he pulled out his checkbook from the inside breast pocket of his suit coat. He had the check written out when Karri and the dealership’s manager came back into the room.
“Here you go. I need to be on my way. When can I pick it up, do you think?” Watson was watching Karri. She looked a little concerned. As if she might be wasting her boss’ time and that he wouldn’t like it.
“Sure! Sure!” the man nearly bellowed. “Tell you what, give me five minutes to verify this and we’ll have you out the door.” It was an almost evil grin on the man’s face. Karri didn’t seem to like it any more than Watson did.
“He thinks I’m just stringing you along, doesn’t he?” Watson asked.
Karri had settled into her chair behind the desk and prepared to defend a boss she didn’t really care for. “You have to understand…”
“Mr. Drake!” said the manager. He was standing in the doorway. “Karri! Why didn’t you tell me this was Watson Drake?” His manner was totally different. Almost deferential. “We can have the vehicle ready by tomorrow, first thing in the morning.”
Karri’s eyes widened again. “The check is good?” she asked.
“Of course,” said the manager. “Don’t be disrespectful of our clientele. You should be ashamed. Come, Mr. Drake. I’ll finish up the paperwork with you.
Karri was red in the face. Watson mouthed a heartfelt ‘Sorry’ to her and she gave him a slight nod, her color returning to normal.
Watson was treated like royalty during the rest of the process of signing the papers for the car. The manager couldn’t do enough to please him. It was rather cloying and Watson was glad when it was over.
After shaking the manager’s hand for the fourth time, having to drag it almost forcefully from his grip, Watson started to walk over to Karri’s office. The manager watched for a moment, but then shrugged and went to his office. It was a done deal. Watson couldn’t back out now without some serious penalties.
“Care to go get a drink to wash the bad taste out of your mouth?” Watson asked, leaning against the door jamb.
“What?” Karri asked. “I’m not one to date our customers, Mr. Drake.”
“That I can understand. But seeing as your boss is taking credit for the sale, I don’t think I qualify as your customer.”
“Why that no good, low down…” The red was back in her face for a moment as she abruptly quit speaking. “Just a minute.”
Karri was typing on the computer keyboard with a vengeance. “You’re right. He signed off as the seller, leaving me out in the cold.” She said, looking up at Watson. “Would that be a double, by chance?”
“Whatever you want,” Watson replied.
Not quite slamming drawers closed, Karri took a few things out of the desk and grabbed a couple of jackets hanging on a coat stand in one corner of her office. She marched straight from her office to the door of the manager’s.
“One too many times, Angelo! I quit! Have Clarence send me the paperwork and my final check.” Karri turned on a heel and headed for the exit.
Watson followed along quietly until they were outside. “Good for you. I didn’t like it much when he did that.”
“Which car?” Karri asked, standing beside the Phantom.
Watson reached down and opened the passenger door. “This one. Until Saturday. I sold it.”
“You sold a Rolls Royce Phantom to buy a Mercedes Benz G55 AMG?”
“Well, that wasn’t my intent when I sold it. Didn’t know what I was going to buy eventually,” Watson said. He started the car and backed it out of the parking slot. “I just came in here to get a regular sedan until I could research SUVs a bit more. You gave me the education I needed and sold me the best there is.”
“You bought just on my recommendation?” Karri asked.
Watson looked over at her for a moment and nodded.
“Well. Don’t know what to say. Oh.” She pulled out a cell phone and speed dialed a number. “Need to let my girlfriend know not to pick me up at work.”
Watson paid attention to the heavy Chicago traffic as Karri tried to explain to her friend what had transpired. He couldn’t keep from smiling a couple of times at her exasperated tone when her friend didn’t seem to believe her.
Finally Karri closed the phone and sighed. “Expect the third degree when you drop me off.”
Watson laughed as he pulled into one of the bars he went to occasionally.
“I’m a little out of my class here,” Karri said. “I was intending to buy a round, too.”
“Don’t worry about it. I just wanted some way to apologize for what I caused to happen to you.”
“It isn’t your fault, Mr. Drake. I’ve been so close to quitting so many times recently… It was only a matter of time.”
“It’s Watson. Well, to be honest, I like you, too. Otherwise I’d just have sent flowers in apology.”
“Oh. I hope you don’t expect anything but a thank you for the drinks.”
Watson shook his head and opened the driver’s door. “I’m not like that,” he said simply.
Karri believed him. She took his arm when he offered it to her after he opened the passenger door.
An hour and a half later Watson walked Karri to the front door of a modest house in one of the nicer Chicago suburbs. The door opened and the porch light came on before they reached the door.
A woman about Karri’s age stood in the door and just looked at Watson.
“Sorry,” Karri said, giving the woman a light shove so she could step inside. She turned and looked up at Watson’s eyes. “Call me?”
