Page 4 of Nobody's Hero

The man told him.

‘Who the hell is Ben Koenig?’ the aide said.

Part One

Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes?

Who will guard the guards themselves?

Chapter 4

New York. Halloween.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Ben Koenig said to the woman who’d slid into the seat next to him.

She had the physique of a long-distance runner and looked twice as miserable. She wore her makeup harsh. Thick mascara and a powdered face. If she added a green wig, she could have joined the trick-or-treaters as a Batman villain. She looked like she’d have been a mean cheerleader, the kind who laughed when the quarterback busted up his knee.

‘I’m your worst nightmare,’ she said.

‘You’re a dietician?’ Koenig replied.

‘Funny.’ She turned and faced a hipster at the computer opposite. Stared until he noticed, then kept staring. The hipster had intricate tattoos and a pubic beard. He wore a beanie hat and corduroy dungarees. Looked like every hipster everywhere. The kind of man who slept in a hammock. He’d been playing some sort of role-playing game, but he caved under the woman’s withering glare. He picked up his canvas man-bag and left without speaking.

A man immediately took his place. He was so overweight he walked like a duck. He stared at Koenig like he was a day-old doughnut.

Koenig checked out the rest of the internet café. The dynamics had changed. He hadn’t noticed, but no one new had entered for at least thirty minutes. It had been full a couple of hours ago. He’d had to wait for a computer terminal. Now it was almost empty.

Another guy was sitting at a terminal next to the door. A hulking, beetle-browed man with a flat nose and asymmetrical ears. Looked like he’d taken a few punches over the years. He hadn’t even gone to the pretence of turning on the computer. If this were a movie, he’d have flipped the sign to closed after the hipster had left. Made sure Koenig watched him do it. Koenig figured there was someone outside stopping new customers from entering. That made four. The three inside were wearing jeans. Not like a uniform, more like if you put any three Americans together, sure as milk on Mondays, most will be wearing jeans. Koenig was wearing a pair himself.

The woman twisted to show the Colt Detective Special she had in her right hand. She held it low and tucked in tight to her hip. Professional. No way to disarm her before she could put a couple into his liver. She gave Koenig an appraising look. ‘I thought you’d be bigger,’ she said.

‘I get that a lot.’

‘Hand over your cell phone.’

‘Don’t have one.’

‘Everybody has a cell phone.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Stand up,’ she said.

Koenig did. Standing was better than sitting. It gave him more options.

Walks-like-a-duck guy waddled around and expertly patted him down. Pulled out Koenig’s wallet and threw it on the table. It clattered against the keyboard.

‘He wasn’t shitting you,’ he said. ‘He don’t have one.’

‘Check his backpack. Let’s see what else he doesn’t have.’

They waited while Walks-Like-a-Duck rooted through Koenig’s backpack.

‘Looks like he’s going camping. There’s a knife but no cell phone and no gun.’

‘Let’s take this outside,’ the woman said. ‘You grab his bag, we’ll bring him.’

Koenig sat down and folded his arms. More to see what they did than for any tactical advantage.