White Fox--Chapter 2, Part 2

Chapter two of White Fox continues here.  In this part of the tale, I describe Renardo's appearance and introduce a new character.  Some of the decor in Renardo's home is also detailed.  For the first time, the reader gets the chance to see the protagonist's interaction with a close friend.

Sancho licked his lips and looked at his master inquisitively, hoping for more food.  Renardo patted his leg, and the dog came to him and threw his front paws upon his lap.  “How did Malvin figure out that I was onto him, boy?” he asked, petting the soft mat of fur on Sancho’s head.  “How could he know? It’s not like I’ve been running around the city, asking anyone where I can find him.  Not until Moustache Man, that is.”

The dog said nothing.  His eyes were set on his master’s face, as if he were staring into his soul.  Renardo’s vision became unclear as he tunneled into the depths of his thoughts.  “I guess how Malvin knows about me is not that important right now.  What’s important is that Doctor Wiles lied to me, and I know where he teaches.  He’s my only lead.  I have to talk to him again, and this time, I don’t think I’ll be as nice.  Wiles….Heh.  Fitting name, don’t you think?”

Sancho left his lap and proceeded to wander about the room.  Renardo went to the display case at the back of the room and fiddled with the knot that tied the white cape to his neck.  When it came loose, he opened the case, moved the curtain aside, and hung the cape up on a hook.  “I wish I could have worn the whole thing,” he said to himself.  “It just wasn’t the right time.  Soon enough, though.”  Then he returned the display case to the way it was and walked over to the mirror above Sancho’s bed.  His tousled hair, appearing dark brown in the dim lighting (though it was actually dirty blonde), stretched across his forehead in long strands.  Not far below rested eyes of blue frost, pale but lively.  His nose and mouth were not his most distinct features, but they fit well within the square frame of his head.  It had been said of him that he carried a boyish look, as his skin was light and fair, unblemished by freckle or mole; and he was always clean-shaven.  Below his head protruded broad shoulders upheld by an athletic build.  He was presently garbed in plain black dress pants, business shoes, and a sports jacket; the latter was open, exposing a white dress shirt that he wore beneath it.  The cape—which had hung between the jacket and shirt—had been tucked into his pants, but had come loose some time during his brawl with Moustache Man.

He sat again at his desk, deciding that he should book a flight to the Philadelphia International Airport while the thought was fresh in his mind.  He prepared to open a window for the internet when a loud ring stung the air and caused him to leap in his seat.  Someone was at his front door.  His heart began to race as he imagined a host of armed police officers scouring his house and property.  Or maybe it was Malvin himself; that would be far worse.  Before Sancho could bark, he waved a threatening finger in the dog’s direction and repeatedly mouthed the word, “No.”  Sancho stared at him with seeming defiance, but soon his tension from the sound eased and he returned to his bed.  Renardo clicked something on his desktop and a window popped up, taking a moment to load.  He waited.  The screen went black.  Then there was a gray fuzziness and static, and a live feed of his porch popped onto the screen.  Neither the police nor Malvin was at the door, but rather a man, who presently peered through the thin windows on either side of the front door.

The man could not see anything inside the house, so he rang the doorbell a second time.  His foot tapped impatiently on the front porch as he waited for Renardo to show himself.  A few seconds passed, and he stopped tapping so he could listen for any sounds coming from within the building.  There was silence.  Normally silence did not bother him, but in this place, hidden away from society and overwhelmed by grand trees and untamed grass, and centered around an expansive home of aged craft, it seemed to be magnified.  He rapped on the door with loud strikes and continued to wait.  The silence persisted.  Finally, he turned from the door and made his way toward the gothic gate.  The moment his foot touched the stair at the edge of the porch, he heard something slice through the wind, and then a great force bludgeoned him in the back.  He fell forward, onto the cement, but he rose quickly and whirled toward his attacker.  Renardo stood there, laughing and holding his chest.  He walked forward and gave the man a monstrous bear hug.