“You can bet on it,” Watson said. He turned around and walked lightly to the car. He hadn’t met anyone as interesting as Karri in a long time. And he really didn’t know that much about her. Yet.
A cab ride to the dealership the next morning and Watson was the proud owner of the G55 AMG. He drove home and began to research what additions, if any, he would need to make to the vehicle to make it into the best that it could be.
That Saturday Watson had a cab meet him at the Miller’s house and exchanged the Phantom for a cashier’s check. He tucked the check into a pocket and had the cabbie take him to the condo.
His plan for the rest of the day was to sort through his personal belongings with an eye to what was of real value and what was just for show. He’d gone through a stage after he’d make it big, and had a girlfriend in the jewelry business, of buying very high quality men’s jewelry.
Once the woman had dropped him for someone with a lot more money, Watson had worn very little of it. So he was ruthless when he began the separation process. When he was finished, the keeper items fit in one hand. Those to be sold were a double handful.
That task done, Watson did the same thing with his walk-in closet of clothes. Again, everything was of high quality, but he just didn’t wear many of them anymore. And if he was going to live a more outdoor lifestyle, his favorites would do for the dressier occasions. He would need to get more outdoor clothes, but not until he researched some more. He had a feeling four-hundred-dollar designer blue jeans weren’t the answer.
Pleased with what he received for the jewelry he converted it all to more gold coins, this time fractional ounces. He got a bit for the clothing he didn’t want at a retro shop, since most of his clothing was classic styles. The rest he donated to the Salvation Army.
Copyright 2010
Watson Drake’s eyes were closed tightly as he tried to control the pain invading his body. The man that had tried to slit Watson’s throat was standing there, talking to another of the hijackers. It was obvious that they thought Watson was dead. They would not be discussing what they were if they thought anyone was listening.
But Watson had managed to turn just enough to keep the sharpened edge of the boot arch support from slicing into his jugular when the hijacker slid it across Watson’s neck. The pain was intense, and there’d been blood. A lot of blood. But the improvised weapon had not cut either of the external jugulars, and only nicked the trachea.
As part of trying to control the pain in his neck, Watson was breathing very shallowly, making no sound, more than a little afraid the expedient knife that the man was holding, dripping Watson’s blood onto the floor of the Boeing 737, would be used on him again, with more success if the hijacker’s realized he wasn’t dead.
The sounds of people moaning and crying finally faded away as Watson lost consciousness. But not before he’d locked the words he’d heard into his mind. A time and date, and the words, “…when the pillars shake and the fires of death fall upon the Great Satan…”
Watson wasn’t out for long. But it was long enough for his body to have recovered slightly from the shock of the attempted murder. Barely breathing, opening his eyes only the barest crack, he took in the scene.
The man that had sliced him was standing near him, looking forward in the plane at his cohort in the hijacking. A third hijacker was hammering on the cockpit door, while a fourth held one of the cabin attendants against him, another sharpened boot arch support against her throat.
One man, big, sitting in an aisle seat just behind the man holding the cabin attendant, looked around at the hijacker. Watson must have moved for the man’s eyes dropped to Watson, lying on the cabin floor. It was enough to make the hijacker start to turn around to look, as well.
Watson knew he had no choice if he was to have any chance to live. He raised both feet and kicked into the side of the hijacker’s knees, taking him down. The big guy, realizing what he’d done, was immediately turning and rising from the seat, his hands up, crossed at the wrists. He hit the hijacker holding the attendant in the neck with crossed wrists.
Blood spurted from the man’s hand as it gripped the expedient knife to keep it from the attendant’s long, vulnerable neck. The attended raked her shoe down the hijacker’s shin and they all went down. The action spurned half a dozen other passengers into action. Three on one, in each case, was enough to take the other two hijackers down.
The hijacker Watson had kicked was groaning in pain with a shattered knee, but he was swinging the boot arch support toward Watson’s face. But a woman with a lap top computer in her hands slammed the hijacker in the back of the head with all her strength and he dropped down on Watson, out of it for the moment. But so was Watson.
He didn’t see the passengers truss up the four hijackers, and then get Watson back in a seat, his neck bandaged by the cabin attendant that had been under the hijackers weapon. He came to on a gurney, looking up into the eyes of a concerned paramedic. His eyes cut toward the big man sitting in a seat ahead of the gurney. A hand with a bloody bandage waved slightly. He was suddenly gone, a paramedic leading him out of the plane for further care.
“You are one lucky man,” the paramedic working on Watson’s neck said. Another millimeter and you’d be dead. You lucky you aren’t anyway. You’ve lost quite a bit of blood. That nick in the trachea is not a problem, but the one in your left exterior jugular could have gone at any time. Still could. So stay calm and we’ll get you into surgery to get a couple of stitches in the right places. Then you’ll be out of danger.”
