While it might have been a bye-week for the team, I was able to keep busy. We had a name to go on, now, and confirming whether or not she was a student at dear, mold, Nebraska U was pretty straightforward. The Student Directory is but a quick jaunt through the Student Union.
Computer labs and video games, big-screen HD TVs in order to catch up on the soaps without having to go all the way back to the dorm, a quick nosh if your in the mood for BK or Subway. The bookstore, downstairs is always a good place to browse or lurk, or kill time.
The student directory is a time-honored bit of old-fashioned low-tech. It's like a mini phonebook that lists students, their majors, their residence if they're on campus and phone numbers if they opt in. Most don't opt in, anymore. Too many creepers and weirdos like me who want the information for less than legitimate reasons. I just wanted to see if we had an Elpis Smith listed and what info she shared.
I popped the little book open and started scanning the Smiths. There were quite a few, shockingly. I slid my finger along the margin; Ebony...Eden...Elmer...Emily...Emma...Emma...Enoch....Damn. Back to the top of the Smiths, and I found seven E. Smiths. I checked the corresponding majors, two English, one History, one Philosophy, two Business, and one Chemical Engineering. Bingo. If this was the right E. Smith, she was listed in 984 Selleck Hall. Selleck, nice. I flipped the book closed and went outside to make a call to Betty, the theme to Magnum, P.I. in my head. Magnum had the sweetest P.I. gig of all time.
I rang up Betty. Voicemail. Shit, she was probably in class. I told her what I had found out, and that I was in town and to give me a call when she got some free time. With nothing pressing and feeling slightly nostalgic, I decided to wander across the campus. I could cruise over to Oldfather, then over to the stadium, give the Statue of the Huskers tackling the K-State player a high-five, and do some shopping at the over-priced Husker Gear outlet across the street from the Stadium.
I was a slow-moving island in a sea of academic hustle and bustle. Dudes with backpacks flew past. The tribes of fraternity lads and sorority lassies trooped past in their designated daily uniforms. The Tri-Delts had some sort of jungle-themed joint imminent, and the dark green t-shirts with the silk-screened image and bright yellow Deltas accompanied really tight, really short denim shorts as the clothing du jour. Not gonna lie, no strong objection noted to the shorts.
The professors looked the same. Not the same people, just the same look, rumpled, harried, more concerned about getting published than passing on the knowledge, no matter how arcane or useless off campus.
I had turned to check out some tail-lights, perve-ing on the girlies when I noticed him. A guy who looked too old to be a student, too young to be a dad, keeping a decent tail distance but giving himself away with a hoodie with the hood up. It wasn't that cold and it wasn't that wet. I decided to do a once-twice-thrice check on him.
I spotted a girl approaching me from head-on, I stopped her with my oh-so-polite, "Excuse me, young lady." She stopped. "I think I got turned around here. I told my daughter I'd meet her at Oldfather Hall."
"Now, the guy at the Student Union..." I pointed back toward the Union, and right at Hoodie. Hoodie stopped. Once is a an accident.
I politely thanked the girl and and headed toward the stadium. I approached the statue, it is situated in such a way that one can walk completely around it. I pulled out my phone to take a few snaps, acting all touristy. Hoodie got closer. I expanded the view to zoom in on a detail. I pivoted and took a snap of Hoodie. It was easy, he was frozen about 20 yards away.
Twice is a coincidence.
I picked up my pace and headed toward the south end of the stadium, that way I actually approach closer to Hoodie, but not directly. If he doesn't know he's been made, by now, hes even dumber than I think. I angle around the Student-Athlete entrance, which projects from the main stadium building, itself. I move at a fast walk. I didn't even glance back as I rounded the corner of the entrance, into a blind spot. He had to have lost sight of me, so I waited.
I didn't have to wait long. Hoodie jogged around the corner, his hood was still up and his peripheral vision was obstructed and his focus was down range. He blew past me and I stepped out, right into his six-o'clock position.
Thrice is an act of war.
I wrapped my left arm around his shoulders, from behind, stuck my fingers from my right hand into his ribs. Hard. "Easy now," I said. You know what this is poking into your ribs, so play nice, and I wont have to play 'justifiable homicide' with my throwdown piece. Got, it?" I hissed into his ear.
He nodded. Nice and slow. "Now," I said. "You are going to tell me who sent you and why."
"Get bent," he spat. "I ain't telling you, shit."
I used the leverage I had and propelled him face-first into the wall. Class must have started, since the area was conveniently empty. "Tough guy, huh. I don't need to rough you up, too bad. Just enough to find out if you are licensed, who you work for, and how badly this will look on your evaluation."
He mumbled something that probably had to do with me and farm animals. It's so tough to understand people when they have their chin pressed into concrete.
I fished his wallet out. I kept my fingers to his ribs and flipped it open. "Michael Dixon. Probationary license with the good folks at Husker Security Services, huh. Your reporting officer will love this story. I give them a call and tell them how badly you screwed up a simple tail-job. Or, you can make me forget how badly you suck at this."
He mumbled something that sounded like, 'How?'
"Tell me who put you on to my scent, and what they want, and my memory begins to get all foggy," I explained in a calm voice.
"All right. All right. I'll tell you. Just let go of me, my face is starting to hurt." He was starting to sound pathetic.
"Nope. I'm not letting go until you spill. I have the advantage, here, bub, and I would hate to have an accidental discharge spray paint the wrong color red all over the pretty stadium."
His shoulder slumped. Surrender. "A dude named Rick Brewer hired us to figure out what you were doing. You and that weird dude, you hang out with. I got assigned to you. My adviser is on the other guy."
"Well, that does make sense. I'm going to let you go, nice and easy. Don't do anything stupid. .45 ACP rounds make an awful fucking mess."
"Ok. We're cool. Nothing stupid. No calls?"
"No calls," I said, hoping he couldn't hear the smile in my voice.
I stepped back and released him. I kept my hand in my pocket. I wanted to maintain the illusion of being armed. It would completely ruin his day to find out he had caved to a literal hand-gun.
I still needed to hear from Betty. Busy, busy day.
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