“What the hell, Renardo?” the man exclaimed. “Did you really just jump off your roof and tackle me?”

“Yeah, I guess I did.” Renardo had some difficulty containing his laughter.  “Did you suspect anything?”

“Of course not! If I did, you would’ve been the one on the ground!” The man began to laugh as well.

Renardo released him and grinned.  “So how are you, Nate?”

“Hey, what’d I tell you, man? I dropped ‘Nate,’ so now I’m ‘Nathan.’ It sounds more adult-like, remember?”

“Yeah, whatever.” Renardo rolled his eyes.  “Well, Nate, what brings you to the neighborhood?”

“Well, we haven’t talked or anything for the past few weeks, so I wanted to come by and see how you’re doing.  How are you doing, bud?”

Renardo craned his neck so that he could see over Nathan’s shoulder, noticing the quietness of the area for the first time.  If Malvin knew about him, he should limit his time spent in open spaces.  “We don’t have to hang out here.  Come inside! I’ll get you some coffee, and maybe something stronger, if you want it.”

“I’ll go for the coffee,” Nathan replied, following his friend up the porch.  “Not really in the mood for anything stronger.”

They entered the finely decorated living room, Renardo glancing discreetly out the window for unwanted guests as he shut the door without a sound.  Most of the living room lay to the left, filled with a massive rug, a glass coffee table, a couch, a recliner, and a plasma screen television that was greater in width than either friend was tall.  A doorway led to the kitchen on the right, and a door was located on the left of the room, blocking entrance to the other side of the house.  Facing the front door was a mocha-brown staircase that spiraled up to the second story.  Renardo motioned for Nathan to sit on the couch and disappeared into the kitchen.  His friend took a seat and looked around, shaking his head.  The aura of wealth that the living room exuded never ceased to amaze him.

“So Renardo…you didn’t answer my question,” he pointed out, admiring the colossal television.  “How the heck are ya?”

“You seem to be forgetting that I asked you first,” came the distant response from the kitchen, accompanied by the sound of running water.

“Ok, fine,” said Nathan with a laugh.  “I’m really good, man.  There’s not a whole lot going on, honestly.  I’m just busy with classes and with not having a girlfriend.”

“Trust me, I hear you there.” Renardo set the coffee pot in the coffee maker and turned it on.  “The second part, that is.”

“Yeah, I was gonna say, I don’t think you have the stress of classes anymore,” Nathan commented, “unless that was a different Renardo Blanchard who graduated with his master’s degree in engineering and a minor in kinesiology—oh, and managed to graduate magna cum laude.”

“Heh, you’re a funny guy.” The coffee maker began to growl.  Renardo came to the doorway and leaned against a wall.  “I’m glad you’re doing ok.  That’s good, man.  Really good.”

Nathan nodded, looking at him.  “So then, I assume you’re not having any luck with the ladies?”

“Yeah right.  I don’t go out enough to see if I have the luck.” He paused, his eyebrows furrowed with thought.  “Although I did meet this lady at a diner this morning.  She seemed to be a little interested in me.”

“Were you interested in her?”

The furrowed eyebrows continued.  “Hard to say.  I wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention to her.”

“Damn, man!” Nathan shouted, smacking the couch.  “That was your shot! A girl pays attention to you, and you just act like she’s not there?”

“Ok, ok,” Renardo said with a chuckle, throwing his hands in front of him as if to ward off a blow.  “I paid enough attention to see that she was a cool person.  And she was pretty.  She seemed kind of sad.  She was boring, too.”

“I don’t think you gave her much of a chance.  You should try talking to her again.”

“Maybe….” Renardo looked at the ground, his thoughts only on Malvin.  “I’ve been really busy lately, though.”

“Doing what?” Nathan asked.  “You don’t have a car, so you’re probably not traveling far from home.  You’re done with school.  You don’t have a job.  What in the world could take up so much of your time?”

