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.