Ninovan (Hypernaturals 10)

Intelligence is Sexy

The 'bad' thing about Thunderbird Coffee and Tap Room on Koenig is that the parking lot is about the size of a postage stamp. It holds maybe fifteen or eighteen cars. That means if you want to drop in and have a beer or a coffee, you probably get to park on the street. On tap night, you get to park a ways away. Morgan and I are meeting Jessica for a few beers because they have nice rotating taps and an excellent beer manager, who always keeps a good IPA or three available.

Morgan and I spent the day in San Antonio, tailing, and documenting what a guy did all day. Don hired us to do this because our target is on probation and his release terms said he could not go near certain types of establishments. Bars. Gambling. That type of thing. This guy wanted to hire Don, and Don had a weird feeling about him and wanted to be sure he was playing it straight.

Our report from three days of tailing (we came home at night) is that he is playing it on the edge. He is a musician, and loves music, and is going along the Riverwalk and listening to live music, but outside. He is not drinking, but he is close to temptation. Our target cannot drive because of multiple DUI's and so there is no car to toss. We checked out his apartment, but all we found is a guitar, ashtrays full of legal tobacco products, and frozen food. No beer, wine, liquor, or other products that are legal elsewhere but not here, due to the backward nature of the state culture. I personally do not care as Alcohol is my weapon of choice, but I feel for all the people for whom that kind of upside-down thinking lands them in trouble.

We were caught on the way out of the apartment by a neighbor. An older woman who smelled of lavender and port wine. "Are you youngsters looking for Billy Ray?" She asked.

Morgan, who speaks French as fluently as I do, said in heavily accented pidgin English. "Oh non! I thought my brother, he live here, and he gave me this number." She waved at the door and pulled out the paper with the address written on it and showed it to the woman. "But this? This is not his apartment. My brother, he is a carpenter, and that person in there, they play guitare!"

"Your brother is a French... Carpenter? What, we don't have those here?"

Nothing like a bigoted comment to endear oneself to others. Morgan reacted by becoming MORE French.

"Oh, Oui! Oui! He is very special. He makes the special ceilings! The kind like this!" Morgan pantomimed an arch shape. "Plafond voûté, you know? It is very difficult."

"You went in there?" the woman asked, to change the subject. She had seen us coming out. It is broad daylight outside, and the shared hall has a huge window on one end. The made the hall well lit, and our entrance and exit in no way stealthy.

"The door, it was not locked! My brother, he tell my husband and I that he would leave it unlocked for us! So we could wait for him, but non! This is all wrong!"

Morgan showed her the address again. "That is this place, Oui? American addresses, they do not work the same..."

I took a moment to enjoy the fact that my half Norwegian, Half Apache, completely born and raised here bride is selling this woman totally on being from France.

"I can barely understand you, little missy. Yes. That is the address here." The woman said, backing up into her apartment and trying to get away.

Little missy? Morgan is twice her size.

"I must have written it down wrong somehow." Morgan shook her head sadly, looking at the paper.

"Well, you kids run along now." She said and closed the door.

Morgan said to me in French. "I think we have the wrong address, my husband. We should go find a nice cafe and get a lovely cappuccino and call my brother again, Yes?"