“Hey,” Renardo responded, actually quite annoyed.  “Just because you’re my best friend, it doesn’t mean you know everything about my life.  There’s more going on than you know.  And you wouldn’t know what to say or do if I told you everything.”

Nathan rose to his feet and approached his friend.  He looked at him, his eyes serious.  “I’m sorry, Renardo.  I’m curious, though.  What’s going on? If I can be of any help, I’ll do what I can.”

Renardo sighed long, and his eyes met those of his friend.  “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Of course.  You’re my best friend.  Please, tell me.”

“Ok, then, but you should ready yourself,” Renardo warned him.  “It’s intense stuff.  We should probably sit down for this.”

White Fox--Chapter 2, Part 1

I apologize for the late post; I wanted to make sure that this part of my story looked fit enough for my blog.  In this section of White Fox, Renardo deals with the emotional distress of his recent failure in the city.  Mustache Man's link to Malvin (or lack thereof, perhaps?) is also revealed. While this portion of the novel is a bit slow, I find it necessary as a foundation for the rest of the story.  I hope you enjoy the first part of chapter two!

Chapter 2

The Scheme of Doctor Wiles

Part 1

Renardo had sprawled himself across a recliner in one corner of his family room an hour ago, and still he could not summon the courage to face the day.  There had not been a doubt in his mind about Mustache Man’s culpability and connection to Malvin when he had left his home earlier.  The evidence was inarguable, or so he had believed.  But as he reflected continually on his former target’s demeanor, and on his countenance when charged with such wild accusations, he managed to convince himself that, somehow, he had erred in his research;  there was no link between Malvin and Mustache Man.  The very idea caused his stomach to reel and blood rise to his cheeks in shame, and he clasped his hands before his face as if to ward off the judgmental laugh of an unseen foe.  In his long career, he had made few errors, and none of this magnitude.  Perhaps he was getting too old, and his mind was not as sharp as it once was? That was a possibility, but he was only in his mid-twenties.  Perhaps, recognizing for the first time in years potential bridges to Malvin, he had leapt at the first piece of solid evidence, and thus had not checked all of his facts before taking action? Also a possibility.  He sat up in the chair and forced himself to disregard such thoughts.  Sacramento needed him; he could not permit his own mind to stop him from continuing his mission.

The sun had not yet reached its zenith when he stepped out of his house and made his way across the front porch.  Ahead of him, a long string of concrete rived through the uncut lawn and ended at a gate of gothic craft.  A few valley oak trees were scattered across the grass, nearly concealing view of the house from onlookers; large plants, their vines contorting around the dark fence on either side of the gate, further discouraged unwelcome eyes.  Renardo turned left the moment his foot touched the concrete and rounded a huddle of bushes standing before the porch.  He walked along the right side of the house, stopped at a particular bush, and focused his eyes on it.  He reached for a small device hanging from a belt loop on his pants.  At the push of a button, a hidden chain coursed through a downspout along the side of the house and tugged at the bush.  There was a creaking sound, and the bush suddenly rose toward the house, mounted on a door encased in fake dirt.  Renardo stepped down into the revealed cellar, and as he descended the stone steps, the door silently reunited with the earth behind him.

He pressed a second button on the device at his hip, and lights flickered on overhead.  He was in a squat room with four walls, the wall behind him almost completely covered by the staircase.  Against the wall on his left were a recliner and an old television set wedged in a chipped entertainment center; a weapon display case, bearing two sheathed fighting knives, hung between them.  A desk filled up most of the space on the wall to his right, but there was room for a dog bed (currently occupied by Sancho, his Australian shepherd, whose eyes were adjusting to the light) on its left and a miniature bookcase on its opposing side.  Above the desk there loomed a massive plasma screen, to which his computer was connected; nearby, the dog’s bed was overshadowed by a hanging mirror.  The wall ahead of him was blank, save for a rounded display case that reached from the floor to the ceiling.  A black curtain stretched across the interior of the case, blocking all view of its contents.  Crowning a carpet in the center of the room was an unrecognizable practice dummy, scored by thousands of slashes and stabs.

