The Death of 1977 (Book 3)

The bathroom was simply an excuse.

Livingston caught the entire incident in the alley from behind the safe confines of a cozy corner. Just as the two men were breathlessly sprinting down the long alley Livingston managed to cut right in front of them.

"Just a second, boys," he said in his usual dialect. "I have some questions for you."

"Move out of our way, whitey," one of the men anxiously shouted.

Promptly, Livingston pulled out a wad of bills and waved them in front of both men. "Now, like I said, I have some questions for you." He calmly stated.

Gradually, both men came down and glanced at each other before going back to drooling over the money that was staring back at them.

"I need to know why you were talking to that girl."

Huffing and puffing, one of the men said, "Hey, mon, she American. She won know 'bout someone named...Bushard."

"Yeah, we give her some bullshit directions." The other man stepped in. "She pay us and we send her on a wild goose chase!" He giggled.

Livingston examined both men who appeared more delighted in their deception. "Why did you do that?"

"She a stupid American girl, mon," one explained. "We need de money! We know no Bushard, but we know money! She desperate, mon!"

"Hold it!" A megaphone rang out from behind.

Immediately, Livingston spun around while the other two men turned tail and took off down the other end of the alley.

Casually, three police officers all dressed in blue, short sleeved shirts and black shorts came towards Livingston. The man made sure to stuff his money back into his pants pocket before placing a polite smile on his blushing face.

"Good afternoon, Officers!" He reverted back to his 'nobleman's' English. "Would there be a problem?"

The three officers all surrounded the man and inspected him from top to bottom as though it were the first time they had ever laid eyes on a white man before. One by one they pulled out their batons and began slapping their left hands with them. Livingston on the other hand simply stood and watched as the ever so curious men circled him like vultures around rotting meat. He was sweating, but not from fear. He had Lynnette on his mind; the police were a meager annoyance.

"What's your name, sir?" One of the officers stood in front of Livingston and asked.

"The name is Livingston, sir." He respectfully replied.

"Is dat a first or last name?"

"Just Livingston, sir," he remarked in a cavalier tone.

Soon, the other two officers stopped swirling about and stood behind the man. "What were you saying to dose two boys?"

"Well, we were just having a bit of a discussion about what good places to eat around these parts, sir."

Appearing suspicious, the officer began rooting about inside Livingston's pockets before he managed to pull out his wad of bills.

"You must be a rich mon, Mr. Livingston." The officer purred.

Livingston stiffened his upper lip as the red in his face increased. He stood and watched as the officer counted each and every bill before taking and planting the wad into his own pocket.

"Ya sound like you're from Britain or somewhere." One of the other officers said

"Just from somewhere, sir,"

approached Livingston face to face and sneered, "We

heart there was only contempt, the kind that longed for only the darkest desires. But

more careful where I tread,

as he stood in complete and utter revulsion, there remained only the young lady that served him back at the restaurant named Lynnette. For the time being Livingston could withstand the abuse

man stumbled backwards and watched quietly from a distance. In his eyes she appeared so lonely and destitute. She just plodded along as though her world had crashed into pieces. Livingston eyed her a few moments

traffic lights. He just nearly missed a mother walking across the street with her three children and the basket of fruit that she was carrying on top of her own head. There was so much drowning

into an alley. On a dime he stomped on the brake, screeching until he came to a complete stop in front of a particular backdoor. The man pressed on

is yet, but I just got through speaking with a couple of blokes. By

studied Philippe who had the most empty and hopeless appearance

in a twist?" Livingston

he just sat and stared out the window ahead of him as though he were anticipating something to

"Look alive, man!" Livingston snapped his fingers in front of Philippe's face.

his head, the young man responded in a skittish voice, "I tried

is this, a science-fiction movie? Do I look like I have the ability

Ejo, and he told me last

"Ok, so," Livingston grew even

dat dere was someone inside

"Probably a squatter,"

mon." Philippe's eyes

the very threshold of tolerance, rolled his eyes and stared at Philippe before an unsettling growl settled down inside his own stomach. Ever so steadily the man turned away from Philippe. His bottom lip started to quiver, as did his two hands, but he managed to conceal them

"Is it a bloke?" Livingston meekly

"Yeah...yeah,

sweat before saying,

"You take care of her,

Apprehensively nodding his head, Philippe got out of the truck and headed back into the building from which he exited. Livingston kept his eyes

hate this country." He muttered at the hazy sky before putting the truck in gear

Livingston drove clear out of town and into a desolated section of the city where only tall, brown weeds and several abandoned warehouses were located. His truck bumped up and down across various potholes that lined the lonely road until he came to a stop

warm truck for at least five whole minutes before mustering both the energy and bravery to get out and tread ever so carefully towards the broken down building. His stride was methodical if not wary. He had his gun in his right hand

he reached the so called entrance Livingston immediately took off his blazer and tossed it to the ground before sliding through the halfway opened steel door. The entire building, which consisted of two large floors, smelled of musty rain. From one corner to

front of him. He knelt down and poked at it with the tip of his weapon while noticing a shard of broken glass right beside him. Livingston picked up the glass and scraped at the ooze before managing to gather a few specs and lifting it to his nose. The mess had no smell

"Are you really here, mon?" A deep voice echoed clear from the

Out of fear, Livingston fired his gun before stumbling to the ground. In the process of falling he accidentally dropped his weapon to the floor, but before he could even attempt to reach for it he managed to gain a glimpse of the individual that was slowly making their way towards

his feet with gun in hand and adamantly pointed at the person who was gradually coming in clearer. He could see a raggedy looking man who appeared as if he were in his late seventies. He had a grey beard and a pair of bare, crusty feet that looked as though they had walked from one end of the earth to the other. Livingston squinted as hard as he could. The sunlight was shining brightly into the warehouse and yet making out the man before him was such

"You there,"

away from Livingston. Both men stood opposite

it really you, my friend?" Arthur

dropped right out of their sockets at that moment. The shaking gun that was inside his hand slowly dropped to his

"What...what the bleeding hell is this?" He gasped for air. "Who...no,

"I am here, mon." Arthur announced in

most flabbergasted manner. "What happened to you, for Christ's sake?"

feet all the way to his withered hands, Arthur

been?"