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

somewhere, sir," Livingston grinded his

front of him approached Livingston face to face and sneered, "We don't like your kind around here,

Livingston eye-balled the man right back. In his heart there was only contempt, the kind that longed for only the darkest desires. But he held on and dropped his head

careful where I tread, officer."

and carrying on all the way around the corner. But as he stood in complete and utter revulsion, there remained only the young lady

and other various businesses. The very second he caught sight of Lynnette aimlessly walking down the beach with her head hanging low the 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 more before making sure she was out of sight, he then

and the basket of fruit that she was carrying on top of her own head. There was so much drowning his mind all at once

Livingston veered off the road and 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

through speaking with a couple of blokes. By the way they described her, she's either from some agency or else she's

talking at that moment. He sat and studied Philippe

in

But Philippe couldn't seem to answer, he just sat and stared out the window ahead of him as though

fingers in front

head, the young man responded in a skittish voice, "I tried to get in touch wit you...but I

science-fiction movie? Do I look like I have the

"I was speaking wit Ejo, and he told me last night he was down at de old

"Ok, so," Livingston

"He said dat dere was someone inside de

"Probably a squatter,"

mon." Philippe's

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

"Is it a bloke?" Livingston

"Yeah...yeah,

his forehead which had suddenly exploded into a violent sweat before saying, "Okay...I want you. I want you to find

"Do as I tell you!" Livingston screamed. "You take care of her, and I'll go check this

the building from which he exited. Livingston kept his eyes on the glove compartment a bit longer before eventually reaching over, opening it

this country." He muttered at the hazy sky before

of town and into a desolated section of the city where only tall, brown weeds and several abandoned warehouses were located. His truck bumped

His stride was methodical if not wary. He had his gun in his right hand and even that

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

they should have been. Just as Livingston was about to take the metal stairs up, he was abruptly halted by the sight of a black liquid that was lying on the floor in 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 to speak of, yet it felt so thick like molasses. Livingston dropped the glass back to the floor before

you really here, mon?" A deep voice echoed clear from the other side of the

accidentally dropped his weapon to the floor, but before he could even attempt to reach

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

"You there," Livingston

stopped just seven feet away from Livingston. Both men stood opposite the

really

dropped right out of their sockets at that moment. The shaking gun

this?" He gasped for air. "Who...no,

"I am here, mon." Arthur announced in a weary

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

at himself from his feet all the way to his withered hands, Arthur said,

"Where the hell have you been?" Livingston asked.