Renardo approached his desk, and Sancho immediately sped from his bed and hopped about his legs.  He laughed and lifted the dog from the floor.  It was always nice to come home to someone so excited by and reliant upon his presence.  Carrying Sancho in one arm, he walked over to the entertainment center, and from it took a bag of dog food and a bowl.  He poured the food into the bowl and returned the bag to its place.  Then he sat at his desk and watched for a moment as Sancho slurped down the food.

“You would be helpless without me, wouldn’t you?” he asked.  “I’m all you have, poor guy.”

The dog said nothing.  Renardo swiveled around to his desk and turned on his computer.  He needed to understand how he had been misled.  Soon his desktop was displayed on the screen, and across it were numerous tabs of electronic paper littered with notes.  On the first note was only one word, “Malvin.”  As he stared at the name, he shut his eyes and recalled a series of crimes that had plagued Sacramento five years prior to the present day; it had taken him two years of research and clandestine tracking to discover that the assaults were not arbitrary, but were guided by a man by the name of Malvin Centius.  Although the organized crimes had stopped, Renardo was likely the only person who was aware that their catalyst was still at large.  He alerted the authorities daily, to no avail.  It was as if their ears were shut off from hearing the truth.  Frustrated and distressed by their incompetence, he made it his personal duty to find Malvin and stop him before he could loose another volley of attacks on the city. 

Malvin covered his tracks well.  He apparently stayed away from all social networking, or utilized a false name when logging in.  His number was unlisted in the white pages.  Typing his name into a search engine yielded few results, none of them of any immediate help to his search; one page led to an article about Malvin’s victory in a spelling bee when he was a boy, another to his results in a fundraising race, and yet another to an article he had written about leadership in business.  At the bottom of the latter page was a brief biography on Malvin, which explained that he was a senior level student at the Wharton University of Pennsylvania.  Unfortunately, Malvin had written the article seven years before Renardo’s discovery of the page, and so he set aside the article for a time.  He commenced a grueling workout routine that lasted months, preparing himself for a potential confrontation with the crime lord.  Finally, a few months ago, he returned to the article and decided to read comments that readers had left on the page.  One commenter referred to Malvin as a former student from the university.  Renardo clicked on the commenter’s user name, found his email address on the following page, and sent him a message.  He wrote that he was considering applying at Wharton, but wanted to sit in on one of the professor’s classes, if that was not too much to ask.  The response came to him a week later: he was not only welcomed to sit in, but encouraged as well.

Thus, he endured the lengthy flight to Pennsylvania and attended a class held by the professor, Doctor Jonathan Wiles.  Once the class had ended, he managed to speak to the man in private, and brought up the name of his “old friend,” Malvin Centius, in an offhand manner.  Wiles exclaimed that Mr. Centius had attended multiple classes of his, and Renardo’s face illumined with artificial amazement.  But this amazement faded and transformed into contemplation, and then to melancholy; it was then that Renardo expressed his dismay over the fact that he and Malvin had grown apart because of Malvin’s constant scholarly involvement.  Now nearly a decade had gone by, and Renardo still cherished the friendship they had once possessed.  He no longer knew where Malvin lived, he lamented to the sympathetic professor.  Wiles remarked that he did not know of his former student’s whereabouts; however, he did know that a close comrade of Malvin’s from the university, Joell Fiore, had moved to California.  If anyone knew where Malvin lived, he explained, it would be Joell.  

