LITMIR.BIZ

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nodded as he said, “Yeah, I noticed.” Then he followed with, “Was it Tony?”

      “No. It was the other dude.”

      “So what happened?”

      “Well, the next thing I heard was Tony’s voice somewhere in the distance say something like, ‘Dude, what the fuck are you doing to him?’ That’s when everything changed. The mood went from mellow to one that got real intense. I mean, real intense. I heard Tony screaming, ‘Get the fuck away from him!’ The other dude was saying, ‘I’m not hurting him!’”

      “So, Tony came to your rescue?”

      “Yeah, he did.”

      “What did he do?”

      “Not real sure but I remember hearing a pop. Like someone got hit. And then another pop like the one before. It was like the two dudes were fighting it out.”

      Nick stopped the telling of his story and didn’t say anything for awhile. Zach, literally on the edge of his seat, said, “What happened after that?”

      Nick had a blank look on his face. “I don’t know. I mean I really don’t remember anything after that.”

      “Did you talk with Tony about it later?”

      “Yeah, I did. But he said nothing happened. He said it was just in my mind. Tried to tell me that it was all a dream. He said shit like that happens when you smoke pot.”

      “But you don’t think it was a dream?”

      “No,” said Nick emphatically. “I damn well know it wasn’t a dream.”

      “Why do you say that?”

      “Well, first of all, I saw that Tony had a swollen jaw the next morning. He told his mom that he had fallen down the stairs. But I knew that wasn’t true. And then, after I went home the next day, Tony treated me, like, different. In fact, I didn’t see him much after that. It was like he disappeared off the face of the planet. I think he knew exactly what had happened. And I think he was scared to talk to me about it.”

      With a real sense of sympathy, Zach said, “Damn, dude. Sorry to hear about that.”

      “It’s all cool now. I don’t really think about it much. Just when I get this damn dream like I did tonight.”

      It was then that a third voice was heard in the kitchen. It was Mr. Baker. “Hey, guys. I don’t mind you being here. But can you keep the noise level down. I really need my sleep.”

      “Oh, man,” said Nick. “It was me, Mr. Baker. I’m so sorry.”

      “Yeah, sorry, Dad.” Taking a last swig of his orange juice, Zach said, “We’re done here anyway.” He then looked at Nick and added, “Aren’t we?”

      Nick nodded in agreement. “Yup, we’re done.”

      In less than a minute the kitchen was dark again as all three denizens of the Baker house headed back to bed.

      IT WAS A BUSY DAY at the Naval Criminal Investigative Service field office in Anacostia. At least it was for NCIS Special Agent Joe Larson who had spent most of the morning at his desk doing what he least liked—writing a report. It took every ounce of discipline, and a reprimand from his boss, to get him to sit down and type up the summary of his last case, one that he was supposed to have turned in several weeks ago. The lateness of that report was what had sparked a phone call from Doug Gosner, the department head and Larson’s supervisor, a call that lasted less than a minute and ended up with Gosner saying, “I want that damned report on my desk ASAP!” With the order barked out as only Gosner could do it, the phone went dead. So it was with a tremendous sense of relief that Larson pushed the print button on the computer, sending his several hours of work to the printer. He was just about to get up from his desk to retrieve the ten-page report when his desk phone rang. He answered in his usual professional manner.

      “Special Agent Larson.”

      “Hi, Joe,” said the caller with familiarity. “Got a minute?”

      In a more friendly tone, Larson said, “Is this a business call or social?”

      “Totally business,” said the voice on the other end of the line.

      “And what business does the FBI have that includes me?”

      The caller’s voice lowered in volume. “Joe, I really don’t want to talk about it over the phone.”

      “Oh, one of those cloak-and-dagger cases, huh?”

      “Actually, it is.” At this point Larson recognized that Tom Davis, an FBI agent who was also a very close friend, was dead serious. Davis continued with his request. “Joe, I need to talk to you about it… ASAP.”

      Damn, thought Larson, seems like everything around here is ASAP today. “When were you thinking of?”

      “You doing anything for lunch?”

      “Well…,” Larson was thinking about the lovely secretary who he had been noticing in the cafeteria over the last few days. “Actually, I was planning something.”

      “Is it a luncheon at the White House?”

      “No.”

      “It’s 11:15 now. How about meeting me at Farley’s in fifteen minutes.”

      “Jesus, Tom. You know I can’t get there in fifteen minutes. It will be at least twenty. And that’s if the traffic’s good.”

      “Okay. Make it twenty. See you there.”

      “What I don’t do for you federal boys,” Larson said with a chuckle.

      “Thanks, Joe.” With that said, Larson’s phone went dead for the second time that morning.

      THE DAY WAS A GORGEOUS ONE, one of those extraordinarily beautiful days in the nation’s capitol that beckons everyone to come out of the air-conditioned concrete caves that some call an office. With the multitudes of people trying to sneak out for an early lunch, it took several times of circling the block before Larson found a space just around the corner from Farley’s Bar and Grill.

      Within moments after leaving his car, the NCIS agent saw someone very familiar seated at the sidewalk café outside the restaurant. The man was checking his watch. The face, and the watch, belonged to Tom Davis. All six foot, four inches of him was trying desperately to sit inconspicuously at one of the small umbrella tables. Upon seeing this sight, Larson thought once more that it was a good thing that Davis hadn’t joined the CIA as he had originally planned. He smiled at the thought of any secret missions abroad that would have required Davis to blend in with the local population. It just wouldn’t have worked. That’s because Davis, tall, with sandy hair and an athletic build, would stand out in most any crowd as being a very typical American.

      A natural overachiever, Davis had been successful in both academics and sports in high school and college. Davis especially loved sports. Starting his freshman year in high school he played soccer and volleyball and was named captain of the volleyball team in his senior year. At his alma mater, George Mason University, he was captain of the volleyball team and was named “most valuable player” two years in a row. Add to that the titles of high school homecoming king, editor of the school’s newspaper, captain of the college debate team, honors student, and voted ‘most likely to succeed’ by any group of people who knew him. Those were just a few of the many labels that had been associated with this most brilliant FBI agent. And then there was the more personal label that Larson knew so well from last month’s all-nighter: king of the poker table.

      As Larson approached the agent, Davis looked at his watch once more and then back up at his friend. “Well, it’s about time.”

      “Three minutes late. What can I say? It’s the traffic!” was Larson’s legitimate excuse.

      Once

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