“A slow shot that hits the target is better than a fast shot that misses.
Sir.” The class laughed, and it was Horowitz’s turn to flush.
“See] me after class, Fernandez.” “My pleasure.” When the other students were gone, Fernandez stood six feet away from where Horowitz sat at his desk. The instructor said; “Sergeant, your attitude needs some adjustment. I realize thil is a non-credit class for you, so you aren’t required to get a passst fail, but if you were, I am certain you would be repeating this course next term.” Fernandez stepped up to the desk, put his hands on it, and leaned toward the younger man. He was well within Horowitz’s discomfort zone, invading the man’s space. Horowitz leaned back as far as the chair would allow, and fear stained his face.
“Listen up, sonny. You got the social skills and wit of a water buffalo. You’re so busy trying to score points and show everybody how clever you are that whatever teaching ability you have–if any–can’t get out of where you have your head shoved. I know this is like talking to three-year-olds for you but you’re supposed to be a teacher. That’s your job, an you’re dogging it.” ” “You wait just a minute!” be “Shut up,” Fernandez said. He kept his voice flat and quiet.
Horowitz did just that.
“I’m an easygoing guy most of the time. That’s why you aren’t on your knees observing the remains of your most recent meal spattered all over your shoes and the floor. I’m outa here, junior. I won’t be back.
Lucky for both of us.” So much for his resolve to learn this shit. Oh, well. There were other ways. There had to be. He leaned back from the desk, smiled, and turned to walk away.
Behind him, Horowitz’s voice was shrill, shading right up the scale and into soprano: “What is your superior’s name? I am going to report you for threatening me!” Fernandez turned, still smiling.
“My CO’S name is Colonel John Howard. Give him my regards when you call. And I didn’t threaten you, sonny. If I had done that, you’d be needing a fresh pair of pants.
Adios.” As he left the classroom, Fernandez shook his head. His inner voice said. Dense move, Julio, m’boy. Scaring a little piss ant teacher isn’t going to help you learn anything.
Yeah, yeah. But it sure felt good, didn’t it?
He was almost sure he heard his inner voice chuckle.
hapter 6 Monday, December 20th, 10:05 a.m.
Washington, D.c.
Platt strolled along the sidewalk next to the Mall in a T-shirt and jeans, without a jacket, pretending to ignore the hard chill and dirty, slushy snow the plows had piled up along the curb.
It wasn’t really all that cold, right around freezing, but he sure as hell felt it. Least the wind wasn’t blowin’, and he had his steel-toed Kevlar boots on, so his feet weren’t cold.
Thing was, at six-four and 225, he didn’t have any body fat to speak of- he couldn’t pinch any on his ridged six-pack belly–so no insulation.
He worked out five times a week in a weight room when he was where he could get to one, had a decent gym of his own at home if he didn’t feel like going’ out, and used big elastic bands or a portable apparatus when he was on the road.
The portable thing, which was basically just some screw together pipes made out of titanium and spun carbon fiber, assembled into a frame that would let you do chins and dips. Cost a damned fortune, but it was worth it. It didn’t weigh; hardly anything, and when it was disassembled it would fit right into a regular suitcase. Between the bands and body weight, you could keep the tone on your upper body for a couple of weeks without the iron, if you needed to. Didn’t do much for the lower body, but that was what one-legged squats and stairs were for.
He didn’t like Washington, not the town, not the folks who lived and worked there, not the big old marble buildings, wasn’t nothin’ about it he liked. But if you walked around in the cold without a coat, people would stare at you just like they would anywhere else–except maybe Los Angeles.
Platt grinned. He remembered the first time he’d been in LA.” twelve or so years back when he’d been a green kid just off the farm outside Marietta. He was walking down Hollywood Boulevard, a hick tourist gaping at the gold stars in the sidewalk, when he passed an old lady standing in front of the Chinese Theater.
She was stark naked, smiling and waving at everybody.
That didn’t seem right to him, that somebody’s poor ole granny was bare-assed on the street like that, so Platt whipped out his phone and called the police.
Told them about this nekkid woman.
And the bored cop on the phone said, “Yeah.
Uh-huh. Which naked woman are you calling about?” Which naked woman. Like there was more than one, which it turned out, when he asked the cop, there was.
Jesus. According to the police, somebody got naked on the street four or five times a week in Hollywood. Damn. Them folks had smogged-up brains out in La-La-land.
He looked at his watch. Just after ten. He grinned again.
About now, that spring-loaded time-release file would be hitting the web hard, and it was gonna be like a ton of fresh feces whapping into a big ole industrial-grade fan. If that bomb down in Louisiana didn’t get their attention, this one would sure as hell wake “em up. Gonna pop a few strands when it landed, for damn sure.
Ahead of him, coming in his direction, were two black men.
African-Americans, was that still what they called themselves?
Sheeit, these brothers in their wool suits and camel-hair overcoats had probably never been within five thousand miles of Af-ri-ka, probably born in Mississippi or Georgia, and came to the big city for white poon tang and cheap dope. Way Platt figured it, you were born in this country, you were an American, period, and you didn’t hear white people talkin” about how they were German Americans or French Americans or English Americans. That was all bullshit, just one more way the spooks got uppity.
Call themselves anything they want they were still darkies, they couldn’t hide that.
The two in suits stared at him, but they weren’t right. They were too small, too civilized.
Probably lawyers or political staff guys who hadn’t been in a fistfight since they were piccaninnies.
Platt grinned, and he could almost hear the jigs thinking Look at that crazy fool white man, running around in a shirt in the cold!
Yeah, but he a big crazy fool white man.
Why don’t we just cross on over the street here?
A block or so later, he spotted the one he wanted. He was a big buck, wearing jeans and motorcycle boots, a lead jacket, and Gargoyle shades, thought he was so cool. Amost as big as Platt. And alone. Platt didn’t mind a couple, but wasn’t stupid. A gang was not a good idea unless you were armed, “cause they sure as hell would be, even though guns were all kinds of illegal in this city. All Platt had on him was a little aluminum-handled Kershaw liner-lock, blade just about three inches, and while he could snap it open as fast as a: switchblade and could slice and dice somebody into bloc mush with it, a knife wasn’t the smartest choice against three or four gang bangers strapped with shooters. He didn’t like to carry a gun in the city unless he had a particular need for it and he didn’t want to use the knife if it was one-on-one unless the jig pulled one.
Or unless it turned out the boy was a karate or judo g who knew his stuff. Most of that crap was worthless, it did work on the street, but now and then you’d run into one them smart enough to keep it simple, with the skill and timing to make it work. Had to give them that, some of them could dance real good. That would get you your ass kicked pretty good. If that happened, he could sneak the knife out and hide it, wait for an opening, though a guy who knew enough of that gook fighting shit to thump you barehanded usually knew how to deal with a blade too. Platt had a few nasty memories about bad guesses he’d made.
But this guy in the leather jacket didn’t look like no Bruce Lee, and besides. Platt just wanted to stomp somebody a little, not kill him.
“What you starin” at, boy?” The big black man stopped.
“Who you callin’ boy, cracker?” “I don’t see nobody else around, do you?
Boy?” Leather boy took his shades off and carefully slipped them into his pocket. He smiled.