It was a nice day.
the storm had passed. the sun glinted off the piles of snow left on the street.
pablo the piranha was seated in another coffee shop, a few blocks away from the one in which he had been interviewed by “mister brown” the night before. this one did not afford the same view of the imperial palace and the buildings containing the corridors of power.
pablo sat on a stool at a counter beside the window, like he was watching the world go by. and the world he was watching was, to all outward appearances, the world of ordinary people going about their ordinary business.
mister brown had provided pablo with a “coffee card” from the coffee shop chain which entitled him to what was in effect unlimited coffee and dougnuts.
the girl at the counter had laughed when pablo had first presented the card to her. “i never seen a card with this much on it before.” she told pablo. “did you pay for it yourself?”
“i won it a contest,” pablo said, as he had been instructed to by mister brown.
“whatever. hey, ralph, look at this, “ the girl called to a neanderthal looking guy at the other end of the counter, probably the manager.
“what?” ralph answred, without looking at her.
“this guy’s got a card for two thousand dollars!”
“oh, yeah.”
“oh, yeah, what?”
“i heard there was a guy. you must be the guy,” ralph said, turning to look at pablo.
“i won it in a contest,” pablo repeated.
“that’s what i said, you’re the guy, that won it in the contest.” the discussion ended, ralph folded his muscular arms across his chest, and went back to leaning on the counter.
“so what it will be, mister two thousand dollar man?” the girl asked.
“just a regular coffee, cream no sugar, and a boston cream donut.”
“enjoy!” the girl called after pablo as he headed for the counter with the coffee and donut.
pablo did not think it seemed very bright of mister brown to call attention to him, pablo, in this manner, but he supposed mister brown knew his business. he hoped he knew his business.
pablo took his seat at the counter. his quarry was visible across the street. not directly across the street, but close enough.
in the bright sunlight the professor looked even younger than he had in the picture mister brown had shown pablo. he looked about nine years old.
the kid had a huge stack of papers under his arm. and another big stack on the ground beside him, held down with a rock on something, a tarp or something, to protect then from the wet sidewalk.
how long was it going to take him to sell them? and was he, pablo, expected to sit here staring at him for hours while he drank two thousand dollars worth of coffee?
everything about the setup gave pablo a bad feeling.
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