“The jugular was nicked?” was all Watson had time to say before he passed out again. Something brought him around as the paramedics took the gurney off the plane to thunderous applause. Passengers and crew alike were standing there, applauding as Watson was rolled by.
“He’s the one that got it going,” said the big guy. “His actions saved us all. And a cut throat, to boot.”
The paramedics hurried him away to an ambulance, thankfully. Watson wanted to protest that he’d done anything except try to save his own life, but was afraid to even speak, the thought of his jugular spurting blood making him try and stay as calm as possible.
Watson was in a hospital bed a day later, waiting to be released after undergoing the minor surgery to stitch up his trachea and jugular vein. That was when the investigation team came in and he thought he was going to pop the jugular anyway.
He tried his best to get the information across that there was some kind of plan in place due on the date he kept giving them. None of the questioners seemed at all inclined to believe him. “They wouldn’t have been doing what they were doing, if something larger was planned, Mr. Drake. You let us figure out what is going on. You just answer our questions honestly and we’ll take it from there. If there is something else going on, we’ll figure it out.”
Exhausted, Watson quit trying, just doing as they asked, answering questions, or trying to. He didn’t have answers for many of them. But that didn’t seem to bother them. “Don’t worry, Drake. When we have everyone debriefed we’ll know exactly what went on and why.”
“I hope so,” Drake told the very confident looking and sounding woman. He finally got out of the hospital just before dark. His things had been given back to him, so he had a change of clothes to put on before he went to find a cab. He managed to avoid the reporters waiting to talk to him.
With a deep sigh of relief, Watson checked into a motel and took a long shower, avoiding getting his bandages wet. He slept for almost thirty-six hours, getting up only twice to go to the bathroom. He woke up ravenously hungry and thirsty. He took a couple of sips of water when he brushed his teeth, and then went down to the motel lobby to catch a cab.
As hungry as he was, the Continental Breakfast just wouldn’t cut it. He had the cabbie take him to a restaurant and paid it off. He got a paper before he went in, and stood there reading about himself on the front page, waiting to be seated.
Watson was shaking his head when the hostess came up. “A problem, Sir?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. Just don’t believe everything you read in the paper.”
“Or watch on TV,” the young woman said, showing Watson to a vacant table for two. “You’re server will be right with you.”
“Thank you,” Watson said and then turned back to the paper. He continued to read as his order was taken and then brought to the table. Eating slowly, Watson savored every bite of the breakfast as he went through the newspaper from cover to cover.
After the meal, he caught another cab and went back to the motel. A few hours later he was on another plane, this one taking him home, having given the presentation to a potential customer despite the bandages on his throat.
He had a feeling he wouldn’t get the contract, since the entire staff at the company was more interested in the hijacking and his part of it. Watson had not been too sure about the prospect, anyway, but you took every shot you could in these economic times.
When Watson arrived back at his condo at seven the next morning, he stripped, including the bandages, and took a long soak in the hot tub before going to bed for another twenty-four hours of sleep.
He woke up Wednesday, refreshed, and glad to be alive, he realized over breakfast. Then the thought of what he’d heard the one hijacker tell another came to him. He went to the laptop computer on his desk and turned it on after plugging it in. He pulled up the date that had been mentioned and tried to discern how it might be an important date to the hijackers.
It was an ordinary day, nine months hence, as far as he could tell. No religious significance to any specific religion. No holiday anywhere he could find. Just a Wednesday. Like this one.
Watson leaned back in the desk chair and looked out over the city. He had a great view of Lake Michigan and the Magnificent Mile of Chicago. He was making eight-hundred thousand a year on commissions, working just twenty hours a week, banking most of it, living the life of Riley. He drove a Rolls Royce Phantom. Had every electronic device available, enough gold and silver men’s jewelry that he seldom wore to adorn even the most lavish ancient monarch.
Two thousand dollar suits. Meals out almost every night at Chicago’s finest establishments, and then Friday nights out on the town with any one of a dozen beautiful women that counted themselves lucky to be asked occasionally.
Why was he suddenly feeling unfulfilled? At a loss? Watson pulled up the next project he was working on. The building suddenly looked flashy, gaudy, not suave and trendy, like it should be. What was wrong?
Still leaning back in the chair with his hands cupped around the back of his head, Watson spoke out loud. “It’s November 16, 2011 that is bothering me. And what those terrorists have planned.”
Watson suddenly leaned forward and turned to the computer. He searched for significant events on November 16. There were lots of entries, but nothing he could discern that would be a rousing cry for anyone.
He found himself researching terrorism. That led to some of the things that terrorists might do. That led Watson to how to prepare for what terrorists might do. Then to general survival and prepping for the end of the world. And finally to self-sufficiency.