Renardo returned to his home in Sacramento and began to search for Joell.  He was shocked when he learned that the man lived in the same city as he.  It was not long before he ascertained his address, and this information permitted him some degree of espionage.  He learned that Joell frequented a diner in downtown Sacramento, and that one consistent day and time at which he visited the place was Saturday at 9:00 AM.  Therefore, before the man’s appointed time this morning, Renardo seated himself at the diner within sight of his target’s usual table.  There were a handful of seats available on that side of the building, but he sat before the cute woman with red hair, knowing that he would be less obvious if it appeared that he were engaged in interesting conversation.  When Joell walked in and took his seat, Renardo realized with some trepidation that the name could be an alias.  Any “close comrade” of Malvin’s was liable to be a shady character.  Until he was certain that the name was legitimate, he labeled him with the pseudonym “Mustache Man” because of his most prominent feature.

After the most unfortunate scuffle in downtown Sacramento, however, Renardo doubted Mustache Man’s shadiness.  The look in his eyes was too genuine; he did not know a thing about Malvin.  Not even a trained fraud could contort his eyes in such a convincing way while having the life beaten out of him.  Renardo leaned back in his chair and sighed.  His search for Joell Fiore had been flawless; there was absolutely no chance of error, because there was only one Joell Fiore in Sacramento.  His heart skipped a beat as a thought came to him.  Joell was not connected to Malvin, and Doctor Wiles had known it.  Somehow, Malvin had anticipated his questioning of the professor, and so he had supplied Wiles with the name of an innocent man.  With a curse that caused Sancho to leap away from his bowl, Renardo sent his fist into the front of his desk.  He had been caught like a fly in a web, and now the citizens of Sacramento had seen their only possible hero attack a man who had not committed a crime.  Even more alarming was the fact that Malvin, the city’s most frightening criminal, knew that Renardo was onto him.

White Fox--Chapter 1

             White Fox is a novel that I recently started.  My ideas for it have rolled around in my brain for about nine months, but I felt like I had too many projects going on to actually begin the book.  After an incredible moment of inspiration, however, I decided to write and completed the first chapter in one sitting.  Most would consider this "Superhero fiction," but I promise that it is much deeper than that.  Because this is my first go at such a genre, I would very much appreciate some feedback.  I hope you enjoy the first chapter of White Fox!

Chapter 1

Mustache Man

            The lady’s words were a soup of meaningless sounds in Renardo’s ears.  Certainly, what she had to say was very important, but he did not have the time to listen.  Perhaps he could ask her for forgiveness later.  The mustached man in one of the diner’s corner seats, some yards behind the droning lady, opened a menu and made himself comfortable.  It had taken him at least ten minutes to drink his coffee; now he was prepared to order breakfast.  Was he stalling because he suspected something, or did he always take this long to enjoy everything that he consumed?  Realizing that he would be stationed here far longer than he had anticipated, Renardo propelled himself against the cushioned seat behind him and began to feign interest in the lady’s rant.  She spoke of some adventure in rush-hour traffic in the heart of San Francisco.  Every street was a one-way street, she claimed.  Why anyone would want to be a pedestrian in such a lethal area was beyond her.  He nodded her on and chuckled on occasion.  Their waiter came to the table and requested their order.  She ordered a plate of fruit crepes, and he ordered a cup of coffee.

            “Breakfast of champions, I see,” she remarked with a laugh.

“Yeah, I’m not a big eater,” he replied.  “Plus, I’d rather not get full.  I need to stay alert.”

“Oh, ok.”  She tapped the table to no particular beat, and her eyes skipped across the windows behind him as she clearly searched for something to say.  “So, do you live here in Sacramento?”

“Yep, right here in the City of Trees.”

“Why in the world do they call it that? There really aren’t that many trees here.  I think there are more buildings than trees.”

“You’re probably in the downtown area most of the time, then,” he answered.  Good Lord, this was dull.  She provided excellent cover for his current task, but he wished she could be a bit more spontaneous with her conversation topics.  Then he could indulge himself in some decent dialogue while Mustache Man (as he decided to call him) broke his fast with ponderous movements.  He cleared his throat.  “I’ve noticed there tend to be more trees where there are less buildings.”

