October 29, 2009
10:03 A. M.
Take the Cannoli Italian Restaurant, Pasadena, California
“Darla! Darla! Escucheme! Escucheme!”
“I can hear you Bibiana. What’s wrong? What happened?”
“It happened again! Por los cielos, otra vez…”
“Bibiana? What’s wrong? What happened to Sky?”
“Mi… mi amiga. Sky’s had an accident at the salon. She’s… she’s…”
“Dead? Hurt? Bibiana? Bibiana!”
The calm, completely acting mechanic hung up the cell phone right as the waiter appeared, the two enjoying a rather pleasurable fall morning in the normally burning hot city. James Moriarty, having memorized the menu of the restaurant years ago, didn’t even bother to look at the paper as the man offered it.
“Just water for me, though I’ll be taking the Vesuvius platter. Actually, two waters because of it. That is a particularly hot meal.
“Bibiana will be having a lemonade and will ask for a water, even though she’ll only touch it once. She’ll proceed to look over the whole menu, hoping to appear fancy, but feeling guilty that she isn’t buying she’ll simply end up choosing the flatbread. Ignore that and get the tri-feast combo, no meatballs with the spaghetti but extra meat sauce in the lasagna.
“And, of course, give my regards to the Don, my friend.”
So the waiter left, the mechanic left scratching her head at Moriarty’s perfect read. While she had heard reports of his intelligence, this was the first time she’d ever seen it in person. It was quite impressive, even when compared to the way Sherlock Holmes did it on the TV show.
“How often are you wrong?”
“Oh, only with those I know best. Strangers are the easiest, followed by associates and people you know better by surnames. Those who try to put up a guard reveal the most, while those who think they’ve shared everything do their best to keep their remaining secrets hidden. I couldn’t have done this with one of my brothers or Jack, for instance.”
“Hm. Well, guess I should get to know you better. It’d keep me off your hit list longer.”
Even if Bibiana wore a simple blouse with jeans today, having a meeting to attend to, she was her usual gruff self as she spoke and made her displeasure quite plain. Alucard, or James given he was still his English self, tried to be even more civil as to prevent their early lunch from going sour, tapping a finger against their table as he asked
“You’re not mad that I’m taking care of the rest of your room mates, are you?”
“Not quite mad.” Bibiana quickly replied, sighing after as she kept her cool. “More that I can’t understand. Porque? Why do those two have to die? They’re both honest girls, even attend church on Domingo. Why do the good die young?”
“Because for the righteous, death is a reward.” Moriarty began, just as their drinks arrived. Sipping first as he got the much needed refill, he went on to say “Life is a probation, a time to evaluate the loyalty of Father’s posterity. Once they’ve established they will do what the father has asked, they have no more reason to remain here; better to take them home and let them begin their training to be gods themselves.
“So you should consider this a service, not a necessary evil. The Department of affairs of Death needs to hit a certain quota every day to maintain stability, and these two are getting off the hook for any future suffering. A quick accident, painless in their rapidity, and these girls are off to meet Christ himself. We may kill, but we do so as a gift.”
“Cultists say the same when they sacrificar. Cannibals think they’re honoring their victims as they eat them.”
“Which is why we should discuss the Lincoln/Kennedy conundrum.”
This was a new one for the experienced blood sucker. Perking up, and not just because of how sweet her pink drink was, the girl found herself repeating the words before Alucard said them a third time.
“Yes, Abraham Lincoln and John F. Kennedy. Two presidents cut down, one assassinated part way into his second term and the other into his first. Besides the fact that one cheated on his wife and the other didn’t, what do you think to be the reason for the different times of their death? Why do you think Abraham was permitted to tarry until the war with the south was won, while John was only given time to live and see the start of the Vietnam war?”
“Because that just so happens to be the time when the assassins stuck?”
Disappointing for the master criminal to hear, that there was no chess player manipulating the game behind the scenes. For a man to live in a world so long where every puppet was being manipulated by the strings attached to it, the idea that they moved entirely by their own will was not only a boring concept, but an unbelievable one.
“Abraham Lincoln and JFK were both targeted for assassination, and both of them survived again and again until the Lord withdrew his spirit of protection. To say that God could not have protected these men would be to state that our Heavenly Father is not divine at all. A good catlotico like you would never admit that, would you?”
“Of course not!”
Then the mercenary had her. “Then you must accept that Lincoln and Kennedy died because it was God’s plan that they did.”
