Free Fatal Harbor by Brendan DuBois Page B

instructor? Or Mister Marvel?”
    Through gritted teeth, he said, “They call me Ken.”
    “Wow, that’s very forward-thinking of you. Getting down with the students, sharing and discussing issues of the day.”
    “You bastard. . . .”
    “Nope, my birth certificate says otherwise. But I will admit I’m in a foul, foul mood.” I squatted down on the ground, carefully keeping a good distance away from him. “You see, I’m trying to locate a single bit of information, and after lots of travel, bad food, and so-so sleeping accommodations, I’ve come to you. My mistake was thinking that you and I could have a civilized discussion, perhaps come to a mutual understanding and respect of each other’s positions, and then go on from there. But when you came at me full of attitude, well, the part of me that’s not the better angel of my nature emerged. My apologies.”
    His hands fell away from his private parts. His breathing eased. He got up and into a sitting position. “You sure move fast for an old guy.”
    “A compliment and insult in one sentence. I’m sure you fit right in at the Philosophy department.”
    He ran a hand across the bald part of his head. “Yeah, but there’s no future there. No future in anything in higher education that doesn’t produce good little worker bees and consumer bees. Plus I’m an instructor, which means no tenure, lots of hours, and minimal pay. And the tenured ones, no matter which department they belong to, they live in that special ivory tower where they’ve managed to quickly pull the ladder up after them.”
    “We’ve all got problems, don’t we. Look, I’m looking for some information about the anti-nuclear demonstrations. I get that and I leave.”
    “Maybe I’ll call the Lee cops, have you arrested for assault.”
    “Maybe you will, and I’ll say it’s all a misunderstanding, with no witnesses. To be terribly self-promoting, I’ll drop a name or two in law enforcement that will cast suspicions on you and make me look like the citizen of the year.”
    He rubbed at his head again, moved his legs around. “So what are you looking for, what information about the demonstrations?”
    “I take it you were involved with them?”
    “Damn right I was. We’ve got to stop the madness of—”
    I held up my hand. “Please. I was there for a number of days. I know all the talking points. You were with the Nuclear Freedom Front, right?”
    “Sort of. Knew some people there, worked with them.”
    “Good. Because I’m looking for Curt Chesak.”
    “Why do you want to know where he is?”
    “Let’s just say I’m from the Publishers Clearing House prize patrol and leave it at that.”
    “No,” Ken quickly said.
    “No, what? No, I don’t know where Curt Chesak is living, or no, I’m not going to tell you?”
    His expression hardened. “Just no. Take it any way you like.”
    I made a point of sighing. “Fair enough. No hard feelings, eh?”
    I stood up and extended my hand, and he took my hand and I helped him up, and then I kept on helping him up as I pulled him, tripped him, and then pushed him to the ground. I got on his back and deftly undid my leather belt, and in a few seconds I had him secured by the wrists. A lot more cursing ensued—again, nothing particularly original; I guess a mind is a terrible thing to waste—and near the doghouses, I found some lengths of rope. In a few minutes, I had my belt back, and I had a very unhappy college instructor under my control.
    “Wasn’t it Plato who said philosophy is the highest form of music?” I asked. “Not sure if I have the ear for music or philosophy, but let’s see what I can do.”

CHAPTER NINE
    I moved around his cluttered yard, discovered a lawn chair, which I brought back. Late-fall insects were battering themselves around the spotlight, and the dogs, having eaten their fill, were lying down, watching me and their supposed master.
    Lawn chair before him, I sat down and said, “What’s with the