At eleven-thirty that evening Watson stretched and groaned. He’d been on the computer all day long. He was hungry and thirsty, with oh so many things going on in his mind. Not bothering to change into a suit, Watson headed down to the parking garage and got into the Rolls. He ran his hand over the smooth leather. He started up the powerful, quiet engine.
Shaking his head as he thought of the cow that the leather might have come from, and the horsepower he had harnessed in the vehicle that could be plowing a field for crops. Heading for the nearest favorite restaurant, Watson began to count up his assets in his head. But it was too confusing. He had money in several places. Diversity was the key to investments, he’d been taught. “Funny thing,” he muttered. “Those survivalist, preppers, and self-sufficiency people all seem to believe in that, too.”
The restaurant wouldn’t let him in. He didn’t have a jacket or tie. Just the three hundred dollar shirt, five hundred dollar pants, and seven hundred dollar shoes. Of course the maitre’ d gave him a jacket from those the restaurant kept for just such an occasion. Along with a tie.
Watson didn’t find the idea objectionable. A place of business could be run however the owners wanted it. But the sudden thought that came to him was that he wasn’t prepared. Not even for going to a specific restaurant.
“You have a lot to learn,” Watson muttered to himself. Then he enjoyed one of the best steak and lobster dinners he’d had in some time. And paid the hefty price without blinking. But the last thought in his mind before he fell asleep after going home was, “Wonder where that food had to come from?”
The first thing that Watson did the next morning was check his various portfolios of investments. Some were up, and some were down. Diversity was paying off. But what good would they do him if terrorists knocked out the financial district here or in New York?
The more questions he had, and the more research he did to answer them, led to even more research. He was getting an inkling of a plan, but he wasn’t about to rush into something without thinking it through completely. That was how he designed buildings and developments. By addressing every detail thoroughly, and combining them in winning combinations.
So Watson decided to start planning. He had the computer system with which to do it. Three large screen monitors, plus the widescreen laptop display allowed him to have a couple of internet windows open, a word document to take notes, and a spreadsheet to plug numbers into.
Watson had to force himself to get back on the last project he had in the works. He’d already been turned down on the one he’d made the presentation for after the hijacking. He found himself starting over almost from scratch, but was more than pleased with the result when he wrapped it up a week later.
He sent it off to the developers and received an almost immediate acceptance. “That’s another two-hundred-thousand in the ol’ bank account,” Watson mused when he got the acceptance notification. “Now, what to do with it?”
An idea suddenly came to him and he went to the computer to look up places to buy gold and silver. He had some mining stocks, but having the precious metals in hand was supposed to be much better.
But suddenly he paused. It occurred to him that there was another caveat about owning gold and silver. The fewer people that knew of it, the better, and in a like manner, the less paper trail left, the better.
“Hmm,” he thought. Then he smiled. “Wonder where my checkbooks are?” He had a plan.
Taking the Rolls to the main office of one of the banks he used, he went in, checkbook in hand. He’d been made aware of the limit of cash that could be withdrawn without causing any unwanted waves.
Twenty minutes later Watson walked out of the bank with nine-thousand dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills. Three hours later, after trips to each of the Chicago banks he used, he had a total of fifty-four-thousand dollars.
When he went home that night, after travelling all over Chicago to different coin shops he had a few dollars left, plus forty bright, shiny, new one-ounce Gold Eagles. He was smiling when he went to bed, the coins in the safe behind one of the Picasso’s hanging in the living room of the condo.
Watson had just made his first step to reaching the new goal of becoming as self-sufficient as possible. Before November 16, 2011.
The gold acquisition had satisfied Watson’s initial need to do something constructive on his way to independence from ‘The Grid’ as he thought of it. Some intangible something that he wanted to be free of, rather than just electric lines, water line, sewer lines and so on.
So he began to research more things on the internet. Everything to do with going ‘Off Grid’, as well as surviving the various things that could happen between now and whatever it was that was going to happen on ‘The Date”.
Fairly aware of the weather dangers of Chicago, Watson investigated those, and the new ones he discovered during his research. He did dearly love the city, despite the negatives, but it was obvious from the first that going independent wasn’t going to happen in the city. Nor even on the outskirts.
His research kept pointing toward a working farm and ranch, run with as much efficiency as possible, with the least dependence on outside resources. Watson quickly marked off the idea of becoming completely self-sufficient and independent of ‘The Grid’. It really wasn’t doable.
But there were degrees of independence, and many of the dependencies could be made much more dependable than the current version, or alternatives developed. Still an infrastructure, but one less likely to be disrupted by anything outside Watson’s control.
