Bagman: Not My Style

I paused by a store display. It was closed, dark inside, and the glare of the streets made it a nearly perfect mirror. I turned towards it and pretended interest in the antique plasma TVs it displayed while I scanned the busy street behind me. In New Orleans, the central-city streets are never empty, a sparse crowd walked the street behind me.

I studied my reflection for a moment. Brown skin, features strongly recalling my Mexican descent. Black curly hair was cropped close about the skull with a sheen of sweat. Brown eyes, dark and calculating. My athletic build was nearly hidden beneath a long polyester/cotton trench that swept the backs of my knees with the collar turned up. Dark shirt, stained with sweat, and torn blue jeans completed the ensemble.

Nothing suspicious behind me.

Think I’m clean. How’s shit on your end?

No bad news, Benny. They want to meet, ASAP .

Yeah? Where?

Look up, man.

One Shell Square rose fifty-one floors above me in the reflection.

That place ain’t my style, man.

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