Stan paid an extra fifty bucks for a Fastr that could pick him up in a van. He had to use his crutches since damaging his Everyday Carry in the crash at Wildwood. He wasn’t great with them, and he was carrying a heavy bag with a broken prosthetic leg in it. He needed the room.
The driver’s name was Jonah, a transgender man in the middle of a difficult transition. He was free with too much detail as far as Stan was concerned.
“Nobody really told me what it was gonna be like. I kept asking, and they just said the testosterone was gonna be different. Is that what it was like for you?”
Stan pulled his gaze from the window where he had been trying to ignore Jonah’s story. “I don’t know. I’ve never taken testosterone.”
“No man. Puberty. What was puberty like?”
Stan tried to mask his confusion. Maybe he should have been paying more attention. “Didn’t you go through puberty?”
“Yeah, but it was a girl’s.”
Stan suddenly understood. “Oh. That’s essentially what’s happening to you. Puberty all over again, but from a boy’s perspective?”
“That’s right.”
“Um, I don’t really remember. It’s been a while.”
Jonah nodded. “That’s what a lot of ‘em say.” He shrugged. “That’s okay. I’ll write my own book. I always have.”
Stan was suddenly interested. Here was a person becoming a completely different person. At least different to anybody watching. “I remember anger. And confusion,” Stan said. “There was nobody around that could really tell me what was going on. Nobody I could ask. That’s what I remember about puberty. Just walking around like what the fuck?”
Jonah slapped the wheel. “Then it’s exactly the same. I tell you, though. Even if I had the details — like if somebody had said what was gonna happen exactly — I don’t think I would have believed them.”
Stan laughed. “Me neither. And you don’t even have to deal with the dick stuff.”
Stan snapped his mouth shut, afraid he had gone into some taboo territory, but Jonah threw back his head and laughed. “If only the dick stuff was all I had to worry about.”
Stan sat back in confusion, then it hit him. His laughter joined Jonah’s, and the rest of the drive was spent in pleasant conversation with a man that seemed to be slowly moving into his own. A place many young men never found.
It brought the perspective home. How did people see him versus how he saw himself?
What could he change to reconcile both views? Should he change?
“Let me ask you a question,” he said.
Jonah glanced up at him in the rearview mirror. “Shoot.”
“Who are you? Like, when you think about yourself.”
Jonah shook his head. “What do you mean? I’m me.”
“That’s it?”
Jonah shrugged. “What else is there?”
Stan sat back in wonder. He had tried to give Frank this lesson, only he was ill-equipped to teach it. Too busy punishing himself to see his own hypocrisy.
“I’m still the same guy I always was,” Jonah said. “It’s just now, when I look in the mirror, I actually see him.”
It took Stan a few moments to realize they were no longer moving. He looked out the window to see Ossi-Pro’s front door. He looked back at Jonah. “You know what, Jonah? You taught me a little something about myself just now.”
Jonah looked back over his shoulder. His face open in surprise. “I did?”
Stan nodded. “You did. I think you’re doing fine.”
“You think?”
Stan shrugged. “One of us has to be.” Then he slid the door open. Struggled to get his crutches out while not dropping the bag, but Jonah was right there. A strong hand on his elbow. Holding the bag out until Stan got his balance.
“You want me to wait?” Jonah said. “It doesn’t look like anybody’s here.”
Stan dug his keys out. “Thanks, but I own the place.”
Jonah shook his head as he closed the van door. “That’s why I write my own book. If people wrote it for me, I’d be whatever they saw. You take it easy, Stan.”
“You too, Jonah.”
Stan waited until he had pulled out of the parking lot before heading to his front door. He unlocked it and stepped inside. Threw the bag on Haggis’ bench. Got a pot of coffee going. Hobbled in to sit at his desk.
It was covered in a film of dust.
His computer showed the usual correspondence. A lot of unanswered emails. People trying to sell him dick pills and extended car warranties. A few requests for design collaboration. Charities asking for donations.
The front door opened, and Haggis walked by, headed to his workbench.
Stan did a search for Clarke’s name. His man in Texas. A message appeared in the results. Mr. Franklin. I am in receipt of your package, and it has been stored in Box 307 as per your request. I am still in your service. Kind regards.
So the evidence against Mickelson and White Diamond had made it to the bank. He had removed leverage by making sure it was nowhere near him, but now that Mickelson had been murdered, and whoever did it was now after Stan and his friends, he probably needed to retrieve it.
Instead of sending it to one paper and a couple of cops, he would blast it to every news source in the world. A server he would spend the last of his money buying that would do nothing but spam sites and emails and LiveLyfe profiles with the same message.
The video of Mickelson on the boat. The names of the others involved — especially Ty Kirby. And proof that Frank was a good man undeserving of Kirby’s hatchet job.
He sent an email to Ian’s dummy account. I am in need of further services, but my household is not in agreement of the extent of what is required.
He needed Ian’s help, but he was being watched, and he wasn’t sure how many were watching. That would lead Ian to arrange secret contact.
He’d probably charge double too.
He sighed in frustration as he closed the email tab. Looked up to see Haggis standing in his doorway. Blowing across the top of his steaming coffee. “Good morning, Haggis.”
Haggis looked up from his cup. “Morning, Mr. Franklin. Or is it Manning?”
He walked in and sat on the other side of the desk. Took a slow sip. “A Ranger I knew in Afghanistan said your nickname was Static.”
“Is that right?”
Haggis shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s right. Just something I heard. He said it was ‘cuz that’s what you always gave people. Especially people you didn’t like.”
Stan leaned back. “That makes me sound like an asshole.”
Haggis shrugged. “You’ve given me plenty. I just don’t know if it’s ‘cuz you don’t like me or that’s just how you are.”
Stan nodded. “It’s Manning.”
Haggis tipped his head toward the door. “What happened to your leg this time? Another dog?”
Stan smiled. “Not exactly. Car wreck.”
“That's why you aren’t driving the Beamer.”
“That’s right.” His left shoulder began to throb in sympathy. Gen had put it back in place, but she couldn’t promise it would be fine. He really needed to see a doctor.
Haggis took another sip. “Is Miss Ronnie okay?”
“She’s fine.”
“Good.”
“She wasn’t even with me at the time. It was somebody else, and she’s okay too.”
Haggis raised his eyebrows. “She?”
“What are you, my mother?”
Haggis shook his head. “Just trying to get the details.”
Stan shrugged. “Back road in Wildwood. Played chicken with a Dodge Charger. I and my passenger are just fine.”
Haggis sat forward. “Was it black?”
The question sent a chill through his chest. Stan matched his posture. Put his hands on the desk. “What is going on here?”
“I think I was right,” Haggis said.
Stan wanted to scream, but he forced his voice to remain calm. “About what?”
Haggis’ smile was a tease over the rim of his cup. “About trusting you.”