Normally the path he was on took several years of hard work, scrimping, saving, learning new things, and building things up slowly. “Not enough time,” Watson muttered one evening after considering and discarding several ideas on how to do what he wanted done.
“There are people that know what I need to know,” he mused, swiveling back and forth in the desk chair, hands behind his head in the position that he so often assumed when in deep thought.
Suddenly his eyes cut toward one of the expensive prints hanging on the wall near his desk. He slowly turned the chair, taking in all the works of art he had ‘invested’ in over the years. “Wonder how many cans of beans I could get for one of those in the PAW?” A second later he answered his own question. “Not any.”
Sighing, Watson set up straight and turned back to the computer. He pulled up the spreadsheet that held his insurance inventory of objects in the condo. “Sheesh!” he muttered. “Talk about buying some beans…”
Though it was late, Watson opened up his cell phone and ran through his contact list. Janey Montenna was his art person. They saw each other socially at times, and she had got him started in collecting art as an ‘investment for the future’ as she’d put it.
“Janey! Yes, it is Watson. I’d like to talk to you tomorrow about my collection… Yes. That would be fine. I’ll see you for lunch.”
With something else started, Watson relaxed, able to prepare and enjoy the simple meal he put together from his first ever real purchase of ‘regular’ food. He went to bed after a half an hour on his exercise machine. “Need to do something real, there, too,” Watson decided. He was fairly fit and trim, but it was all machine made. Could he travel ten miles with a pack on his back? “No, not yet,” he muttered just before falling asleep.
Janey was distraught. All the great buys she’d found for him and he was going to give them away. Janey sniffed and her right hand held a delicate hanky to her eyes as tears formed.
“I’m not giving them away, Janey,” Watson told the woman quietly. “I expect to sell them at a large profit to… Well, I have some other investments in mind.”
The tears stopped, and the hand with the hanky went to the table top. “Who is it? You found another dealer?”
Watson sighed. Quite the change in Janey when she thought she was just being out sold. “No, Janey. Nothing like that. I just want some tangible things. Things I can touch.”
“You can touch those things! Well… Perhaps not the paintings… And you have to be very careful with the glassware… The carvings… well, they shouldn’t be handled too much…”
“That’s not what I meant, Janey. I want something worthwhile that is also useful. Not just something pretty to look at.”
“You just tell me what you want, Watson, and I’ll find it for you.”
“I don’t think you’d be interested in finding me the things I’m thinking about. But back on track. When can we have the auction?”
“Two weeks, I suppose,” Janey replied, feeling defeated. “It will take that long to get things moved and catalogued.”
“You see to it, Janey, and there will be a nice fee in it for you.”
That perked the woman up some, Watson saw. And then he got a good look at her eyes. They were focused off in the distance. “Calculating on who she can broker them to, or I miss my guess,” Watson thought.
“I must go,” Janey said after heartily consuming her lunch. “I’ll get back to you with the particulars.”
“Okay, Janey. Thank you.” Watson stood and took her hand for a limp handshake when Janey held it out. He sat back down and continued to eat his desert and finish his coffee.
Watson had thought that dealing with Janey had been a pain. It struck him later the next day that she hadn’t held a candle against what his investment ‘team’ put him through when he told them what he wanted.
“You cannot sell everything, Watson! It just isn’t done!” said Bill Duggan, the lead member of the investment ‘team’ that was the company that handled Watson’s financial holdings.
“What do you mean I can’t?” Watson asked, with just a bit of chill in his voice.
“Well… Of course you can sell them. But it just isn’t done. You could stand to lose millions in upcoming profits!”
“You think the markets are going to turn around?” Watson asked, watching closely Bill’s eyes. They wouldn’t meet Watson’s.
“Well, it is a volatile market. There are never any guarantees. You know that. Let me do a little research and see what I can find that will be more to what you want… Which… Actually, I don’t know what you want to get into when you sell what you have.”
“I want cash, Billy. Cash in my account.”
“Cash! Are you nu…” Bill shut up for a moment when Watson looked ready to get up and walk out. “Okay. Okay. Cash it is. At least you’re leaving it in the account. I’ll be able to pick up whatever bargains there are that you must obviously be looking into.”
Watson didn’t tell Bill that the cash wouldn’t be in the account for long. Instead, he just stood up and shook Bill’s hand. “Thank you, Bill. I knew you and the ‘team’ would do just what I needed done. Keep me informed whenever you make a sale.”
Bill stood, too, to shake Watson’s hand. “Of course. Just part of the service.”
Watson had always believed that, but was beginning to get the feeling he was just one more dollar sign in Bill’s eyes.
The next upset person in Watson’s life was his real estate broker. He held parcels of land and interest in several building projects in and around Chicago. Twinette Zoagle, Watson thought, was going to have a heart attack. Or a seizure.
