Tales of a Writer

Chapter Four

Louis ran his hand through his hair nervously as he held tightly onto the pole in the Tube with his other hand. The journalist was on his way to Soho with an Italian Restaurant in mind along with a certain heroic robber. He listened as the man on the intercom announced their location. He stepped off when the train doors slid open and shoved his hands in his coat pockets to shield himself from wind tunnel the subway created. He felt the muscles in his legs strain as he climbed up the steps to the busy street. His black vans walked along the sidewalk and made their way into the Italian restaurant. Obica was sat on the corner of Noel and Poland with a few empty tables outside in front of the windows. The waiter placed him at a table in the back corner where he could watch the whole restaurant and the happenings outside. He sat there, staring out into the street, and he continued to stare as a man pulled up in a motorcycle.

He wore an expensive leather jacket and tight black pants. His face was covered by the plain black motorcycle helmet and Louis just couldn't help but stare at him, the man atop the motorcycle. He didn't seem to be going anywhere; he was just sitting there and watching cars pass on the street as he leaned back on his leather seat.

People didn't even give him a second glance when they walked by him. As if it was a normal for a man to be sitting on a motorcycle on the side of the road. Which Louis supposed wasn't an insane idea, it just wasn't exactly common.

Louis liked watching the reflections of cars and people on the man's visor. So much was happening on the two little streets. He watched as people walked in and out of the tattoo parlor and how people would stumble out of the Scottish bar across the way. There were couples holding hands and friends laughing and stumbling over each other. It made him think about how he was sitting - alone - in this Italian restaurant - alone - watching the mysterious man on the motorcycle - alone.

To be perfectly honest, he didn't mind sitting alone in the restaurant. It was warm inside the modern restaurant and he felt as if he was watching the intro to a movie as he looked out the window. Soft music played in the small building and the sounds from outside and inside were muffled to his ears. He wondered if the motorcycle man felt the same way. If he liked to watch everyone inside his helmet; if the sounds were muffled inside his head.

And then he heard it. The gun shot. The motorcycle man's hand was raised in the air, smoking gun in hand.

That's him, Louis thought, That's the Highwayman.

He heard screams from the street, and watched as people ducked and huddled together. In a millisecond he watched the Highwayman place the gun in the back of his waistband and rev the engine. He headed straight across the street and flew through the restaurant's long glass windows, using a knocked over table as a ramp. Louis shielded his face from the flying glass, but watched as a hand full of men in all black and tattoos emerged from the kitchen holding guns.

All other customers had run out frantically when they heard the first gunshot, so he was the only civilian remaining in the restaurant. A few of the waiters and waitresses also drew guns and joined the men in pointing their firearms at the man on the motorcycle. Another shot rang through the writer's ears and Louis made a mad dash for the washroom, ducking his head and hiding behind tables. He slammed the door behind him and locked the one toilet washroom. Sounds of grunts, plates crashing, and tables smashing came from the dining room and made their way to Louis' ears.

He searched the washroom for something to defend himself with and ended up standing in the corner with a metal trash bin in hand. His heart raced as the sounds of fighting decreased. He could hear his pulse in his ears when the sounds of fighting completely stopped. He realized that everyone had to be unconscious - or worse- if there was no more fighting.