Another statement that Bibiana wanted to contradict… and found herself unable to do so. To say it was not would suggest that God could not control fate and therefore wasn’t a god at all. To accept that he had though, that he let them die…
Well, that was the question of faith that all believers must come to face.
“Pero, porque? Why? You still havn’t said why?”
Professor James Moriarty spun his straw at that, the hairs of his chin shaking with delight. “Simple. There are three things that the Father and I have in common.
“One. We do right by those who serve us.
“Two. We do not like loose ends.
“Three. We get rid of those who disobey our counsel.
“Both Kennedy and Lincoln met two of the three checkpoints, which is more than enough to get a mercenary like me to come after you. In Abraham’s case, he had done his best to be a moral, courageous leader during a time of war and upheld all that God asked of him. Ending slavery, defeating the south, never relenting or consenting to the demands of his enemies on other side of the nation’s split line, Abraham is considered the best president we’ve ever had for a good reason. He was at the peak of his popularity and supreme example by the end of the civil war, meaning that he could only go downhill in terms of inspiration and action now that it was peace time…
“Also meaning, as Booth planned his death, God consented to a quick return to Heaven so that he could fully enjoy the blessings and gifts of a well lived life. A quick shot to the back of the head and Mr. Lincoln’s soul went off to Heaven, free to begin leading a new nation and people as he developed into a god.”
“Kennedy then?”
If James had never let his hate of the pretender known before, he did now. “A vile hypocrite of the same ilk that bred these so called civil rights leaders of the sixties and seventies. For the good they taught by day, the ruined bed sheets and the pregnant, bleeding women they left behind stand as a testimony that they may have done well as leaders and presidents but failed as fathers, family men and Christian. For being a Catholic president, we have no love for that blasted man, no matter how many times he took part in the Eucharist.
“John F. Kennedy was the epitome of the sheer corruption to be found not only in man but in the nation. When Bill Clinton gets frisky, we impeach him. When JFK messes up, we send an assassin to clean up, with the only reason for leeway being because we couldn’t lose face at the time to the Soviets.
“Which JFK would have done anyway had he been permitted to pull out of Vietnam as he planned to do. Even if it was a losing war, it is and always will be a testament that the American people will not give up on their ideals even in the face of defeat. That we can make something more out of our peopl
e than just a bunch of entitled brats like we have to indulge today.”
“Never knew you to be a patriot, Aluc- James.”
The waiter appeared, so loud in opening the door that a deaf man would have been able to hear him approach. It was intentional, of course; he always dealt with clients who didn’t like to be surprised by the staff.
For the criminal mastermind, it was simply a cue to do his work. Shifting straightly into his seat, as if ready to do… something, he cracked a smile as he looked to the Latin girl and, closing his argument through action rather than word, had to preface
“Of course, I could be wrong. I’m not the pope; there’s no divine blessing to make me infallible. There’s one more reason why I think I’m right though.”
“Which is?”
“Because in this world, might makes right, which makes me the king of New England.”
The waiter held their plates of food, as to be expected. What wasn’t quite expected was the box of nails, already opened and ready for use as the waiter bowed low, blowing a kiss to the English traitor to the crown as he added
“The Don sends his regards, and thanks you for your service.”
“Always good to find friends where you least expect them. Especially when they can keep the police away.”
Taking the box of sharp gray spikes as the waiter set his food, James waited a few moments just until he heard the roar of an engine in the background. Bibiana, standing to catch sight of the maniac who must have been going a hundred miles an hour, took sight of an old minivan that was Darla’s blue streak. The roommate certainly was worried and rushing to mourn her fallen friend.
Thanks to simple speed, the woman would get her wish. Tossing the box of nails overhead with a whistle, they were propelled in a perfect arc until they slammed into the pavement on the street opposite of their restaurant, long steel spikes scattering everywhere in what looked to be a perfect booby trap. A slow driver would have been able to not only see but dodge it…
While a person breaking the limit, like Darla, didn’t even realize what she had done until her front tires popped, overcorrecting on the wheel in response and putting the vehicle into a roll. While Bibiana wasn’t sure just how Moriarty knew the road would be clear here, Darla was the only person that would be hurt as her minivan flipped over and over across the road, James having a bit of fun by twisting his fork into his spaghetti for every time the girl rolled. One twist, two twists, three and four and up to seven times he twirled his food, his fork becoming a giant mound of dripping red of noodles that perfectly resembled the destroyed car.
Then, at last, the two stopped. One to dine, the other dead. The only eulogy, as Moriarty lifted his hand
“Buon appetito!”