“Are you all right, Twinette?” Perhaps you’d better sit down.
“Oh, Honey! You’ve just given me a case of the flutters. Dear boy, tell me now you are joking and all things will be well.”
“Twinette, I’m not joking. I want to sell all my holdings in and around Chicago, including the condo, and buy a farm or ranch somewhere in the rural areas of the state. Or over in Missouri, up in Michigan… I’m not sure yet just exactly where I want to be.”
“Surely you don’t mean you are moving, as well! Not out of Chicago!”
Twinette looked worse, Watson thought. He filled a glass with water from the sideboard in her office and handed it to her. She took a tiny sip, her eyes on Watson.
“Does this have something to do with Janey Montenna? She offered me several works that I know are in your collection.”
“Same reason,” Watson said. “But that isn’t really a concern here. I just need you to list my properties and sell them for as much as you can.”
“You really are serious, aren’t you, dear?”
“I am, Twinette. I really don’t want to go into the whys and wherefores.
“If you insist, deary. If you insist. I shall humbly do your bidding.” A limp handshake reminiscent of Janey’s, and Watson left the office.
What he’d experienced over the last several days had him a little leery about his next step. Replacing the Rolls Royce Phantom with something a bit more Prep-worthy. He just couldn’t picture himself in an old, beat up, dirty pickup truck.
And a Cadillac Escalade was probably too citified for what he might have to do with a vehicle. But first, get rid of the Rolls. He could pick up a BMW or Mercedes Benz to drive for awhile while he looked for something else.
Going to the closest dealer, Watson was talking to the manager about selling the Phantom, with little success, when a salesman knocked on the door and asked to talk to the manager.
Watson wandered out to wait while the two discussed something. He noticed an elderly couple looking over the Phantom and went out to talk to them, mostly just for something to do.
“Nice car,” said the man. “Is it yours?”
Watson nodded. “Sure is. Hello, I’m Watson Drake. You here for service?”
“Oh, no,” said the woman. “We want to buy one. Is yours here for service? We thought they were very reliable.”
Watson smiled. “Oh, they are. I’m not here for service. Actually, I’m trying to sell mine.”
“But why, if they are such good cars?” asked the man. He was running his fingertips over the shiny finish of Watson’s Phantom. “I’m Glen and this is Elsie. Miller.”
Watson shook their hands and said, “Oh, sort of a mid-life crisis sort of thing, I suppose. I’m going to get one of the SUVs. Four wheel drive and all that.”
“You’re too young to have a mid-life crisis,” Elsie said.
Watson smiled back. A salesman came over and Glen and Elsie followed him off to look at the showroom models. Watson just stood and watched the sky. It was a glorious day out. He turned when the manager approached. They began discussing again the sale of the Phantom back to the dealership. The manager simply didn’t want to do it. He shot Watson a ridiculously lowball offer.
“No, thanks,” Watson said. “I’ll deal elsewhere.”
Glen and Elsie were again standing by the Phantom when Watson walked out of the building. “So, did you buy one?” he asked.
Both turned sad eyes on him. “No,” Glen said.
“They are so much more than we expected,” Elsie said.
“How much did you want to spend?” Watson asked.
When Glen told him how much they’d set aside for the car of their dreams, Watson whistled. “Well, if that isn’t a coincidence? That’s about what I was willing to sell mine for. Care to take a ride?”
“You aren’t serious!” Elsie said.
“Totally,” Watson replied. It might not be the maximum that he could get for the car, but it was enough. He just felt for the couple. They had their hearts set on a Rolls in their last years.
Watson opened the passenger door and handed Elsie in. “You drive,” he told Glen and tossed him the key.
“You really are serious!” Glen said. When Watson nodded, Glen grinned and got in behind the wheel.
Half an hour later they were back at the dealership. Glen parked the Phantom next to the couple’s Audi A8L W12 luxury sedan. The three got out of the Phantom and Watson walked around the car to shake first Glen’s and then Elsie’s hand. “I’ll be by Saturday.”
“We’ll have a cashier’s check in hand,” Glen said.
The two got in the Audi and drove off. Watson looked over at the dealership office and saw the manager looking at him. Watson just waved, got into the Phantom, and drove away, grinning.
With the Phantom sold, Watson decided to stop and get something else to drive while he looked for an appropriate Prep vehicle. He was headed toward a BMW dealership, but saw a Mercedes Benz dealership just ahead on the right side of the road. It really didn’t matter much to him what he got. He just wanted a good car.
So he pulled into the dealership and parked the Phantom out of the way. He began going down the line of vehicles, just looking at them to see if something stood out. A salesman was on the way out. With the experience he’d just had he wasn’t really looking to dealing with another one.
But the woman was there and Watson was too much of a gentleman to brush her off. “How can I help you today, Sir?”
