One in a Million by Wilson Koewing
from TIGHTROPE: a PUNK NOIR Magazine series
Deacon sat on the patio of the Prost Brewery watching the city move. A waitress placed a German Lager in front of him. He liked the view from the patio because it was far enough outside downtown and just high enough in the Highlands that Denver appeared small, almost model-like below him.
Deacon hadn’t accepted a job in three months. Didn’t need to. The last one netted eighty grand for him and four times that for The Boss.
Still, The Boss kept calling.
Deacon wasn’t answering, though. He’d earned a certain autonomy over the previous decade and there would always be jobs.
His phone rang.
He worried he’d manifested another call from The Boss, but it was a random number from his hometown in the Carolinas, where he hadn’t set foot in decades. He answered because he always answered, even though 90% of the time the voice on the other end was a robot or a scammer.
This is Deacon.
The man on the other end said Deacon’s legal name.
You’ve got him, Deacon perked up.
The man was seeking donations to help the people of Western North Carolina, but Deacon could smell that his spiel was bullshit from jump street. Normally he would have hung up, but this one hit close. Hurricane Helene had decimated the region where he’d grown up and where his father still lived. He’d briefly considered going back, but imagined himself showing up, the generator humming, his old man on the porch with a whiskey, saying, the fuck you doing here?
As Deacon played along with the scammer, the noise in the background of the call crystalized into something familiar: the train announcements at Union Station, a half a mile away.
Deacon couldn’t believe it.
I’m out right now, Deacon said. But I’d love to talk more when I get home. Call me back in ten minutes?
The scammer agreed and Deacon hung up.
Deacon finished his beer and hopped the patio rail and into the jet-black Viper parked feet away. He soared onto I-70 and took the first exit into downtown. He parked in a fifteen-minute spot in front of Union Station. Seven minutes after hanging up he was walking through the entrance. He headed straight for The Cooper Lounge, the swanky cocktail bar that hovered in a loft above the station floor.
No surprise, the Lounge was dead. A couple sat side by side in a booth. An old man at the bar nursed a martini. Deacon nodded at the bartender who poured him a scotch neat.
Deacon walked over to the railing and peered down at the station’s bustle. So many people rushing somewhere, and Deacon with nowhere to be.
His phone rang.
Deacon.
Like I was saying before, the scammer said. The victims of Hurricane Helene have gone through hell—
Absolutely, Deacon said, scanning. Those people have suffered tremendously.
They truly have, the scammer continued.
Deacon listened to the scammer drone on until, finally, he spotted him. At a table by the window, laptop open in front of him, mouth moving in sync with what Deacon heard on the phone.
Give me one second, Deacon said. I’ll get you that payment information.
Deacon finished his scotch and placed the glass at the end of the bar. He walked the twenty-eight steps down to the station floor lobby in nineteen seconds.
Go ahead with the card number when you’re ready, the scammer said.
Then Deacon was standing over him.
The scammer looked up at Deacon, confused, then back at his laptop. Deacon slid into the bench seat across from him.
Can I help you, the scammer said.
Deacon held up his phone. I’m Deacon. You called the wrong number today.
The scammer started to stand but froze when Deacon placed the silenced Beretta on the table.
Sit down. Shut up, Deacon said.
Look, the scammer said, sitting. I’m divorced, I’ve got three kids, my … bitch wife …
No, no, Deacon said. You’re not going to sob story me.
What do you want? The scammer said.
Break your phone.
What?
You don’t hear so good, do you? Break your phone, before I break your leg.
Fuck you, the scammer said.
Deacon smiled at the scammer’s shit eating grin then kicked him under the table, just a hair below the kneecap. The scammer doubled over in pain.
Break your phone, Deacon said.
The scammer, writhing in agony, lifted his phone above the table and slammed it down until the face was shattered.
Give me your laptop, Deacon said.
The scammer pushed it over.
Deacon snapped it in two then smashed the screen on the table’s edge.
He paused a moment to look around and make sure no one was watching. The scammer shook from fear. No one seemed to be paying any attention.
What he really wanted to do was fire two bullets into the scammer’s stomach and calmly exit the station, jump in the Viper and hit 1-70 until he reached the cabin outside Vail, but he couldn’t have that on the cameras.
Get the fuck out of here, Deacon said.
He watched the scammer limp away and disappear into the crowd. He pocketed the ID just in case, but couldn’t imagine seeing the scammer again, though who could know?
Most other criminals were very stupid.
Which was not for nothing because how many stupid criminals had to be out there just for one of him to exist.
Wilson Koewing (wilsonkoewing.com, @jadedwriter_) lives and writes in Marin County, California.
Deacon is such a cool name for this character. Awesome story!