Lesson Three - 2

         Gary sat in the back of the van paying no attention to any of the four monitors that flickered in the dim light.  Instead, he leaned back in the office chair with his finger woven together behind his head and scowled.  He hated this kind of assignment.  He’d bring back the Cold War in a damned heartbeat.  Surveillance with a ‘newbie’—shit!

         His musing were interrupted by an unpleasant buzzing in his ear bud.  “What part of ‘do not talk to me’ didn’t you understand?”

         “They’re here.  They’re sitting at the next table.  And they brought backup.”  The disembodied voice’s tenor had inched up with every word. 

Gary shook his head again and muttered, “Newbies . . .”  He swung around to face the monitors and leaned in.  In a tone someone might use with an overtired toddler, he said, “I have you on one monitor and our guys on two others.  Give me a second,” he played with some dials and toggle switches in front of him as he studied the last monitor. 

When he saw what he was looking for, he smiled and leaned back again.  “Yeah, I see them.  Geez, from the looks of it they don’t have an IQ between them.  They are just muscle.  They won’t make a move unless you do something stupid.”

He fiddled with switches and dials again before he hissed, “Are you sure you placed the mic correctly?  The whole point of this tea party is to record their conversation.” 

“Yes . . . I think.”

“You think!?”

“Don’t yell!  God, I think my ear’s bleeding,” the anonymous voice whined.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about your friggin’ ear.  How are you going to fix the bug?”

“Wait . . . I see.  It’s okay.  Try again.”

Gary played with the dials some more, there was the harsh sound of static and then two new voices resonated inside the van.  “I got ‘em.  You’re lucky, kid.”

“Luck had nothing to do—“

“If you touch your ear again, I’m coming in there and killing you myself.  Do I make myself clear?  Christ!  Somebody’s going to notice and think you're with the F****** FBI.”  Gary gave a low growl and muttered, “those jerks might as well wear signs; with those MIB suits, government issued sunglasses and always playing with their ear pieces.”

Louder, he said, “Now just sit there and eat your dinner.  That’s all you need to do.  DO NOT touch your ear bud and DO NOT look at them or their guys.  Touch the rim of your coffee cup if you understand.”

He watched his partner play with the top of his cup and added, “Good.  Now, if you promise to be a good boy, I’ll tell you what they’re saying. Okay?” 

*  *  *  *  *



The small greasy looking guy sitting at the bugged table smiled up at the waitress and ordered, “I’ll have the shrimp cocktail, then the steak—medium rare—with mushrooms and a baked potato.  And honey, load the potato and bring me a side of Béarnaise sauce along with your phone number.”

The bigger guy, wearing the $4000 suit, frowned at his colleague.  “Pay no attention to my friend.  I’ll have the same as him—but make my steak rare, and add onions.  Now, bring us two glasses of the house red and keep them filled.  I promise, I’ll make it worth your while.”  He waited until the server walked away, leaned into the table and said in a low tone, “You gotta give up with this hitting on women all the time.  It’s . . . unseemly.”

Gary nodded his head—the waitress had been a looker.  But his marks looked as though they might be moving on to business, so he ignored the tent in the front of his pants and started the recorder.

“Now, you know,” the slimy guy said, “that we need to find a new source for our supplies.  The supply has been slowed down to a dribble.  And the natives are getting restless.”

The high-maintenance guy chimed in, “I know all this.  I have evaluated the situation and broken down the problems.”  He drained his wine and looked around.  “We are being squeezed by several specific groups.” 

The waitress refilled his glass, top off the other guy's and cleared away the remains of their shrimp cocktails.  The slimy guy made a point of staring at her when he continued, “The supplies we need are being controlled by these groups in an attempt to put us out of business.  We must not allow this to happen.

“The worst offenders are: the American Tomato Farmers; the Delectable Eatables Association; Cheeses International/American division; the Fraternal Brotherhood of Innkeepers; and Superior American Sauces.  We are also getting hit by from foreign sources—mainly both divisions of Meats International.  This is all having a disastrous results with our pizza franchises.

“I was led to believe you had some ideas to eliminate some of these hindrances. Do you?”

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

There was the crackle of static and a voice, “What’s going on?”

Gary let out an inaudible oath and asked, “What did I tell you?”

“Just tell me what’s going on.”

‘They’re talking about finding a new source for their pizza ingredients.  Happy?”

“Pizzas?”

“They don’t mean pizzas, you jerk.  It’s code. Now shut up!”

“But—”

“SSSSSHHHH!!!”

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

The waitress refilled the marks wineglasses and brought the requested extra cocktail sauce.  Once she had moved off the conversation started up again.  ‘Ratso Riso’ looked over his  shoulder, licked his lips and shook his head.  “Oh man, did you see her ass?  I don’t know which is better—her going or her coming.”  He snorted at his own joke, but ‘Got Rocks’ gave him and icy stare.

“Will you get your mind off the ladies, please.  We need to address this problem.  I believe that if we work together, we can find a solution.”  He was looked as if he was about to say something more when a cell phone rang.  He pulled out the phone, flipped it open and brought it up to his ear.  He frowned and then nodded a few times before he grunted and hung up.  He looked over the table to his greasy companion and announced, “Our supplies have been siezed at the docks.  Things are getting more difficult and this is pissing me off.  We need to make some kind of move of our own.”

“This is I know,” the smaller man said with an air of importance.  “My people have planned just such a move.  The one thing working in our favor is that none of the groups you mentioned co-operate with each other. 

“We are going to move against the American Tomato Farmers tomorrow afternoon.  Do you think that your people can mass something against one of the other groups at the same time?”

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

The waitress reappeared with a tray loaded with their food.  It took a minute for her to make sure that she had brought everything they’d asked for.  She topped off the wineglasses again and left.  The men nodded to each other and began eating rather noisily.  Gary was torn.  His mouthed watered at the sizzling steaks, but once they started eating his stomach had roiled and he looked away.

The stale silence in the van was shattered by more static and then a whisper, “ I can hear what they’re saying—kind of.  But I don’t understand a damned thing.  What’s going on?  What the hell is the American Tomato Farmers?”

“First, shut up!  Second, what the f*** do they teach you all at Langley?  I told you they were using a code.  Work it out newbie!”

“I still don’t—“

“Are they putting ‘company’ job applications in the back of comic books now?  Work it out.  A merican T omato F armers . . .”

“I thought they were mobsters, not restaurateurs . . .”

“Our greasy guy works from Atlantic City.  So the first thing we need to do is to notify the Jersey authorities.  Now, Mr. Got-Rocks is from New York.  So we also need to alert the New York offices.  Tomorrow is going to be a big day—for everybody.”

“But what’s illegal about pizza?”

Gary shook his head and muttered, “I’ll explain it all to you later, okay.  Now just shut up and eat your dessert.  And DO NOT talk to me again until you’re in this van!”  Gary checked the recorded took another look at their guys before he put his feet up on the desk and leaned back again. 

Now that they’d started talking they blab everything—to be recorded for use later against them.  He checked on the muscle, who seemed to have finished dinner and were arm-wrestling.  Well, so much for security.  Convinced everything was under control, he booted up his laptop and googled ‘Careers for the Mentally Challenged’.  He had to find something for the kid to do.