“Sold my old car. Just looking for an interim car. I want to get an SUV, but I want to look around some before I buy.”
“Look no further,” the woman said. “We have the best line of SUVs and cross-over vehicles on the market.
Watson had to smile. She’d said it with such a straight and sincere expression. And she was pretty. Why not spend a little time looking at vehicles?
“Okay. What do you have?” Watson asked.
“Have you decided on a cross-over, compact SUV, or full size? We have quite a selection of all three. We even have a G55 AMG. Probably the best SUV on the market.”
Watson had a hard time concentrating on her words. The skirt she wore was swirling around in the wind, providing delightful glimpses of long, long legs.
“Uh… Yes. If it’s the best, might as well look at it first,” Watson said, dragging his eyes up to the woman’s face.
She smiled at him. He knew she must have seen where his eyes had been, but didn’t seem to mind. Watson smiled back.
“It is right over here,” she said, sweeping an arm for Watson to precede her.
“Not in the display room? I would have thought if it was the best, it would be show cased.”
The grin exposed some dimples, Watson noticed. “Normally the best of the best is in the showroom. But this vehicle is a bit out of the ordinary. Not very many people are going to be interested. It is the best, but it is expensive. We have a good price on it, I assure you. But for most SUV buyers it is a little above their reach. And believe me, the weather isn’t going to hurt it any.”
“You didn’t see what I drove into the lot in, did you?”
“Oh. You have a trade in?” the woman asked.
“Nope. Sold it outright. Just asking. So. This it?”
“This is it. G55 AMG. Five-hundred go anywhere horsepower.”
“Not claiming to know much about SUVs,” Watson said. “But what makes this worth…” Watson looked at the sticker and whistled. It was a great deal more than he thought it would be just looking at the boxy thing. “This much?” he continued, pointing his thumb at the sticker.
“If you’ll come inside, I’ll show you. But are you sure you don’t want to look at another of these SUVs first?” The woman obviously thought that the G55 AMG might be out of Watson’s reach.
“No. I don’t think so. I would like to know more about this one, though.”
Watson had to admit, she was good. He had a feeling the rig got a lot of lookers and inquiries, and very few buyers. But she didn’t show it. Watson followed her into the showroom and into a cubical.
She turned a computer display around and pulled up the information on the G55 AMG. She definitely was good, and did know her stuff. Watson learned more in the twenty minutes he spent with her than he had in a day of research on the internet.
“What is your best price?” Watson finally said.
“I’m afraid, that on this vehicle, it will be the sticker price. They are few and far between. And worth every penny of the price.” She said firmly and with some pride.
“Out the door?”
“Sure,” the woman replied, “For a sale like this, of course.”
“Oh. Okay. I’ll take it.”
Her eyes widened remarkably. “You’ll take it? Just like that?”
Watson grinned. “Sure do. I’ll write you a check.”
“A check? I’m afraid we’ll have to wait for the check to clear, Mr…”
“Drake. Watson Drake. And your name?”
“Karri, Mr. Drake. Let me talk to the manager…”
“Don’t wait too long, Karri. I need to be going in a few minutes.”
“Yes. Of course.”
Watson was smiling when he pulled out his checkbook from the inside breast pocket of his suit coat. He had the check written out when Karri and the dealership’s manager came back into the room.
“Here you go. I need to be on my way. When can I pick it up, do you think?” Watson was watching Karri. She looked a little concerned. As if she might be wasting her boss’ time and that he wouldn’t like it.
“Sure! Sure!” the man nearly bellowed. “Tell you what, give me five minutes to verify this and we’ll have you out the door.” It was an almost evil grin on the man’s face. Karri didn’t seem to like it any more than Watson did.
“He thinks I’m just stringing you along, doesn’t he?” Watson asked.
Karri had settled into her chair behind the desk and prepared to defend a boss she didn’t really care for. “You have to understand…”
“Mr. Drake!” said the manager. He was standing in the doorway. “Karri! Why didn’t you tell me this was Watson Drake?” His manner was totally different. Almost deferential. “We can have the vehicle ready by tomorrow, first thing in the morning.”
Karri’s eyes widened again. “The check is good?” she asked.
“Of course,” said the manager. “Don’t be disrespectful of our clientele. You should be ashamed. Come, Mr. Drake. I’ll finish up the paperwork with you.
Karri was red in the face. Watson mouthed a heartfelt ‘Sorry’ to her and she gave him a slight nod, her color returning to normal.
Watson was treated like royalty during the rest of the process of signing the papers for the car. The manager couldn’t do enough to please him. It was rather cloying and Watson was glad when it was over.