“‘Fewer buildings,’” she corrected him, and immediately winced.  “Oh, I’m sorry!  I’m trying to stop that.  It’s just a natural reaction.  What I meant to say was, ‘Yes, I’ve made that observation, also.  How interesting!’”

She was dull, but also kind of cute.  For a moment, he wrenched his eyes from his target and looked at the woman before him.  She had fine, red hair that splashed against her shoulders and rose again like dual ski ramps.  Her face was radiant and mostly clear, although a few freckles rested here and there.  It was difficult to discern the color of her eyes; they were hazel, or maybe green.  Her nose was diminutive, but it fit well with her face.  He stopped his inspection there, knowing that anything further would distract him from his mission; finding a woman to date was not part of the plan.  He stared into the background again, half expecting Mustache Man to have vanished.  Instead, the squat man was sipping another cup of coffee with a contended expression on his face.

“By all that is holy!” Renardo exclaimed in a whisper, smacking the table lightly.

“Wait, what’s wrong?” the lady inquired, tossing a glance over one shoulder.

“No, don’t look back!” he demanded.  She heeded him, and he said, “Sorry, I just—I realized that I know that guy.  Um, we don’t have the best history.”

“Oh, well, we can move, if you want.”

“No, no, I’m good.  I need to get past this.” Sometimes he amazed himself at his ability to lie so quickly and easily.  “I’ll just pretend like he’s not there.  So, is this your favorite place to eat in Sac?”

He did not hear her response, nor did he care to hear it.  A waiter strode up to Mustache Man’s table and set down a plate of eggs and hash browns.  The man’s eyes grew as large as donuts, and with one brisk movement, he snatched up the salt and assaulted his food with the spice.  He then drenched his hash browns in ketchup and shoveled at the potatoes as if they would scurry away before he could get to them.  This was much better.  If the man continued eating this quickly, he could be out of the diner before noon.  Renardo discreetly checked his watch.  9:30. Perhaps he was being a bit unfair.  His mission might be finished within the hour.  He received his cup of coffee and downed it within a minute, continuing to feign interest in the lady’s words.  She interrupted herself and looked at him.  He did not notice the cessation of her rambling at first, but then he felt uncomfortable, and he noticed her stare.

“How was the coffee?” she asked.

“It was excellent,” he told her, smiling.

“You know, you asked for French Vanilla,” she reminded him.  “They just gave you plain, black coffee.”

His eyes moved to his cup, and he brought it to his nose and sniffed it.  “By gum, you’re right.”

“Did you just say, ‘By gum’?”

“By gum, you’re right, I did.”

She beamed at him, and then burst into laughter.  “That’s hilarious! No one says it anymore.”

“I know, I’m unique.  How did I drink an entire cup of coffee without realizing it wasn’t French Vanilla? I hate black coffee.”

The lady sighed.  “I suppose I just have that effect on people.  Kidding, of course.”

“That must be it,” he agreed, half truthfully.

“Maybe that guy in the corner is getting to you more than you think.”

Renardo looked past her once more, and his heart leapt when he discovered that Mustache Man was no longer sitting at his table.  He was near the register at the front of the building, handing the cashier a card.  Soon he would be outside the diner, where he could disappear in the vastness of downtown Sacramento in seconds.  Renardo plunged his hand into his back pocket, fished out some bills, and plopped them on the table.  He turned his attention to the lady.

“Heading off already?” she said, her voice less perky than it had been.

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” he replied, craning his neck to see his target behind a group who had finished their breakfasts.

“I suppose I have that effect on people,” the lady muttered, her eyes focused on the table.