After shaking the manager’s hand for the fourth time, having to drag it almost forcefully from his grip, Watson started to walk over to Karri’s office. The manager watched for a moment, but then shrugged and went to his office. It was a done deal. Watson couldn’t back out now without some serious penalties.
“Care to go get a drink to wash the bad taste out of your mouth?” Watson asked, leaning against the door jamb.
“What?” Karri asked. “I’m not one to date our customers, Mr. Drake.”
“That I can understand. But seeing as your boss is taking credit for the sale, I don’t think I qualify as your customer.”
“Why that no good, low down…” The red was back in her face for a moment as she abruptly quit speaking. “Just a minute.”
Karri was typing on the computer keyboard with a vengeance. “You’re right. He signed off as the seller, leaving me out in the cold.” She said, looking up at Watson. “Would that be a double, by chance?”
“Whatever you want,” Watson replied.
Not quite slamming drawers closed, Karri took a few things out of the desk and grabbed a couple of jackets hanging on a coat stand in one corner of her office. She marched straight from her office to the door of the manager’s.
“One too many times, Angelo! I quit! Have Clarence send me the paperwork and my final check.” Karri turned on a heel and headed for the exit.
Watson followed along quietly until they were outside. “Good for you. I didn’t like it much when he did that.”
“Which car?” Karri asked, standing beside the Phantom.
Watson reached down and opened the passenger door. “This one. Until Saturday. I sold it.”
“You sold a Rolls Royce Phantom to buy a Mercedes Benz G55 AMG?”
“Well, that wasn’t my intent when I sold it. Didn’t know what I was going to buy eventually,” Watson said. He started the car and backed it out of the parking slot. “I just came in here to get a regular sedan until I could research SUVs a bit more. You gave me the education I needed and sold me the best there is.”
“You bought just on my recommendation?” Karri asked.
Watson looked over at her for a moment and nodded.
“Well. Don’t know what to say. Oh.” She pulled out a cell phone and speed dialed a number. “Need to let my girlfriend know not to pick me up at work.”
Watson paid attention to the heavy Chicago traffic as Karri tried to explain to her friend what had transpired. He couldn’t keep from smiling a couple of times at her exasperated tone when her friend didn’t seem to believe her.
Finally Karri closed the phone and sighed. “Expect the third degree when you drop me off.”
Watson laughed as he pulled into one of the bars he went to occasionally.
“I’m a little out of my class here,” Karri said. “I was intending to buy a round, too.”
“Don’t worry about it. I just wanted some way to apologize for what I caused to happen to you.”
“It isn’t your fault, Mr. Drake. I’ve been so close to quitting so many times recently… It was only a matter of time.”
“It’s Watson. Well, to be honest, I like you, too. Otherwise I’d just have sent flowers in apology.”
“Oh. I hope you don’t expect anything but a thank you for the drinks.”
Watson shook his head and opened the driver’s door. “I’m not like that,” he said simply.
Karri believed him. She took his arm when he offered it to her after he opened the passenger door.
An hour and a half later Watson walked Karri to the front door of a modest house in one of the nicer Chicago suburbs. The door opened and the porch light came on before they reached the door.
A woman about Karri’s age stood in the door and just looked at Watson.
“Sorry,” Karri said, giving the woman a light shove so she could step inside. She turned and looked up at Watson’s eyes. “Call me?”
“You can bet on it,” Watson said. He turned around and walked lightly to the car. He hadn’t met anyone as interesting as Karri in a long time. And he really didn’t know that much about her. Yet.
A cab ride to the dealership the next morning and Watson was the proud owner of the G55 AMG. He drove home and began to research what additions, if any, he would need to make to the vehicle to make it into the best that it could be.
That Saturday Watson had a cab meet him at the Miller’s house and exchanged the Phantom for a cashier’s check. He tucked the check into a pocket and had the cabbie take him to the condo.
His plan for the rest of the day was to sort through his personal belongings with an eye to what was of real value and what was just for show. He’d gone through a stage after he’d make it big, and had a girlfriend in the jewelry business, of buying very high quality men’s jewelry.
Once the woman had dropped him for someone with a lot more money, Watson had worn very little of it. So he was ruthless when he began the separation process. When he was finished, the keeper items fit in one hand. Those to be sold were a double handful.
That task done, Watson did the same thing with his walk-in closet of clothes. Again, everything was of high quality, but he just didn’t wear many of them anymore. And if he was going to live a more outdoor lifestyle, his favorites would do for the dressier occasions. He would need to get more outdoor clothes, but not until he researched some more. He had a feeling four-hundred-dollar designer blue jeans weren’t the answer.
Pleased with what he received for the jewelry he converted it all to more gold coins, this time fractional ounces. He got a bit for the clothing he didn’t want at a retro shop, since most of his clothing was classic styles. The rest he donated to the Salvation Army.
Copyright 2010