“No, I really need to go.  I’m sorry.” He pointed to the bills on the table.  “That’s for both of us.  Maybe I’ll see you again?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Mustache Man exited the room.  Renardo shot between the tables and crashed against the door.  Once he reached the sidewalk, he gazed to his left and saw nothing.  To his right, the man was already crossing a street before a long line of impatient drivers.  He yelled something unintelligible and charged toward the crosswalk, dodging a large family and a couple making their way toward the diner.  The man turned right once he reached the end of the crosswalk, and Renardo arrived at the same spot only seconds later.  Mustache Man had not walked far before strong hands seized him from behind and launched him against the light brown wall of the nearest building.  Dazed and unable to react, his body loosened and was thrown against the wall a second time.  Renardo whipped him around and grabbed his shirt, then forced his back against the building.  He studied his face, reassuring himself that this was indeed the man for whom he had been searching.  The blood running from his nose was not enough to conceal his identity.  He had captured his target.

“People like you sicken me!” he cried, pressing the man against the wall even harder.  “I have no idea who you are.  I don’t know if you have an honest job, or a family, or anything.  All I know is that you’re doing at least some of Malvin’s dirty work, and that’s all I need to know.  I’ve been looking for Malvin for years now.  You’re going to tell me where he is, so I can end this.”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?” the man shouted, squinting in pain.

Renardo kneed him in the stomach, then spun around and tossed him toward a stone bench.  The man’s shins clashed with the stone, and he toppled over it and into the curb behind it.  He did not rise.

“I hate having to do this,” Renardo explained, “but it’s up to me to protect people from what Malvin is doing.  If I have to break you to do that, I will.  The pain is only going to get worse.” 

He approached the curb, his fists clenched.  The man managed to erect his upper body on his forearms, and he looked out into the street, breathing heavily.  “Sir, I—I’ve no clue what—who you’re talkin’ about.  I don’ know a Malvin.  I just got breakfast an’ I’m goin’ home.”

Renardo stepped down into the curb and lifted his enemy from the ground.  He dragged him onto the sidewalk and pummeled him in the face with one fist.  His opponent stared at him blankly, blood now running down his forehead and along the bridge of his nose.  Renardo lifted his fist again, but he could tell by the man’s blank expression that there was nothing to tell.  Either he was an incredibly talented liar, or he had no knowledge of Malvin.  But how could his sources be flawed? Had he not spent hours compiling them and checking them multiple times to assess their correctness?  Did he not have undeniable proof displayed on his desk at home? As he recalled the hours he had spent on his research, he again felt confident that he had the right man in his possession.  This was not the time to second-guess his methods.  He wrapped his hands around his victim’s neck and began to constrict.  Slowly squeezing the life out of another human was far from pleasurable for him, but he was convinced that it was the most effective method to acquire essential information, in some cases.  Because of Mustache Man’s resistance, this happened to be one of those cases.  He feared that the man was quite near death when he managed to squeak out the word, “Wait.” So he released his grip and waited for the intelligence that would lead him to Malvin.

The man massaged his neck with one hand and keeled over.  “Look, this Malvin guy….I never met ‘im.  You got the wrong guy.” He coughed, and spittle dotted the sidewalk.  “You can kill me, and—get no information.  ‘Cause I don’t know nothin’.  You got the wrong guy.”

Renardo examined the man’s eyes and noted no deceit once again.  He sat on the bench and groaned to himself, rubbing his temples.  The trail to Malvin would be harder to discover than he had hoped.  And now he had abused an innocent man in broad daylight.  He had paid no heed to bystanders; by now, someone had likely reported him.  Bringing down Malvin was crucial to Sacramento’s safety, and this was a job that he had to finish.  He hastily apologized to the bleeding man and dashed down the street, just as sirens sounded in the distance.  Mustache Man dropped to one knee and released a long sigh.  He spat some of the blood in his mouth onto the sidewalk.  It was already filthy; no one would notice a bit of his blood.  As his assailant sprinted away from the crime scene, the man looked up to see the direction he had gone.  If he was lucky, he might be able to provide the police with enough information to aid them in the hunt for such a merciless marauder.  As he watched Renardo fade into the eastern side of the downtown area, something unusual caught his eye.  Attached to the neck of the fleeing man, and flowing behind him in the wind of his wake, was a white cape.